by George Moore
Next day Esther waited for the bell that was to call her lover from her. The afternoon wore slowly away, and she had begun to hope she was mistaken when the metal tongue commenced calling. She heard the baize door close behind him; but the bell still continued to utter little pathetic notes. A moment after all was still in the corridor, and like one sunk to the knees in quicksands she felt that the time had come for a decided effort. But what could she do? She could not follow him to the drawing-room. She had begun to notice that he seemed to avoid her, and by his conduct seemed to wish that their quarrel might endure. But pride and temper had fallen from her, and she lived conscious of him, noting every sign, and intensely, all that related to him, divining all his intentions, and meeting him in the passage when he least expected her.
“I’m always getting in your way,” she said, with a low, nervous laugh.
“No harm in that; …fellow servants; there must be give and take.”
Tremblingly they looked at each other, feeling that the time had come, that an explanation was inevitable, but at that moment the drawing-room bell rang above their heads, and William said, “I must answer that bell.” He turned from her, and passed through the baize door before she had said another word.
Sarah remarked that William seemed to spend a great deal of his time in the drawing-room, and Esther started out of her moody contemplation, and, speaking instinctively, she said, “I don’t think much of ladies who go after their servants.”
Everyone looked up. Mrs. Latch laid her carving-knife on the meat and fixed her eyes on her son.
“Lady?” said Sarah; “she’s no lady! Her mother used to mop out the yard before she was ‘churched.’”
“I can tell you what,” said William, “you had better mind what you are a-saying of, for if any of your talk got wind upstairs you’d lose yer situation, and it might be some time before yer got another!”
“Lose my situation! and a good job, too. I shall always be able to suit mesel’; don’t you fear about me. But if it comes to talking about situations, I can tell you that you are more likely to lose yours than I am to lose mine.”
William hesitated, and while he sought a judicious reply Mrs. Latch and Mr. Leopold, putting forth their joint authority, brought the discussion to a close. The jockey-boys exchanged grins, Sarah sulked, Mr. Swindles pursed up his mouth in consideration, and the elder servants felt that the matter would not rest in the servant’s hall; that evening it would be the theme of conversation in the “Red Lion,” and the next day it would be the talk of the town.
About four o’clock Esther saw Mrs. Barfield, Miss Mary, and Peggy walk across the yard towards the garden, and as Esther had to go soon after to the wood-shed she saw Peggy slip out of the garden by a bottom gate and make her way through the evergreens. Esther hastened back to the kitchen and stood waiting for the bell to ring. She had not to wait long; the bell tinkled, but so faintly that Esther said, “She only just touched it; it is a signal; he was on the look-out for it; she did not want anyone else to hear.”
Esther remembered the thousands of pounds she had heard that the young lady possessed, and the beautiful dresses she wore. There was no hope for her. How could there be? Her poor little wages and her print dress! He would never look at her again! But oh! how cruel and wicked it was! How could one who had so much come to steal from one who had so little? Oh, it was very cruel and very wicked, and no good would come of it either to her or to him; of that she felt quite sure. God always punished the wicked. She knew he did not love Peggy. It was sin and shame; and after his promises — after what had happened. Never would she have believed him to be so false. Then her thought turned to passionate hatred of the girl who had so cruelly robbed her. He had gone through that baize door, and no doubt he was sitting by Peggy in the new drawing-room. He had gone where she could not follow. He had gone where the grand folk lived in idleness, in the sinfulness of the world and the flesh, eating and gambling, thinking of nothing else, and with servants to wait on them, obeying their orders and saving them from every trouble. She knew that these fine folk thought servants inferior beings. But was she not of the same flesh and blood as they? Peggy wore a fine dress, but she was no better; take off her dress and they were the same, woman to woman.
She pushed through the door and walked down the passage. A few steps brought her to the foot of a polished oak staircase, lit by a large window in coloured glass, on either side of which there were statues. The staircase sloped slowly to an imposing landing set out with columns and blue vases and embroidered curtains. The girl saw these things vaguely, and she was conscious of a profusion of rugs, matting, and bright doors, and of her inability to decide which door was the drawing-room door — the drawing-room of which she had heard so much, and where even now, amid gold furniture and sweet-scented air, William listened to the wicked woman who had tempted him away from her. Suddenly William appeared, and seeing Esther he seemed uncertain whether to draw back or come forward. Then his face took an expression of mixed fear and anger; and coming rapidly towards her, he said —
“What are you doing here?”… then changing his voice, “This is against the rules of the ‘ouse.”
“I want to see her.”
“Anything else? What do you want to say to her? I won’t have it, I tell you…. What do you mean by spying after me? That’s your game, is it?”
“I want to speak to her.”
With averted face the young lady fled up the oak staircase, her handkerchief to her lips. Esther made a movement as if to follow, but William prevented her. She turned and walked down the passage and entered the kitchen. Her face was one white tint, her short, strong arms hung tremblingly, and William saw that it would be better to temporise.
“Now look here, Esther,” he said, “you ought to be damned thankful to me for having prevented you from making a fool of yourself.”
Esther’s eyelids quivered, and then her eyes dilated.
“Now, if Miss Margaret,” continued William, “had—”
“Go away! go away! I am—” At that moment the steel of a large, sharp-pointed knife lying on the table caught her eye. She snatched it up, and seeing blood she rushed at him.
William retreated from her, and Mrs. Latch, coming suddenly in, caught her arm. Esther threw the knife; it struck the wall, falling with a rattle on the meat screen. Escaping from Mrs. Latch, she rushed to secure it, but her strength gave way, and she fell back in a dead faint.
“What have you been doing to the girl?” said Mrs. Latch.
“Nothing, mother…. We had a few words, that was all. She said I should not go out with Sarah.”
“That is not true…. I can read the lie in your face; a girl doesn’t take up a knife unless a man well-nigh drives her mad.”
“That’s right; always side against your son! …If you don’t believe me, get what you can out of her yourself.” And, turning on his heel, he walked out of the house.
Mrs. Latch saw him pass down the yard towards the stables, and when Esther opened her eyes she looked at Mrs. Latch questioningly, unable to understand why the old woman was standing by her.
“Are you better now, dear?”
“Yes, but — but what—” Then remembrance struggled back. “Is he gone? Did I strike him? I remember that I—”
“You did not hurt him.”
“I don’t want to see him again. Far better not. I was mad. I did not know what I was doing.”
“You will tell me about it another time, dear.”
“Where is he? tell me that; I must know.”
“Gone to the stables, I think; but you must not go after him — you’ll see him to-morrow.”
“I do not want to go after him; but he isn’t hurt? That’s what I want to know.”
“No, he isn’t hurt…. You’re getting stronger…. Lean on me. You’ll begin to feel better when you are in bed. I’ll bring you up your tea.”
“Yes, I shall be all right presently. But how’ll you manage to get the dinner?
”
“Don’t you worry about that; you go upstairs and lie down.”
A desolate hope floated over the surface of her brain that William might be brought back to her.
In the evening the kitchen was full of people: Margaret, Sarah, and Grover were there, and she heard that immediately after lunch Mr. Leopold had been sent for, and the Gaffer had instructed him to pay William a month’s wages, and see that he left the house that very instant. Sarah, Margaret, and Grover watched Esther’s face and were surprised at her indifference. She even seemed pleased. She was pleased; nothing better could have happened. William was now separated from her rival, and released from her bad influence he would return to his real love. At the first sign she would go to him, she would forgive him. But a little later, when the dishes came down from the dining-room, it was whispered that Peggy was not there.
Later in the evening, when the servants were going to bed, it became known that she had left the house, that she had taken the six o’clock to Brighton. Esther turned from the foot of the stair with a wild look. Margaret caught her.
“It’s no use, dear; you can do nothing to-night.”
“I can walk to Brighton.”
“No, you can’t; you don’t know the way, and even if you did you don’t know where they are.”
Neither Sarah nor Grover made any remark, and in silence the servants went to their rooms. Margaret closed the door and turned to look at Esther, who had fallen on the chair, her eyes fixed in vacancy.
“I know what it is; I was the same when Jim Story got the sack. It seems as if one couldn’t live through it, and yet one does somehow.”
“I wonder if they’ll marry.”
“Most probable. She has a lot of money.”
Two days after a cab stood in the yard in front of the kitchen window. Peggy’s luggage was being piled upon it — two large, handsome basket boxes with the initials painted on them. Kneeling on the box-seat, the coachman leaned over the roof making room for another — a small box covered with red cowhide and tied with a rough rope. The little box in its poor simplicity brought William back to Esther, whelming her for a moment in so acute a sense of her loss that she had to leave the kitchen. She went into the scullery, drew the door after her, sat down, and hid her face in her apron. A stifled sob or two, and then she recovered her habitual gravity of expression, and continued her work as if nothing had happened.
XII
“THEY ARE JUST crazy about it upstairs. Ginger and the Gaffer are the worst. They say they had better sell the place and build another house somewhere else. None of the county people will call on them now — and just as they were beginning to get on so well! Miss Mary, too, is terrible cut up about it; she says it will interfere with her prospects, and that Ginger has nothing to do now but to marry the kitchen-maid to complete the ruin of the Barfields.”
“Miss Mary is far too kind to say anything to wound another’s feelings. It is only a nasty old deceitful thing like yourself who could think of such a thing.”
“Eh, you got it there, my lady,” said Sarah, who had had a difference with Grover, and was anxious to avenge it.
Grover looked at Sarah in astonishment, and her look clearly said, “Is everyone going to side with that little kitchen-maid?”
Then, to flatter Mrs. Latch, Sarah spoke of the position the Latches had held three generations ago; the Barfields were then nobodies; they had nothing even now but their money, and that had come out of a livery stable. “And it shows, too; just compare Ginger with young Preston or young Northcote. Anyone could tell the difference.”
Esther listened with an unmoved face and a heavy ache in her heart. She had now not an enemy nor yet an opponent; the cause of rivalry and jealousy being removed, all were sorry for her. They recognised that she had suffered and was suffering, and seeing none but friends about her, she was led to think how happy she might have been in this beautiful house if it had not been for William. She loved her work, for she was working for those she loved. She could imagine no life happier than hers might have been. But she had sinned, and the Lord had punished her for sin, and she must bear her punishment uncomplainingly, giving Him thanks that He had imposed no heavier one upon her.
Such reflection was the substance of Esther’s mind for three months after William’s departure; and in the afternoons, about three o’clock, when her work paused, Esther’s thoughts would congregate and settle on the great misfortune of her life — William’s desertion.
It was one afternoon at the beginning of December; Mrs. Latch had gone upstairs to lie down. Esther had drawn her chair towards the fire. A broken-down race-horse, his legs bandaged from his knees to his fetlocks, had passed up the yard; he was going for walking exercise on the downs, and when the sound of his hoofs had died away Esther was quite alone. She sat on her wooden chair facing the wide kitchen window. She had advanced one foot on the iron fender; her head leaned back, rested on her hand. She did not think — her mind was lost in vague sensation of William, and it was in this death of active memory that something awoke within her, something that seemed to her like a flutter of wings; her heart seemed to drop from its socket, and she nearly fainted away, but recovering herself she stood by the kitchen table, her arms drawn back and pressed to her sides, a death-like pallor over her face, and drops of sweat on her forehead. The truth was borne in upon her; she realised in a moment part of the awful drama that awaited her, and from which nothing could free her, and which she would have to live through hour by hour. So dreadful did it seem, that she thought her brain must give way. She would have to leave Woodview. Oh, the shame of confession! Mrs. Barfield, who had been so good to her, and who thought so highly of her. Her father would not have her at home; she would be homeless in London. No hope of obtaining a situation…. they would send her away without a character, homeless in London, and every month her position growing more desperate….
A sickly faintness crept up through her. The flesh had come to the relief of the spirit; and she sank upon her chair, almost unconscious, sick, it seemed, to death, and she rose from the chair wiping her forehead slowly with her apron…. She might be mistaken. And she hid her face in her hands, and then, falling on her knees, her arms thrown forward upon the table, she prayed for strength to walk without flinching under any cross that He had thought fit to lay upon her.
There was still the hope that she might be mistaken; and this hope lasted for one week, for two, but at the end of the third week it perished, and she abandoned herself in prayer. She prayed for strength to endure with courage what she now knew she must endure, and she prayed for light to guide her in her present decision. Mrs. Barfield, however much she might pity her, could not keep her once she knew the truth, whereas none might know the truth if she did not tell it. She might remain at Woodview earning another quarter’s wages; the first she had spent on boots and clothes, the second she had just been paid. If she stayed on for another quarter she would have eight pounds, and with that money, and much less time to keep herself, she might be able to pull through. But would she be able to go undetected for nearly three whole months, until her next wages came due? She must risk it.
Three months of constant fear and agonising suspense wore away, and no one, not even Margaret, suspected Esther’s condition. Encouraged by her success, and seeing still very little sign of change in her person, and as every penny she could earn was of vital consequence in the coming time, Esther determined to risk another month; then she would give notice and leave. Another month passed, and Esther was preparing for departure when a whisper went round, and before she could take steps to leave she was told that Mrs. Barfield wished to see her in the library. Esther turned a little pale, and the expression of her face altered; it seemed to her impossible to go before Mrs. Barfield and admit her shame. Margaret, who was standing near and saw what was passing in her mind, said —
“Pull yourself together, Esther. You know the Saint — she’s not a bad sort. Like all the real good ones, she is kind enoug
h to the faults of others.”
“What’s this? What’s the matter with Esther?” said Mrs. Latch, who had not yet heard of Esther’s misfortune.
“I’ll tell you presently, Mrs. Latch. Go, dear, get it over.”
Esther hurried down the passage and passed through the baize door without further thought. She had then but to turn to the left and a few steps would bring her to the library door. The room was already present in her mind. She could see it. The dim light, the little green sofa, the round table covered with books, the piano at the back, the parrot in the corner, and the canaries in the window. She knocked at the door. The well-known voice said, “Come in.” She turned the handle, and found herself alone with her mistress. Mrs. Barfield laid down the book she was reading, and looked up. She did not look as angry as Esther had imagined, but her voice was harder than usual.
“Is this true, Esther?”
Esther hung down her head. She could not speak at first; then she said, “Yes.”
“I thought you were a good girl, Esther.”
“So did I, ma’am.”
Mrs. Barfield looked at the girl quickly, hesitated a moment, and then said —
“And all this time — how long is it?”
“Nearly seven months, ma’am.”
