But when the spring came Esther put Fred off till the autumn, pleading as an excuse that Miss Rice had not been very well lately, and that she did not like to leave her.
It was one of those long and pallid evenings at the end of July, when the sky seems as if it could not darken. The roadway was very still in its dust and heat, and Esther, her print dress trailing, watched a poor horse striving to pull a four-wheeler through the loose heavy gravel that had just been laid down. So absorbed was she in her pity for the poor animal that she did not see the gaunt, broad-shouldered man coming towards her, looking very long-legged in a pair of light grey trousers and a black jacket a little too short for him. He walked with long, even strides, a small cane in one hand, the other in his trousers pocket; a heavy gold chain showed across his waistcoat. He wore a round hat and a red necktie. The side whiskers and the shaven upper lip gave him the appearance of a gentleman's valet. He did not notice Esther, but a sudden step taken sideways as she lingered, her eyes fixed on the cab-horse, brought her nearly into collision with him.
"Do look where you are going to," he exclaimed, jumping back to avoid the beer-jug, which fell to the ground. "What, Esther, is it you?"
"There, you have made me drop the beer."
"Plenty more in the public; I'll get you another jug."
"It is very kind of you. I can get what I want myself."
They looked at each other, and at the end of a long silence William said: "Just fancy meeting you, and in this way! Well I never! I am glad to see you again."
"Are you really! Well, so much for that—your way and mine aren't the same. I wish you good evening."
"Stop a moment, Esther."
"And my mistress waiting for her dinner. I've to go and get some more beer."
"Shall I wait for you?"
"Wait for me! I should think not, indeed."
Esther ran down the area steps. Her hand paused as it was about to lift the jug down from the dresser, and a number of thoughts fled across her mind. That man would be waiting for her outside. What was she to do? How unfortunate! If he continued to come after her he and Fred would be sure to meet.
"What are you waiting for, I should like to know?" she cried, as she came up the steps.
"That's 'ardly civil, Esther, and after so many years too; one would think—"
"I want none of your thinking; get out of my sight. Do you 'ear? I want no truck with you whatever. Haven't you done me enough mischief already?"
"Be quiet; listen to me. I'll explain."
"I don't want none of your explanation. Go away."
Her whole nature was now in full revolt, and quick with passionate remembrance of the injustice that had been done her, she drew back from him, her eyes flashing. Perhaps it was some passing remembrance of the breakage of the first beer-jug that prevented her from striking him with the second. The spasm passed, and then her rage, instead of venting itself in violent action, assumed the form of dogged silence. He followed her up the street, and into the bar. She handed the jug across the counter, and while the barman filled it searched in her pocket for the money. She had brought none with her. William promptly produced sixpence. Esther answered him with a quick, angry glance, and addressing the barman, she said, "I'll pay you to-morrow; that'll do, I suppose? 41 Avondale Road."
"That will be all right, but what am I to do with this sixpence?"
"I know nothing about that," Esther said, picking up her skirt; "I'll pay you for what I have had."
Holding the sixpence in his short, thick, and wet fingers, the barman looked at William. William smiled, and said, "Well, they do run sulky sometimes."
He caught at the leather strap and pulled the door open for her, and as she passed out she became aware that William still admired her. It was really too bad, and she was conscious of injustice. Having destroyed her life, this man had passed out of sight and knowledge, but only to reappear when a vista leading to a new life seemed open before her.
"It was that temper of yours that did it; you wouldn't speak to me for a fortnight. You haven't changed, I can see that," he said, watching Esther's face, which did not alter until he spoke of how unhappy he had been in his marriage. "A regular brute she was—we're no longer together, you know; haven't been for the last three years; could not put up with 'er. She was that—but that's a long story." Esther did not answer him. He looked at her anxiously, and seeing that she would not be won over easily, he spoke of his money.
"Look 'ere, Esther," he said, laying his hand on the area gate. "You won't refuse to come out with me some Sunday. I've a half a share in a public-house, the 'King's Head,' and have been backing winners all this year. I've plenty of money to treat you. I should like to make it up to you. Perhaps you've 'ad rather a 'ard time. What 'ave yer been doing all these years? I want to hear."
"What 'ave I been doing? Trying to bring up your child! That's what I've been doing."
"There's a child, then, is there?" said William, taken aback. Before he could recover himself Esther had slipped past him down the area into the house. For a moment he looked as if he were going to follow her; on second thoughts he thought he had better not. He lingered a moment and then walked slowly away in the direction of the Metropolitan Railway.
"I'm sorry to 'ave kept you waiting, miss, but I met with an accident and had to come back for another jug."
"And what was the accident you met with, Esther?"
"I wasn't paying no attention, miss; I was looking at a cab that could hardly get through the stones they've been laying down in the Pembroke Road; the poor little horse was pulling that 'ard that I thought he'd drop down dead, and while I was looking I ran up against a passer-by, and being a bit taken aback I dropped the jug."
"How was that? Did you know the passer-by?"
Esther busied herself with the dishes on the sideboard; and, divining that something serious had happened to her servant, Miss Rice refrained and allowed the dinner to pass in silence. Half-an-hour later Esther came into the study with her mistress's tea. She brought over the wicker table, and as she set it by her mistress's knees the shadows about the bookcase and the light of the lamp upon the book and the pensive content on Miss Rice's face impelled her to think of her own troubles, the hardship, the passion, the despair of her life compared with this tranquil existence. Never had she felt more certain that misfortune was inherent in her life. She remembered all the trouble she had had, she wondered how she had come out of it all alive; and now, just as things seemed like settling, everything was going to be upset again. Fred was away for a fortnight's holiday—she was safe for eleven or twelve days. After that she did not know what might not happen. Her instinct told her that although he had passed over her fault very lightly, so long as he knew nothing of the father of her child, he might not care to marry her if William continued to come after her. Ah! if she hadn't happened to go out at that particular time she might never have met William. He did not live in the neighbourhood; if he did they would have met before. Perhaps he had just settled in the neighbourhood. That would be worst of all. No, no, no; it was a mere accident; if the cask of beer had held out a day or two longer, or if it had run out a day or two sooner, she might never have met William! But now she could not keep out of his way. He spent the whole day in the street waiting for her. If she went out on an errand he followed her there and back. If she'd only listen. She was prettier than ever. He had never cared for any one else. He would marry her when he got his divorce, and then the child would be theirs. She did not answer him, but her blood boiled at the word "theirs." How could Jackie become their child? Was it not she who had worked for him, brought him up? and she thought as little of his paternity as if he had fallen from heaven into her arms.
One evening as she was laying the table her grief took her unawares, and she was obliged to dash aside the tears that had risen to her eyes. The action was so apparent that Miss Rice thought it would be an affectation to ignore it. So she said in her kind, musical, intimate manner, "Esther, I'm afraid you have some trouble on your mind; can I do anything for you?"
"No, miss, no, it's nothing; I shall get over it presently."
But the effort of speaking was too much for her, and a bitter sob caught her in the throat.
"You had better tell me your trouble, Esther; even if I cannot help you it will ease your heart to tell me about it. I hope nothing is the matter with Jackie?"
"No, miss, no; thank God, he's well enough. It's nothing to do with him; leastways—" Then with a violent effort she put back her tears. "Oh, it is silly of me," she said, "and your dinner getting cold."
"I don't want to pry into your affairs, Esther, but you know that——"
"Yes, miss, I know you to be kindness itself; but there's nothing to be done but to bear it. You asked me just now if it had anything to do with Jackie. Well, it is no more than that his father has come back."
"But surely, Esther, that's hardly a reason for sorrow; I should have thought that you would have been glad."
"It is only natural that you should think so, miss; them what hasn't been through the trouble never thinks the same as them that has. You see, miss, it is nearly nine years since I've seen him, and during them nine years I 'ave been through so much. I 'ave worked and slaved, and been through all the 'ardship, and now, when the worst is over, he comes and wants me to marry him when he gets his divorce."
"Then you like some one else better?"
"Yes, miss, I do, and what makes it so 'ard to bear is that for the last two months or more I've been keeping company with Fred Parsons—that's the stationer's assistant; you've seen him in the shop, miss—and he and me is engaged to be married. He's earning good money, thirty shillings a week; he's as good a young man as ever stepped—religious, kind-hearted, everything as would make a woman 'appy in 'er 'ome. It is 'ard for a girl to keep up with 'er religion in some of the situations we have to put up with, and I'd mostly got out of the habit of chapel-going till I met him; it was 'e who led me back again to Christ. But for all that, understanding very well, not to say indulgent for the failings of others, like yourself, miss. He knew all about Jackie from the first, and never said nothing about it, but that I must have suffered cruel, which I have. He's been with me to see Jackie, and they both took to each other wonderful like; it couldn't 'ave been more so if 'e'd been 'is own father. But now all that's broke up, for when Fred meets William it is as likely as not as he'll think quite different."
The evening died behind the red-brick suburb, and Miss Rice's strip of garden grew greener. She had finished her dinner, and she leaned back thinking of the story she had heard. She was one of those secluded maiden ladies so common in England, whose experience of life is limited to a tea party, and whose further knowledge of life is derived from the yellow-backed French novels which fill their bookcases.
"How was it that you happened to meet William—I think you said his name was William?"
"It was the day, miss, that I went to fetch the beer from the public-house. It was he that made me drop the jug; you remember, miss, I had to come back for another. I told you about it at the time. When I went out again with a fresh jug he was waiting for me, he followed me to the 'Greyhound' and wanted to pay for the beer—not likely that I'd let him; I told them to put it on the slate, and that I'd pay for it to-morrow. I didn't speak to him on leaving the bar, but he followed me to the gate. He wanted to know what I'd been doing all the time. Then my temper got the better of me, and I said, 'Looking after your child.' 'My child!' says he. 'So there's a child, is there?'"
"I think you told me that he married one of the young ladies at the place you were then in situation?"
"Young lady! No fear, she wasn't no young lady. Anyway, she was too good or too bad for him; for they didn't get on, and are now living separate."
"Does he speak about the child? Does he ask to see him?"
"Lor', yes, miss; he'd the cheek to say the other day that we'd make him our child—our child, indeed! and after all these years I've been working and he doing nothing."
"Perhaps he might like to do something for him; perhaps that's what he's thinking of."
"No, miss, I know him better than that. That's his cunning; he thinks he'll get me through the child."
"In any case I don't see what you'll gain by refusing to speak to him; if you want to do something for the child, you can. You said he was proprietor of a public-house."
"I don't want his money; please God, we'll be able to do without it to the end."
"If I were to die to-morrow, Esther, remember that you would be in exactly the same position as you were when you entered my service. You remember what that was? You have often told me there was only eighteen-pence between you and the workhouse; you owed Mrs. Lewis two weeks' money for the support of the child. I daresay you've saved a little money since you've been with me, but it cannot be more than a few pounds. I don't think that you ought to let this chance slip through your fingers, if not for your own, for Jackie's sake. William, according to his own account, is making money. He may become a rich man; he has no children by his wife; he might like to leave some of his money—in any case, he'd like to leave something—to Jackie."
"He was always given to boasting about money. I don't believe all he says about money or anything else."
"That may be, but he may have money, and you have no right to refuse to allow him to provide for Jackie. Supposing later on Jackie were to reproach you?"
"Jackie'd never do that, miss; he'd know I acted for the best."
"If you again found yourself out of a situation, and saw Jackie crying for his dinner, you'd reproach yourself."
"I don't think I should, miss."
"I know you are very obstinate, Esther. When does Parsons return?"
"In about a week, miss."
"Without telling William anything about Parsons, you'll be able to find out whether it is his intention to interfere in your life. I quite agree with you that it is important that the two men should not meet; but it seems to me, by refusing to speak to William, by refusing to let him see Jackie, you are doing all you can to bring about the meeting that you wish to avoid. Is he much about here?"
"Yes, miss, he seems hardly ever out of the street, and it do look so bad for the 'ouse. I do feel that ashamed. Since I've been with you, miss, I don't think you've 'ad to complain of followers."
"Well, don't you see, you foolish girl, that he'll remain hanging about, and the moment Parsons comes back he'll hear of it. You'd better see to this at once."
"Whatever you says, miss, always do seem right, some 'ow. What you says do seem that reasonable, and yet I don't know how to bring myself to go to 'im. I told 'im that I didn't want no truck with 'im."
"Yes, I think you said so. It is a delicate matter to advise anyone in, but I feel sure I am right when I say that you have no right to refuse to allow him to do something for the child. Jackie is now eight years old, you've not the means of giving him a proper education, and you know the disadvantage it has been to you not to know how to read and write."
"Jackie can read beautifully—Mrs. Lewis 'as taught him."
"Yes, Esther; but there's much besides reading and writing. Think over what I've said; you're a sensible girl; think it out when you go to bed to-night."
Next day, seeing William in the street, she went upstairs to ask Miss Rice's permission to go out. "Could you spare me, miss, for an hour or so?" was all she said. Miss Rice, who had noticed a man loitering, replied, "Certainly, Esther."
"You aren't afraid to be left in the house alone, miss? I shan't be far away."
"No. I am expecting Mr. Alden. I'll let him in, and can make the tea myself."
Esther ran up the area steps and walked quickly down the street, as if she were going on an errand. William crossed the road and was soon alongside of her.
"Don't be so 'ard on a chap," he said. "Just listen to reason."
"I don't want to listen to you; you can't have much to say that I care for."
Her tone was still stubborn, but he perceived that it contained a change of humour.
"Come for a little walk, and then, if you don't agree with what I says, I'll never come after you again."
"You must take me for a fool if you think I'd pay attention to your promises."
"Esther, hear me out; you're very unforgiving, but if you'd hear me out——"
"You can speak; no one's preventing you that I can see."
"I can't say it off like that; it is a long story. I know that I've behaved badly to you, but it wasn't as much my fault as you think; I could explain a good lot of it."
"I don't care about your explanations. If you've only got explanations——"
"There's that boy."
"Oh, it is the boy you're thinking of?"
"Yes, and you too, Esther. The mother can't be separated from the child."
"Very likely; the father can, though."
"If you talk that snappish I shall never get out what I've to say. I've treated you badly, and it is to make up for the past as far as I can—"
"And how do you know that you aren't doing harm by coming after me?"
"You mean you're keeping company with a chap and don't want me?"
"You don't know I'm not a married woman; you don't know what kind of situation I'm in. You comes after me just because it pleases your fancy, and don't give it a thought that you mightn't get me the sack, as you got it me before."
"There's no use nagging; just let's go where we can have a talk, and then if you aren't satisfied you can go your way and I can go mine. You said I didn't know that you wasn't married. I don't, but if you aren't, so much the better. If you are, you've only to say so and I'll take my hook. I've done quite enough harm, without coming between you and your husband."
William spoke earnestly, and his words came so evidently from his heart that Esther was touched against her will.
"No, I ain't married yet," she replied.
"I'm glad of that."
"I don't see what odds it can make to you whether I'm married or not. If I ain't married, you are."
William and Esther walked on in silence, listening to the day as it hushed in quiet suburban murmurs. The sky was almost colourless—a faded grey, that passed into an insignificant blue; and upon this almost neutral tint the red suburb appeared in rigid outline, like a carving. At intervals the wind raised a cloud of dust in the roadway. Stopping before a piece of waste ground, William said—
"Let's go in there; we'll be able to talk easier." Esther raised no objection. They went in and looked for a place where they could sit down.
"This is just like old times," said William, moving a little closer.
"If you are going to begin any of that nonsense I'll get up and go. I only came out with you because you said you had something particular to say about the child."
"Well, it is only natural that I should like to see my son."
"How do you know it's a son?"
"I thought you said so. I should like it to be a boy—is it?"
"Yes, it is a boy, and a lovely boy too; very different to his father. I've always told him that his father is dead."
"And is he sorry?"
"Not a bit. I've told him his father wasn't good to me; and he don't care for those who haven't been good to his mother."
"I see, you've brought him up to hate me?"
"He don't know nothing about you—how should 'e?"
"Very likely; but there's no need to be that particular nasty. As I've said before, what's done can't be undone. I treated you badly, I know that; and I've been badly treated myself—damned badly treated. You've 'ad a 'ard time; so have I, if that's any comfort to ye."
"I suppose it is wrong of me, but seeing you has brought up a deal of bitterness, more than I thought there was in me."
William lay at length, his body resting on one arm. He held a long grass stalk between his small, discoloured teeth. The conversation had fallen. He looked at Esther; she sat straight up, her stiff cotton dress spread over the rough grass; her cloth jacket was unbuttoned. He thought her a nice-looking woman and he imagined her behind the bar of the "King's Head." His marriage had proved childless and in every way a failure; he now desired a wife such as he felt sure she would be, and his heart hankered sorely after his son. He tried to read Esther's quiet, subdued face. It was graver than usual, and betrayed none of the passion that choked in her. She must manage that the men should not meet. But how should she rid herself of him? She noticed that he was looking at her, and to lead his thoughts away from herself she asked him where he had gone with his wife when they left Woodview. Breaking off suddenly, he said—
"Peggy knew all the time I was gone on you."
"It don't matter about that. Tell me where you went—they said you went foreign."
"We first went to Boulogne, that's in France; but nearly everyone speaks English there, and there was a nice billiard room handy, where all the big betting men came in of an evening. We went to the races. I backed three winners on the first day—the second I didn't do so well. Then we went on to Paris. The race-meetings is very 'andy—I will say that for Paris—half-an-hour's drive and there you are."
"Did your wife like Paris?"
"Yes, she liked it pretty well—it is all the place for fashion, and the shops is grand; but she got tired of it too, and we went to Italy."
"Where's that?"
"That's down south. A beast of a place—nothing but sour wine, and all the cookery done in oil, and nothing to do but seeing picture-galleries. I got that sick of it I could stand it no longer, and I said, 'I've 'ad enough of this. I want to go home, where I can get a glass of Burton and a cut from the joint, and where there's a horse worth looking at.'"
"But she was very fond of you. She must have been."
"She was, in her way. But she always liked talking to the singers and the painters that we met out there. Nothing wrong, you know. That was after we had been married about three years."
"What was that?"
"That I caught her out."
"How do you know there was anything wrong? Men always think bad of women."
"No, it was right enough! she had got dead sick of me, and I had got dead sick of her. It never did seem natural like. There was no 'omeliness in it, and a marriage that ain't 'omely is no marriage for me. Her friends weren't my friends; and as for my friends, she never left off insulting me about them. If I was to ask a chap in she wouldn't sit in the same room with him. That's what it got to at last. And I was always thinking of you, and your name used to come up when we was talking. One day she said, 'I suppose you are sorry you didn't marry a servant?' and I said, 'I suppose you are sorry you did?'"
"That was a good one for her. Did she say she was?"
"She put her arms round my neck and said she loved none but her big Bill. But all her flummery didn't take me in. And I says to myself, 'Keep an eye on her.' For there was a young fellow hanging about in a manner I didn't particularly like. He was too anxious to be polite to me, he talked to me about 'orses, and I could see he knew nothing about them. He even went so far as go down to Kempton with me."
"And how did it all end?"
"I determined to keep my eye on this young whipper-snapper, and come up from Ascot by an earlier train than they expected me. I let myself in and ran up to the drawing-room. They were there sitting side by side on the sofa. I could see they were very much upset. The young fellow turned red, and he got up, stammering, and speaking a lot of rot.
"'What! you back already? How did you get on at Ascot? Had a good day?'
"'Rippin'; but I'm going to have a better one now,' I said, keeping my eye all the while on my wife. I could see by her face that there was no doubt about it. Then I took him by the throat. 'I just give you two minutes to confess the truth; I know it, but I want to hear it from you. Now, out with it, or I'll strangle you.' I gave him a squeeze just to show him that I meant it. He turned up his eyes, and my wife cried, 'Murder!' I threw him back from me and got between her and the door, locked it, and put the key in my pocket. 'Now,' I said, 'I'll drag the truth out of you both.' He did look white, he shrivelled up by the chimney-piece, and she—well, she looked as if she could have killed me, only there was nothing to kill me with. I saw her look at the fire-irons. Then, in her nasty sarcastic way, she said, 'There's no reason, Percy, why he shouldn't know. Yes,' she said, 'he is my lover; you can get your divorce when you like.'
"I was a bit taken aback; my idea was to squeeze it all out of the fellow and shame him before her. But she spoilt my little game there, and I could see by her eyes that she knew that she had. 'Now, Percy,' she said, 'we'd better go.' That put my blood up. I said, 'Go you shall, but not till I give you leave,' and without another word I took him by the collar and led him to the door; he came like a lamb, and I sent him off with as fine a kick as he ever got in his life. He went rolling down, and didn't stop till he got to the bottom. You should have seen her look at me; there was murder in her eyes. If she could she'd have killed me, but she couldn't and calmed down a bit. 'Let me go; what do you want me for? You can get a divorce…. I'll pay the costs.'
"'I don't think I'd gratify you so much. So you'd like to marry him, would you, my beauty?'
"'He's a gentleman, and I've had enough of you; if you want money you shall have it.'
"I laughed at her, and so it went on for an hour or more. Then she suddenly calmed down. I knew something was up, only I didn't know what. I don't know if I told you we was in lodgings—the usual sort, drawing-room with folding doors, the bedroom at the back. She went into the bedroom, and I followed, just to make sure she couldn't get out that way. There was a chest of drawers before the door; I thought she couldn't move it, and went back into the sitting-room. But somehow she managed to move it without my hearing her, and before I could stop her she was down the stairs like lightning. I went after her, but she had too long a start of me, and the last I heard was the street door go bang."
The conversation paused. William took the stalk he was chewing from his teeth, and threw it aside. Esther had picked one, and with it she beat impatiently among the grass.
"But what has all this to do with me?" she said. "If this is all you have brought me out to listen to——"
"That's a nice way to round on me. Wasn't it you what asked me to tell you the story?"
"So you've deserted two women instead of one, that's about the long and short of it."
"Well, if that's what you think I'd better be off," said William, and he rose to his feet and stood looking at her. She sat quite still, not daring to raise her eyes; her heart was throbbing violently. Would he go away and never come back? Should she answer him indifferently or say nothing? She chose the latter course. Perhaps it was the wrong one, for her dogged silence irritated him, and he sat down and begged of her to forgive him. He would wait for her. Then her heart ceased throbbing, and a cold numbness came over her hands.
"My wife thought that I had no money, and could do what she liked with me. But I had been backing winners all the season, and had a couple of thousand in the bank. I put aside a thousand for working expenses, for I intended to give up backing horses and go in for bookmaking instead. I have been at it ever since. A few ups and downs, but I can't complain. I am worth to-day close on three thousand pounds."
At the mention of so much money Esther raised her eyes. She looked at William steadfastly. Her object was to rid herself of him, so that she might marry another man; but at that moment a sensation of the love she had once felt for him sprang upon her suddenly.
"I must be getting back, my mistress will be waiting for me."
"You needn't be in that hurry. It is quite early. Besides, we haven't settled nothing yet."
"You've been telling me about your wife. I don't see much what it's got to do with me."
"I thought you was interested… that you wanted to see that I wasn't as much to blame as you thought."
"I must be getting back," she said; "anything else you have to say to me you can tell me on the way home."
"Well, it all amounts to this, Esther; if I get a divorce we might come together again. What do you think?"
"I think you'd much better make it up with her. I daresay she's very sorry for what she's done."
"That's all rot, Esther. She ain't sorry, and wouldn't live with me no more than I with her. We could not get on; what's the use? You'd better let bygones be bygones. You know what I mean—marry me."
"I don't think I could do that."
"You like some other chap. You like some chap, and don't want me interfering in your life. That's why you wants me to go back and live with my wife. You don't think of what I've gone through with her already."
"You've not been through half of what I have. I'll be bound that you never wanted a dinner. I have."
"Esther, think of the child."
"You're a nice one to tell me to think of the child, I who worked and slaved for him all these years."
"Then I'm to take no for an answer?"
"I don't want to have nothing to do with you."
"And you won't let me see the child?"
A moment later Esther answered, "You can see the child, if you like."
"Where is he?"
"You can come with me to see him next Sunday, if you like. Now let me go in."
