by George Moore
“But he’s not your husband; he’s another woman’s husband.”
“He’s to marry me when he gets his divorce.”
“He may desert you and leave you with another child.”
“You can’t say nothing I ain’t thought of already. I must put up with the risk. I suppose it is a part of the punishment for the first sin. We can’t do wrong without being punished — at least women can’t. But I thought I’d been punished enough.”
“The second sin is worse than the first. A married man, Esther — you who I thought so religious.”
“Ah, religion is easy enough at times, but there is other times when it don’t seem to fit in with one’s duty. I may be wrong, but it seems natural like — he’s the father of my child.”
“I’m afraid your mind is made up, Esther. Think twice before it’s too late.”
“Fred, I can’t help myself — can’t you see that? Don’t make it harder for me by talking like that.”
“When are you going to him?”
“To-night; he’s waiting for me.”
“Then good-bye, Esther, good—”
“But you’ll come and see us.”
“I hope you’ll be happy, Esther, but I don’t think we shall see much more of each other. You know that I do not frequent public-houses.”
“Yes, I know; but you might come and see me in the morning when we’re doing no business.”
Fred smiled sadly.
“Then you won’t come?” she said.
“Good-bye, Esther.”
They shook hands, and he went out hurriedly. She dashed a tear from her eyes, and went upstairs to her mistress, who had rung for her.
Miss Rice was in her easy-chair, reading. A long, slanting ray entered the room; the bead curtain glittered, and so peaceful was the impression that Esther could not but perceive the contrast between her own troublous life and the contented privacy of this slender little spinster’s.
“Well, miss,” she said, “it’s all over. I’ve told him.”
“Have you, Esther?” said Miss Rice. Her white, delicate hands fell over the closed volume. She wore two little colourless rings and a ruby ring which caught the light.
“Yes, miss, I’ve told him all. He seemed a good deal cut up. I couldn’t help crying myself, for I could have made him a good wife — I’m sure I could; but it wasn’t to be.”
“You’ve told him you were going off to live with William?”
“Yes, miss; there’s nothing like telling the whole truth while you’re about it. I told him I was going off to-night.”
“He’s a very religious young man?”
“Yes, miss; he spoke to me about religion, but I told him I didn’t want Jackie to be a fatherless boy, and to lose any money he might have a right to. It don’t look right to go and live with a married man; but you knows, miss, how I’m situated, and you knows that I’m only doing it because it seems for the best.”
“What did he say to that?”
“Nothing much, miss, except that I might get left a second time — and, he wasn’t slow to add, with another child.”
“Have you thought of that danger, Esther?”
“Yes, miss, I’ve thought of everything; but thinking don’t change nothing. Things remain just the same, and you’ve to chance it in the end — leastways a woman has. Not on the likes of you, miss, but the likes of us.”
“Yes,” said Miss Rice reflectively, “it is always the woman who is sacrificed.” And her thought went back for a moment to the novel she was writing. It seemed to her pale and conventional compared with this rough page torn out of life. She wondered if she could treat the subject. She passed in review the names of some writers who could do justice to it, and then her eyes went from her bookcase to Esther.
“So you’re going to live in a public-house, Esther? You’re going to-night? I’ve paid you everything I owe you?”
“Yes, miss, you have; you’ve been very kind to me, indeed you have, miss — I shall never forget you, miss. I’ve been very happy in your service, and should like nothing better than to remain on with you.”
“All I can say, Esther, is that you have been a very good servant, and I’m very sorry to part with you. And I hope you’ll remember if things do not turn out as well as you expect them to, that I shall always be glad to do anything in my power to help you. You’ll always find a friend in me. When are you going?”
“As soon as my box is packed, miss, and I shall have about finished by the time the new servant comes in. She’s expected at nine; there she is, miss — that’s the area bell. Good-bye, miss.”
Miss Rice involuntarily held out her hand. Esther took it, and thus encouraged she said —
“There never was anyone that clear-headed and warm-hearted as yerself, miss. I may have a lot of trouble, miss…. If I wasn’t yer servant I’d like to kiss you.”
Miss Rice did not answer, and before she was aware, Esther had taken her in her arms and kissed her. “You’re not angry with me, miss; I couldn’t help myself.”
“No, Esther, I’m not angry.”
“I must go now and let her in.”
Miss Rice walked towards her writing-table, and a sense of the solitude of her life coming upon her suddenly caused her to burst into tears. It was one of those moments of effusion which take women unawares. But her new servant was coming upstairs and she had to dry her eyes.
Soon after she heard the cabman’s feet on the staircase as he went up for Esther’s box. They brought it down together, and Miss Rice heard her beg of him to be careful of the paint. The girl had been a good and faithful servant to her; she was sorry to lose her. And Esther was equally sorry that anyone but herself should have the looking after of that dear, kind soul. But what could she do? She was going to be married. She did not doubt that William was going to marry her; and the cab had hardly entered the Brompton Road when her thoughts were fully centred in the life that awaited her. This sudden change of feeling surprised her, and she excused herself with the recollection that she had striven hard for Fred, but as she had failed to get him, it was only right that she should think of her husband. Then quite involuntarily the thought sprang upon her that he was a fine fellow, and she remembered the line of his stalwart figure as he walked down the street. There would be a parlour behind the bar, in which she would sit. She would be mistress of the house. There would be a servant, a potboy, and perhaps a barmaid.
The cab swerved round the Circus, and she wondered if she were capable of conducting a business like the “King’s Head.”
It was the end of a fine September evening, and the black, crooked perspectives of Soho seemed as if they were roofed with gold. A slight mist was rising, and at the end of every street the figures appeared and disappeared mysteriously in blue shadow. She had never been in this part of London before; the adventure stimulated her imagination, and she wondered where she was going and which of the many public-houses was hers. But the cabman jingled past every one. It seemed as if he were never going to pull up. At last he stopped at the corner of Dean Street and Old Compton Street, nearly opposite a cab rank. The cabmen were inside, having a glass; the usual vagrant was outside, looking after the horses. He offered to take down Esther’s box, and when she asked him if he had seen Mr. Latch he took her round to the private bar. The door was pushed open, and Esther saw William leaning over the counter wrapped in conversation with a small, thin man. They were both smoking, their glasses were filled, and the sporting paper was spread out before them.
“Oh, so here you are at last,” said William, coming towards her. “I expected you an hour ago.”
“The new servant was late, and I couldn’t leave before she came.”
“Never mind; glad you’ve come.”
Esther felt that the little man was staring hard at her. He was John Randal, or Mr. Leopold, as they used to call him at Barfield.
Mr. Leopold shook hands with Esther, and he muttered a “Glad to see you again,” But it was the welcome of
a man who regards a woman’s presence as an intrusion, and Esther understood the quiet contempt with which he looked at William. “Can’t keep away from them,” his face said for one brief moment. William asked Esther what she’d take to drink, and Mr. Leopold looked at his watch and said he must be getting home.
“Try to come round to-morrow night if you’ve an hour to spare.”
“Then you don’t think you’ll go to Newmarket?”
“No, I don’t think I shall do much in the betting way this year. But come round to-morrow night if you can; you’ll find me here. I must be here to-morrow night,” he said, turning to Esther; “I’ll tell you presently.” Then the men had a few more words, and William bade John good-night. Coming back to Esther, he said —
“What do you think of the place? Cosy, ain’t it?” But before she had time to reply he said, “You’ve brought me good luck. I won two ‘undred and fifty pounds to-day, and the money will come in very ‘andy, for Jim Stevens, that’s my partner, has agreed to take half the money on account and a bill of sale for the rest. There he is; I’ll introduce you to him. Jim, come this way, will you?”
“In a moment, when I’ve finished drawing this ’ere glass of beer,” answered a thick-set, short-limbed man. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he crossed the bar wiping the beer from his hands.
“Let me introduce you to a very particular friend of mine, Jim, Miss Waters.”
“Very ‘appy, I’m sure, to make your acquaintance,” said Jim, and he extended his fat hand across the counter. “You and my partner are, I ‘ear, going to take this ’ere ‘ouse off my hands. Well, you ought to make a good thing of it. There’s always room for a ‘ouse that supplies good liquor. What can I hoffer you, madam? Some of our whisky has been fourteen years in bottle; or, being a lady, perhaps you’d like to try some of our best unsweetened.”
Esther declined, but William said they could not leave without drinking the health of the house.
“Irish or Scotch, ma’am? Mr. Latch drinks Scotch.”
Seeing that she could not avoid taking something, Esther decided that she would try the unsweetened. The glasses were clinked across the counter, and William whispered, “This isn’t what we sell to the public; this is our own special tipple. You didn’t notice, perhaps, but he took the bottle from the third row on the left.”
At that moment Esther’s cabman came in and wanted to know if he was to have the box taken down. William said it had better remain where it was.
“I don’t think I told you I’m not living here; my partner has the upper part of the house, but he says he’ll be ready to turn out at the end of the week. I’m living in lodgings near Shaftesbury Avenue, so we’d better keep the cab on.”
Esther looked disappointed, but said nothing. William said he’d stand the cabby a drink, and, winking at Esther, he whispered, “Third row on the left, partner.”
XXX
THE “KING’S HEAD” was an humble place in the old-fashioned style. The house must have been built two hundred years, and the bar seemed as if it had been dug out of the house. The floor was some inches lower than the street, and the ceiling was hardly more than a couple of feet above the head of a tall man. Nor was it divided by numerous varnished partitions, according to the latest fashion. There were but three. The private entrance was in Dean Street, where a few swells came over from the theatre and called for brandies-and-sodas. There was a little mahogany what-not on the counter, and Esther served her customers between the little shelves. The public entrance and the jug and bottle entrance were in a side street. There was no parlour for special customers at the back, and the public bar was inconveniently crowded by a dozen people. The “King’s Head” was not an up-to-date public-house. It had, however, one thing in its favour — it was a free house, and William said they had only to go on supplying good stuff, and trade would be sure to come back to them. For their former partner had done them much harm by systematic adulteration, and a little way down the street a new establishment, with painted tiles and brass lamps, had been opened, and was attracting all the custom of the neighbourhood. She was more anxious than William to know what loss the books showed; she was jealous of the profits of his turf account, and when he laughed at her she said, “But you’re never here in the daytime, you do not have these empty bars staring you in the face morning and afternoon.” And then she would tell him: a dozen pots of beer about dinner-time, a few glasses of bitter — there had been a rehearsal over the way — and that was about all.
The bars were empty, and the public-house dozed through the heavy heat of a summer afternoon. Esther sat behind the bar sewing, waiting for Jackie to come home from school. William was away at Newmarket. The clock struck five and Jackie peeped through the doors, dived under the counter, and ran into his mother’s arms.
“Well, did you get full marks to-day?”
“Yes, mummie, I got full marks.”
“That’s a good boy — and you want your tea?”
“Yes, mummie; I’m that hungry I could hardly walk home.”
“Hardly walk home! What, as bad as that?”
“Yes, mummie. There’s a new shop open in Oxford Street. The window is all full of boats. Do you think that if all the favourites were to be beaten for a month, father would buy me one?”
“I thought you was so hungry you couldn’t walk home, dear?”
“Well, mummie, so I was, but — —”
Esther laughed. “Well, come this way and have your tea.” She went into the parlour and rang the bell.
“Mummie, may I have buttered toast?”
“Yes, dear, you may.”
“And may I go downstairs and help Jane to make it?”
“Yes, you can do that too; it will save her the trouble of coming up. Let me take off your coat — give me your hat; now run along, and help Jane to make the toast.”
Esther opened a glass door, curtained with red silk; it led from the bar to the parlour, a tiny room, hardly larger than the private bar, holding with difficulty a small round table, three chairs, an arm-chair, a cupboard. In the morning a dusty window let in a melancholy twilight, but early in the afternoon it became necessary to light the gas. Esther took a cloth from the cupboard, and laid the table for Jackie’s tea. He came up the kitchen stairs telling Jane how many marbles he had won, and at that moment voices were heard in the bar.
It was William, tall and gaunt, buttoned up in a grey frock-coat, a pair of field glasses slung over his shoulders. He was with his clerk, Ted Blamy, a feeble, wizen little man, dressed in a shabby tweed suit, covered with white dust.
“Put that bag down, Teddy, and come and have a drink.”
Esther saw at once that things had not gone well with him.
“Have the favourites been winning?”
“Yes, every bloody one. Five first favourites straight off the reel, three yesterday, and two second favourites the day before. By God, no man can stand up against it. Come, what’ll you have to drink, Teddy?”
“A little whisky, please, guv’nor.”
The men had their drink. Then William told Teddy to take his bag upstairs, and he followed Esther into the parlour. She could see that he had been losing heavily, but she refrained from asking questions.
“Now, Jackie, you keep your father company; tell him how you got on at school. I’m going downstairs to look after his dinner.”
“Don’t you mind about my dinner, Esther, don’t you trouble; I was thinking of dining at a restaurant. I’ll be back at nine.”
“Then I’ll see nothing of you. We’ve hardly spoken to one another this week; all the day you’re away racing, and in the evening you’re talking to your friends over the bar. We never have a moment alone.”
“Yes, Esther, I know; but the truth is, I’m a bit down in the mouth. I’ve had a very bad week. The favourites has been winning, and I overlaid my book against Wheatear; I’d heard that she was as safe as ‘ouses. I’ll meet some pals down at the ‘Cri’; it will cheer me up.”
“And may I stop with father while you are cooking his dinner?” said Jackie.
“Yes, you can do that; but you must go to bed when I bring it upstairs. I want to talk with father then.”
Jackie seemed quite satisfied with this arrangement, but when Esther came upstairs with the sole, and was about to hand him over to Jane, he begged lustily to be allowed to remain until father had finished his fish. “It won’t matter to you,” he said; “you’ve to go downstairs to fry the steak.”
But when she came up with the steak he was unwilling as ever to leave. She said he must go to bed, and he knew from her tone that argument was useless. As a last consolation, she promised him that she would come upstairs and kiss him before he went to sleep.
“You will come, won’t you, mummie? I shan’t go to sleep till you do.” Esther and William both laughed, and Esther was pleased, for she was still a little jealous of his love for his father.
“Come along,” Jackie cried to Jane, and he ran upstairs, chattering to her about the toys he had seen in Oxford Street. Charles was lighting the gas, and Esther had to go into the bar to serve some customers. When she returned, William was smoking his pipe. Her dinner had had its effect, he had forgotten his losses, and was willing to tell her the news. He had a bit of news for her. He had seen Ginger; Ginger had come up as cordial as you like, and had asked him what price he was laying.
“Did he bet with you?”
“Yes, I laid him ten pounds to five.”
Once more William began to lament his luck. “You’ll have better luck to-morrow,” she said. “The favourites can’t go on winning. Tell me about Ginger.”
“There isn’t much to tell. We’d a little chat. He knew all about the little arrangement, the five hundred, you know, and laughed heartily. Peggy’s married. I’ve forgotten the chap’s name.”
