Esther Waters

by

GEORGE MOORE

1899

I

She stood on the platform watching the receding train. A few bushes hidthe curve of the line; the white vapour rose above them, evaporating inthe pale evening. A moment more and the last carriage would pass out ofsight. The white gates swung forward slowly and closed over the line. 

An oblong box painted reddish brown and tied with a rough rope lay on theseat beside her. The movement of her back and shoulders showed that thebundle she carried was a heavy one, the sharp bulging of the grey linencloth that the weight was dead. She wore a faded yellow dress and a blackjacket too warm for the day. A girl of twenty, short, strongly built, withshort, strong arms. Her neck was plump, and her hair of so ordinary abrown that it passed unnoticed. The nose was too thick, but the nostrilswere well formed. The eyes were grey, luminous, and veiled with darklashes. But it was only when she laughed that her face lost its habitualexpression, which was somewhat sullen; then it flowed with bright humour. She laughed now, showing a white line of almond-shaped teeth. The porterhad asked her if she were afraid to leave her bundle with her box. Both, he said, would go up together in the donkey-cart. The donkey-cart camedown every evening to fetch parcels.... That was the way to Woodview, right up the lane. She could not miss it. She would find the lodge gate inthat clump of trees. The man lingered, for she was an attractive girl, butthe station-master called him away to remove some luggage. 

It was a barren country. Once the sea had crawled at high tide half-way upthe sloping sides of those downs. It would do so now were it not for theshingle bank which its surging had thrown up along the coast. Between theshingle bank and the shore a weedy river flowed and the little town stoodclamped together, its feet in the water's edge. There were decayingshipyards about the harbour, and wooden breakwaters stretched long, thinarms seawards for ships that did not come. On the other side of therailway apple blossoms showed above a white-washed wall; some marketgardening was done in the low-lying fields, whence the downs rose ingradual ascents. On the first slope there was a fringe of trees. That wasWoodview. 

The girl gazed on this bleak country like one who saw it for the firsttime. She saw without perceiving, for her mind was occupied with personalconsideration. She found it difficult to decide whether she should leaveher bundle with her box. It hung heavy in her hand, and she did not knowhow far Woodview was from the station. At the end of the platform thestation-master took her ticket, and she passed over the level-crossingstill undecided. The lane began with iron railings, laurels, and Frenchwindows. She had been in service in such houses, and knew if she wereengaged in any of them what her duties would be. But the life in Woodviewwas a great dream, and she could not imagine herself accomplishing allthat would be required of her. There would be a butler, a footman, and apage; she would not mind the page--but the butler and footman, what wouldthey think? There would be an upper-housemaid and an under-housemaid, andperhaps a lady's-maid, and maybe that these ladies had been abroad withthe family. She had heard of France and Germany. Their conversation would, no doubt, turn on such subjects. Her silence would betray her. They wouldask her what situations she had been in, and when they learned the truthshe would have to leave disgraced. She had not sufficient money to pay fora ticket to London. But what excuse could she give to Lady Elwin, who hadrescued her from Mrs. Dunbar and got her the place of kitchen-maid atWoodview? She must not go back. Her father would curse her, and perhapsbeat her mother and her too. Ah! he would not dare to strike her again, and the girl's face flushed with shameful remembrance. And her littlebrothers and sisters would cry if she came back. They had little enough toeat as it was. Of course she must not go back. How silly of her to thinkof such a thing!

She smiled, and her face became as bright as the month: it was the firstday of June. Still she would be glad when the first week was over. If shehad only a dress to wear in the afternoons! The old yellow thing on herback would never do. But one of her cotton prints was pretty fresh; shemust get a bit of red ribbon--that would make a difference. She had heardthat the housemaids in places like Woodview always changed their dressestwice a day, and on Sundays went out in silk mantles and hats in thenewest fashion. As for the lady's-maid, she of course had all hermistress's clothes, and walked with the butler. What would such peoplethink of a little girl like her! Her heart sank at the thought, and shesighed, anticipating much bitterness and disappointment. Even when herfirst quarter's wages came due she would hardly be able to buy herself adress: they would want the money at home. Her quarter's wages! A month'swages most like, for she'd never be able to keep the place. No doubt allthose fields belonged to the Squire, and those great trees too; they mustbe fine folk, quite as fine as Lady Elwin--finer, for she lived in a houselike those near the station. 

On both sides of the straight road there were tall hedges, and thenursemaids lay in the wide shadows on the rich summer grass, theirperambulators at a little distance. The hum of the town died out of theear, and the girl continued to imagine the future she was about to enteron with increasing distinctness. Looking across the fields she could seetwo houses, one in grey stone, the other in red brick with a gable coveredwith ivy; and between them, lost in the north, the spire of a church. Onquestioning a passer-by she learnt that the first house was the Rectory, the second was Woodview Lodge. If that was the lodge, what must the housebe?

Two hundred yards further on the road branched, passing on either side ofa triangular clump of trees, entering the sea road; and under the leavesthe air was green and pleasant, and the lungs of the jaded town girl drewin a deep breath of health. Behind the plantation she found a largewhite-painted wooden gate. It opened into a handsome avenue, and thegatekeeper told her to keep straight on, and to turn to the left when shegot to the top. She had never seen anything like it before, and stoppedto admire the uncouth arms of elms, like rafters above the roadway; pinkclouds showed through, and the monotonous dove seemed the very heart ofthe silence. 

Her doubts returned; she never would be able to keep the place. The avenueturned a little, and she came suddenly upon a young man leaning over thepaling, smoking his pipe. 

"Please sir, is this the way to Woodview?"

"Yes, right up through the stables, round to the left. " Then, noticing thesturdily-built figure, yet graceful in its sturdiness, and the brightcheeks, he said, "You look pretty well done; that bundle is a heavy one, let me hold it for you. "

"I am a bit tired, " she said, leaning the bundle on the paling. "They toldme at the station that the donkey-cart would bring up my box later on. "

"Ah, then you are the new kitchen-maid? What's your name?"

"Esther Waters. "

"My mother's the cook here; you'll have to mind your p's and q's or elseyou'll be dropped on. The devil of a temper while it lasts, but not a badsort if you don't put her out. "

"Are you in service here?"

"No, but I hope to be afore long. I could have been two years ago, butmother did not like me to put on livery, and I don't know how I'll faceher when I come running down to go out with the carriage. "

"Is the place vacant?" Esther asked, raising her eyes timidly, looking athim sideways. 

"Yes, Jim Story got the sack about a week ago. When he had taken a drophe'd tell every blessed thing that was done in the stables. They'd get himdown to the 'Red Lion' for the purpose; of course the squire couldn'tstand that. "

"And shall you take the place?"

"Yes. I'm not going to spend my life carrying parcels up and down theKing's Road, Brighton, if I can squeeze in here. It isn't so much theberth that I care about, but the advantages, information fresh from thefountain-head. You won't catch me chattering over the bar at the 'RedLion' and having every blessed word I say wired up to London and printednext morning in all the papers. "

Esther wondered what he was talking about, and, looking at him, she saw alow, narrow forehead, a small, round head, a long nose, a pointed chin, and rather hollow, bloodless cheeks. Notwithstanding the shallow chest, hewas powerfully built, the long arms could deal a swinging blow. The lowforehead and the lustreless eyes told of a slight, unimaginative brain, but regular features and a look of natural honesty made William Latch aman that ten men and eighteen women out of twenty would like. 

"I see you have got books in that bundle, " he said at the end of a longsilence. "Fond of readin'?"

"They are mother's books, " she replied, hastily. "I was afraid to leavethem at the station, for it would be easy for anyone to take one out, andI should not miss it until I undid the bundle. "

"Sarah Tucker--that's the upper-housemaid--will be after you to lend themto her. She is a wonderful reader. She has read every story that has comeout in _Bow Bells_ for the last three years, and you can't puzzle her, tryas you will. She knows all the names, can tell you which lord it was thatsaved the girl from the carriage when the 'osses were tearing like madtowards a precipice a 'undred feet deep, and all about the baronet forwhose sake the girl went out to drown herself in the moonlight, I 'aven'tread the books mesel', but Sarah and me are great pals, "

Esther trembled lest he might ask her again if she were fond of reading;she could not read. Noticing a change in the expression of her face, heconcluded that she was disappointed to hear that he liked Sarah andregretted his indiscretion. 

"Good friends, you know--no more. Sarah and me never hit it off; she willworry me with the stories she reads. I don't know what is your taste, butI likes something more practical; the little 'oss in there, he is more tomy taste. " Fearing he might speak again of her books, she mustered upcourage and said--

"They told me at the station that the donkey-cart would bring up my box. "

"The donkey-cart isn't going to the station to-night--you'll want yourthings, to be sure. I'll see the coachman; perhaps he is going down withthe trap. But, golly! it has gone the half-hour. I shall catch it forkeeping you talking, and my mother has been expecting you for the lasthour. She hasn't a soul to help her, and six people coming to dinner. Youmust say the train was late. "

"Let us go, then, " cried Esther. "Will you show me the way?"

Over the iron gate which opened into the pleasure-ground, thick branchesof evergreen oaks made an arch of foliage, and between the trees a glimpsewas caught of the angles and urns of an Italian house--distant about ahundred yards. A high brick wall separated the pleasure-ground from thestables, and as William and Esther turned to the left and walked up theroadway he explained that the numerous buildings were stables. They passedby many doors, hearing the trampling of horses and the rattling of chains. Then the roadway opened into a handsome yard overlooked by the house, theback premises of which had been lately rebuilt in red brick. There weregables and ornamental porches, and through the large kitchen windows theservants were seen passing to and fro. At the top of this yard was a gate. It led into the park, and, like the other gate, was overhung by bunchedevergreens. A string of horses came towards this gate, and William ran toopen it. The horses were clothed in grey cloth. They wore hoods, andEsther noticed the black round eyes looking through the eyelet holes. Theywere ridden by small, ugly boys, who swung their little legs, and struckthem with ash plants when they reached their heads forward chawing at thebits. When William returned he said, "Look there, the third one; that'she--that's Silver Braid. "

An impatient knocking at the kitchen window interrupted his admiration, and William, turning quickly, said, "Mind you say the train was late;don't say I kept you, or you'll get me into the devil of a pickle. Thisway. " The door let into a wide passage covered with coconut matting. Theywalked a few yards; the kitchen was the first door, and the handsome roomshe found herself in did not conform to anything that Esther had seen orheard of kitchens. The range almost filled one end of the room, and on ita dozen saucepans were simmering; the dresser reached to the ceiling, andwas covered with a multitude of plates and dishes. Esther thought how shemust strive to keep it in its present beautiful condition, and the elegantwhite-capped servants passing round the white table made her feel her owninsignificance. 

"This is the new kitchen-maid, mother. "

"Ah, is it indeed?" said Mrs. Latch looking up from the tray of tartletswhich she had taken from the oven and was filling with jam. Esther noticedthe likeness that Mrs. Latch bore to her son. The hair was iron grey, and, as in William's face, the nose was the most prominent feature. 

"I suppose you'll tell me the train was late?"

"Yes, mother, the train was a quarter of an hour late, " William chimed in. 

"I didn't ask you, you idle, lazy, good-for-nothing vagabond. I suppose itwas you who kept the girl all this time. Six people coming to dinner, andI've been the whole day without a kitchen-maid. If Margaret Gale hadn'tcome down to help me, I don't know where we should be; as it is, thedinner will be late. "

The two housemaids, both in print dresses, stood listening. Esther's faceclouded, and when Mrs. Latch told her to take her things off and set toand prepare the vegetables, so that she might see what she was made of, Esther did not answer at once. She turned away, saying under her breath, "I must change my dress, and my box has not come up from the station yet. "

"You can tuck your dress up, and Margaret Gale will lend you her apron. "

Esther hesitated. 

"What you've got on don't look as if it could come to much damage. Come, now, set to. "

The housemaids burst into loud laughter, and then a sullen look of doggedobstinacy passed over and settled on Esther's face, even to the point ofvisibly darkening the white and rose complexion. 

II

A sloping roof formed one end of the room, and through a broad, singlepane the early sunlight fell across a wall papered with blue and whiteflowers. Print dresses hung over the door. On the wall were twopictures--a girl with a basket of flowers, the coloured supplement of anillustrated newspaper, and an old and dilapidated last century print. Onthe chimney-piece there were photographs of the Gale family in Sundayclothes, and the green vases that Sarah had given Margaret on herbirthday. 

And in a low, narrow iron bed, pushed close against the wall in the fullglare of the sunlight, Esther lay staring half-awake, her eyes open butstill dim with dreams. She looked at the clock. It was not yet time to getup, and she raised her arms as if to cross them behind her head, but asudden remembrance of yesterday arrested her movement, and a sudden shadowsettled on her face. She had refused to prepare the vegetables. She hadn'tanswered, and the cook had turned her out of the kitchen. She had rushedfrom the house under the momentary sway of hope that she might succeed inwalking back to London; but William had overtaken her in the avenue, hehad expostulated with her, he had refused to allow her to pass. She hadstriven to tear herself from him, and, failing, had burst into tears. However, he had been kind, and at last she had allowed him to lead herback, and all the time he had filled her ears with assurances that hewould make it all right with his mother. But Mrs. Latch had closed herkitchen against her, and she had had to go to her room. Even if they paidher fare back to London, how was she to face her mother? What would fathersay? He would drive her from the house. But she had done nothing wrong. Why did cook insult her?

As she pulled on her stockings she stopped and wondered if she shouldawake Margaret Gale. Margaret's bed stood in the shadow of the obliquelyfalling wall; and she lay heavily, one arm thrown forward, her short, square face raised to the light. She slept so deeply that for a momentEsther felt afraid. Suddenly the eyes opened, and Margaret looked at hervaguely, as if out of eternity. Raising her hands to her eyes she said--

"What time is it?"

"It has just gone six. "

"Then there's plenty of time; we needn't be down before seven. You get onwith your dressing; there's no use in my getting up till you aredone--we'd be tumbling over each other. This is no room to put two girlsto sleep in--one glass not much bigger than your hand. You'll have to getyour box under your bed.... In my last place I had a beautiful room with aBrussels carpet, and a marble washstand. I wouldn't stay here three daysif it weren't----" The girl laughed and turned lazily over. 

Esther did not answer. 

"Now, isn't it a grubby little room to put two girls to sleep in? What wasyour last place like?"

Esther answered that she had hardly been in service before. Margaret wastoo much engrossed in her own thoughts to notice the curtness of theanswer. 

"There's only one thing to be said for Woodview, and that is the eating;we have anything we want, and we'd have more than we want if it weren'tfor the old cook: she must have her little bit out of everything and shecuts us short in our bacon in the morning. But that reminds me! You haveset the cook against you; you'll have to bring her over to your side ifyou want to remain here. "

"Why should I be asked to wash up the moment I came in the house, beforeeven I had time to change my dress. "

"It was hard on you. She always gets as much as she can out of herkitchen-maid. But last night she was pressed, there was company to dinner. I'd have lent you an apron, and the dress you had on wasn't of muchaccount. "

"It isn't because a girl is poor----"

"Oh, I didn't mean that; I know well enough what it is to be hard up. "Margaret clasped her stays across her plump figure and walked to the doorfor her dress. She was a pretty girl, with a snub nose and large, cleareyes. Her hair was lighter in tone than Esther's, and she had brushed itfrom her forehead so as to obviate the defect of her face, which was tooshort. 

Esther was on her knees saying her prayers when Margaret turned to thelight to button her boots. 

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "Do you think prayers any good?"

Esther looked up angrily. 

"I don't want to say anything against saying prayers, but I wouldn'tbefore the others if I was you--they'll chaff dreadful, and call youCreeping Jesus. "

"Oh, Margaret, I hope they won't do anything so wicked. But I am afraid Ishan't be long here, so it doesn't matter what they think of _me_. "

When they got downstairs they opened the windows and doors, and Margarettook Esther round, showing her where the things were kept, and telling herfor how many she must lay the table. At that moment a number of boys andmen came clattering up the passage. They cried to Esther to hurry up, declaring that they were late. Esther did not know who they were, but sheserved them as best she might. They breakfasted hastily and rushed away tothe stables; and they had not been long gone when the squire and his sonArthur appeared in the yard. The Gaffer, as he was called, was a man ofabout medium height. He wore breeches and gaiters, and in them his legsseemed grotesquely thick. His son was a narrow-chested, undersized youngman, absurdly thin and hatchet-faced. He was also in breeches and gaiters, and to his boots were attached long-necked spurs. His pale yellow hairgave him a somewhat ludicrous appearance, as he stood talking to hisfather, but the moment he prepared to get into the saddle he seemed quitedifferent. He rode a beautiful chestnut horse, a little too thin, Estherthought, and the ugly little boys were mounted on horses equally thin. Thesquire rode a stout grey cob, and he watched the chestnut, and was alsointerested in the brown horse that walked with its head in the air, pulling at the smallest of all the boys, a little freckled, red-headedfellow. 

"That's Silver Braid, the brown horse, the one that the Demon is riding;the chestnut is Bayleaf, Ginger is riding him: he won the City andSuburban. Oh, we did have a fine time then, for we all had a bit on. Thebetting was twenty to one, and I won twelve and six pence. Grover wonthirty shillings. They say that John--that's the butler--won a littlefortune; but he is so close no one knows what he has on. Cook wouldn'thave anything on; she says that betting is the curse of servants--you knowwhat is said, that it was through betting that Mrs. Latch's husband gotinto trouble. He was steward here, you know, in the late squire's time. "

Then Margaret told all she had heard on the subject. The late Mr. Latchhad been a confidential steward, and large sums of money were constantlypassing through his hands for which he was never asked for any exactaccount. Contrary to all expectation, Marksman was beaten for the ChesterCup, and the squire's property was placed under the charge of a receiver. Under the new management things were gone into more closely, and it wasthen discovered that Mr. Latch's accounts were incapable of satisfactoryexplanation. The defeat of Marksman had hit Mr. Latch as hard as it hadhit the squire, and to pay his debts of honour he had to take from themoney placed in his charge, confidently hoping to return it in a fewmonths. The squire's misfortunes anticipated the realization of hisintentions; proceedings were threatened, but were withdrawn when Mrs. Latch came forward with all her savings and volunteered to forego herwages for a term of years. Old Latch died soon after, some lucky bets setthe squire on his legs again, the matter was half forgotten, and in thenext generation it became the legend of the Latch family. But to Mrs. Latch it was an incurable grief, and to remove her son from influenceswhich, in her opinion, had caused his father's death, Mrs. Latch hadalways refused Mr. Barfield's offers to do something for William. It wasagainst her will that he had been taught to ride; but to her great joy hesoon grew out of all possibility of becoming a jockey. She had then placedhim in an office in Brighton; but the young man's height and shape markedhim out for livery, and Mrs. Latch was pained when Mr. Barfield proposedit. "Why cannot they leave me my son?" she cried; for it seemed to herthat in that hateful cloth, buttons and cockade, he would be no more herson, and she could not forget what the Latches had been long ago. 

"I believe there's going to be a trial this morning, " said Margaret;"Silver Braid was stripped--you noticed that--and Ginger always rides inthe trials. "

"I don't know what a trial is, " said Esther. "They are notcarriage-horses, are they? They look too slight. "

"Carriage-horses, you ninny! Where have you been to all this while--can'tyou see that they are race-horses?"

Esther hung down her head and murmured something which Margaret didn'tcatch. 

"To tell the truth, I didn't know much about them when I came, but thenone never hears anything else here. And that reminds me--it is as much asyour place is worth to breathe one syllable about them horses; you mustknow nothing when you are asked. That's what Jim Story got sackedfor--saying in the 'Red Lion' that Valentine pulled up lame. We don't knowhow it came to the Gaffer's ears. I believe that it was Mr. Leopold thattold; he finds out everything. But I was telling you how I learnt aboutthe race-horses. It was from Jim Story--Jim was my pal--Sarah is afterWilliam, you know, the fellow who brought you into the kitchen last night. Jim could never talk about anything but the 'osses. We'd go every nightand sit in the wood-shed, that's to say if it was wet; if it was fine we'dwalk in the drove-way. I'd have married Jim, I know I should, if he hadn'tbeen sent away. That's the worst of being a servant. They sent Jim awayjust as if he was a dog. It was wrong of him to say the horse pulled uplame; I admit that, but they needn't have sent him away as they did. "

Esther was absorbed in the consideration of her own perilous position. Would they send her away at the end of the week, or that very afternoon?Would they give her a week's wages, or would they turn her out destituteto find her way back to London as best she might? What should she do ifthey turned her out-of-doors that very afternoon? Walk back to London? Shedid not know if that was possible. She did not know how far she hadcome--a long distance, no doubt. She had seen woods, hills, rivers, andtowns flying past. Never would she be able to find her way back throughthat endless country; besides, she could not carry her box on her back.... What was she to do? Not a friend, not a penny in the world. Oh, why didsuch misfortune fall on a poor little girl who had never harmed anyone inthe world! And if they did give her her fare back--what then?... Shouldshe go home?... To her mother--to her poor mother, who would burst intotears, who would say, "Oh, my poor darling, I don't know what we shall do;your father will never let you stay here. "

For Mrs. Latch had not spoken to her since she had come into the kitchen, and it seemed to Esther that she had looked round with the air of oneanxious to discover something that might serve as a pretext for blame. Shehad told Esther to make haste and lay the table afresh. Those who had gonewere the stable folk, and breakfast had now to be prepared for the otherservants. The person in the dark green dress who spoke with her chin inthe air, whose nose had been pinched to purple just above the nostrils, was Miss Grover, the lady's-maid. Grover addressed an occasional remark toSarah Tucker, a tall girl with a thin freckled face and dark-red hair. Thebutler, who was not feeling well, did not appear at breakfast, and Estherwas sent to him with a cup of tea. 

There were the plates to wash and the knives to clean, and when they weredone there were potatoes, cabbage, onions to prepare, saucepans to fillwith water, coal to fetch for the fire. She worked steadily withoutflagging, fearful of Mrs. Barfield, who would come down, no doubt, aboutten o'clock to order dinner. The race-horses were coming through thepaddock-gate; Margaret called to Mr. Randal, a little man, wizen, with aface sallow with frequent indigestions. 

"Well, do you think the Gaffer's satisfied?" said Margaret. John made noarticulate reply, but he muttered something, and his manner showed that hestrongly deprecated all female interest in racing; and when Sarah andGrover came running down the passage and overwhelmed him with questions, crowding around him, asking both together if Silver Braid had won histrial, he testily pushed them aside, declaring that if he had a race-horsehe would not have a woman-servant in the place.... "A positive curse, thischatter, chatter. Won his trial, indeed! What business had a lot of femalefolk----" The rest of John's sarcasm was lost in his shirt collar as hehurried away to his pantry, closing the door after him. 

"What a testy little man he is!" said Sarah; "he might have told us whichwon. He has known the Gaffer so long that he knows the moment he looks athim whether the gees are all right. "

"One can't speak to a chap in the lane that he doesn't know all about itnext day, " said Margaret. "Peggy hates him; you know the way she skulksabout the back garden and up the 'ill so that she may meet young Johnsonas he is ridin' home. "

"I'll have none of this scandal-mongering going on in my kitchen, " saidMrs. Latch. "Do you see that girl there? She can't get past to herscullery. "

Esther would have managed pretty well if it had not been for thedining-room lunch. Miss Mary was expecting some friends to play tenniswith her, and, besides the roast chicken, there were the côtelettes à laSoubise and a curry. There was for dessert a jelly and a blancmange, andEsther did not know where any of the things were, and a great deal of timewas wasted. "Don't you move, I might as well get it myself, " said the oldwoman. Mr. Randal, too, lost his temper, for she had no hot plates ready, nor could she distinguish between those that were to go to the dining-roomand those that were to go to the servants' hall. She understood, however, that it would not be wise to give way to her feeling, and that the onlyway she could hope to retain her situation was by doing nothing to attractattention. She must learn to control that temper of hers--she must andwould. And it was in this frame of mind and with this determination thatshe entered the servants' hall. 

There were not more than ten or eleven at dinner, but sitting closetogether they seemed more numerous, and quite half the number of facesthat looked up as she took her place next to Margaret Gale, were unknownto her. There were the four ugly little boys whom she had seen on the racehorses, but she did not recognize them at first, and nearly opposite, sitting next to the lady's-maid, was a small, sandy-haired man aboutforty: he was beginning to show signs of stoutness, and two little roundwhiskers grew out of his pallid cheeks. Mr. Randal sat at the end of thetable helping the pudding. He addressed the sandy-haired man as Mr. Swindles; but Esther learnt afterwards his real name was Ward, and that hewas Mr. Barfield's head groom. She learnt, too, that "the Demon" was notthe real name of the little carroty-haired boy, and she looked at him inamazement when he whispered in her ear that he would dearly love a realgo-in at that pudding, but that it was so fattening that he didn't everdare to venture on more than a couple of sniffs. Seeing that the girl didnot understand, he added, by way of explanation, "You know that I mustkeep under the six stone, and at times it becomes awful 'ard. "

Esther thought him a nice little fellow, and tried to persuade him toforego his resolution not to touch pudding, until Mr. Swindles told her todesist. The attention of the whole table being thus drawn towards the boy, Esther was still further surprised at the admiration he seemed so easilyto command and the important position he seemed to occupy, notwithstandinghis diminutive stature, whereas the bigger boys were treated with verylittle consideration. The long-nosed lad, with weak eyes and slopingshoulders, who sat on the other side of the table on Mr. Swindles' left, was everybody's laughing-stock, especially Mr. Swindles', who did notcease to poke fun at him. Mr. Swindles was now telling poor Jim'smisadventures with the Gaffer. 

"But why do you call him Mr. Leopold when his name is Mr. Randal?" Estherventured to inquire of the Demon. 

"On account of Leopold Rothschild, " said the Demon; "he's pretty near asrich, if the truth was known--won a pile over the City and Sub. Pity youweren't there; might have had a bit on. "

"I have never seen the City, " Esther replied innocently. 

"Never seen the City and Sub!... I was up, had a lot in hand, so I cameaway from my 'orses the moment I got into the dip. The Tinman nearlycaught me on the post--came with a terrific rush; he is just hawful, thatTinman is. I did catch it from the Gaffer--he did give it me. "

The plates of all the boys except the Demon's were now filled withbeefsteak pudding, potatoes, and greens, likewise Esther's. Mr. Leopold, Mr. Swindles, the housemaid, and the cook dined off the leg of mutton, asmall slice of which was sent to the Demon. "That for a dinner!" and as hetook up his knife and fork and cut a small piece of his one slice, hesaid, "I suppose you never had to reduce yourself three pounds; girlsnever have. I do run to flesh so, you wouldn't believe it. If I don't walkto Portslade and back every second day, I go up three or four pounds. Thenthere's nothing for it but the physic, and that's what settles me. Can youtake physic?"

"I took three Beecham's pills once. "

"Oh, that's nothing. Can you take castor-oil?"

Esther looked in amazement at the little boy at her side. Swindles hadoverheard the question and burst into a roar of laughter. Everyone wantedto know what the joke was, and, feeling they were poking fun at her, Esther refused to answer. 

The first helpings of pudding or mutton had taken the edge off theirappetites, and before sending their plates for more they leaned over thetable listening and laughing open-mouthed. It was a bare room, lit withone window, against which Mrs. Latch's austere figure appeared indark-grey silhouette. The window looked on one of the little back courtsand tiled ways which had been built at the back of the house; and theshadowed northern light softened the listening faces with grey tints. 

"You know, " said Mr. Swindles, glancing at Jim as if to assure himselfthat the boy was there and unable to escape from the hooks of his sarcasm, "how fast the Gaffer talks, and how he hates to be asked to repeat hiswords. Knowing this, Jim always says, 'Yes, sir; yes, sir. ' 'Now do youquite understand?' says the Gaffer. 'Yes, sir; yes, sir, ' replies Jim, nothaving understood one word of what was said; but relying on us to put himright. 'Now what did he say I was to do?' says Jim, the moment the Gafferis out of hearing. But this morning we were on ahead, and the Gaffer hadJim all to himself. As usual he says, 'Now do you quite understand?' andas usual Jim says, 'Yes, sir; yes, sir. ' Suspecting that Jim had notunderstood, I said when he joined us, 'Now if you are not sure what hesaid you had better go back and ask him, ' but Jim declared that he hadperfectly understood. 'And what did he tell you to do?' said I. 'He toldme, ' says Jim, 'to bring the colt along and finish up close by where hewould be standing at the end of the track. ' I thought it rather odd tosend Firefly such a stiff gallop as all that, but Jim was certain that hehad heard right. And off they went, beginning the other side of SouthwickHill. I saw the Gaffer with his arms in the air, and don't know now whathe said. Jim will tell you. He did give it you, didn't he, you oldWoolgatherer?" said Mr. Swindles, slapping the boy on the shoulder. 

"You may laugh as much as you please, but I'm sure he did tell me to comealong three-quarter speed after passing the barn, " replied Jim, and tochange the conversation he asked Mr. Leopold for some more pudding, andthe Demon's hungry eyes watched the last portion being placed on theWoolgatherer's plate. Noticing that Esther drank no beer, he exclaimed--

"Well, I never; to see yer eat and drink one would think that it was youwho was a-wasting to ride the crack at Goodwood. "

The remark was received with laughter, and, excited by his success, theDemon threw his arms round Esther, and seizing her hands, said, "Now yer ajest beginning to get through yer 'osses, and when you get on a level----"But the Demon, in his hungry merriment, had bestowed no thought of findinga temper in such a staid little girl, and a sound box on the ear threw himbackwards into his seat surprised and howling. "Yer nasty thing!" heblubbered out. "Couldn't you see it was only a joke?" But passion was hotin Esther. She had understood no word that had been said since she had satdown to dinner, and, conscious of her poverty and her ignorance, sheimagined that a great deal of the Demon's conversation had been directedagainst her; and, choking with indignation, she only heard indistinctlythe reproaches with which the other little boys covered her--"nasty, dirty, ill-tempered thing, scullery-maid, " etc. ; nor did she understandtheir whispered plans to duck her when she passed the stables. All lookeda little askance, especially Grover and Mr. Leopold. Margaret said--

"That will teach these impertinent little jockey-boys that the servants'hall is not the harness-room; they oughtn't to be admitted here at all. "

Mr. Leopold nodded, and told the Demon to leave off blubbering. "You can'tbe so much hurt as all that. Come, wipe your eyes and have a piece ofcurrant tart, or leave the room. I want to hear from Mr. Swindles anaccount of the trial. We know that Silver Braid won, but we haven't heardhow he won nor yet what the weights were. "

"Well, " said Mr. Swindles, "what I makes out is this. I was riding withina pound or two of nine stone, and The Rake is, as you know, seven pounds, no more, worse than Bayleaf. Ginger rides usually as near as possible myweight--we'll say he was riding nine two--I think he could managethat--and the Demon, we know, he is now riding over the six stone; in hisordinary clothes he rides six seven. "

"Yes, yes, but how do we know that there was any lead to speak of in theDemon's saddle-cloth?"

"The Demon says there wasn't above a stone. Don't you, Demon?"

"I don't know nothing! I'm not going to stand being clouted by thekitchen-maid. "

"Oh, shut up, or leave the room, " said Mr. Leopold; "we don't want to hearany more about that. "

"I started making the running according to orders. Ginger was withinthree-quarters of a length of me, being pulled out of the saddle. TheGaffer was standing at the three-quarters of the mile, and there Gingerwon fairly easily, but they went on to the mile--them were the orders--andthere the Demon won by half a length, that is to say if Ginger wasn'ta-kidding of him. "

"A-kidding of me!" said the Demon. "When we was a hundred yards from 'omeI steadied without his noticing me, and then I landed in the last fiftyyards by half a length. Ginger can't ride much better than any othergentleman. "

"Yer see, " said Mr. Swindles, "he'd sooner have a box on the ear from thekitchen-maid than be told a gentleman could kid him at a finish. Hewouldn't mind if it was the Tinman, eh, Demon?"

"We know, " said Mr. Leopold, "that Bayleaf can get the mile; there musthave been a lot of weight between them. Besides, I should think that thetrial was at the three-quarters of the mile. The mile was so much kid. "

"I should say, " replied Mr. Swindles, "that the 'orses were tried attwenty-one pounds, and if Silver Braid can beat Bayleaf at that weight, he'll take a deal of beating at Goodwood. "

And leaning forward, their arms on the table, with large pieces of cheeseat the end of their knives, the maid-servants and the jockey listenedwhile Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles discussed the chances the stable had ofpulling off the Stewards' Cup with Silver Braid. 

"But he will always keep on trying them, " said Mr. Swindles, "and what'sthe use, says I, of trying 'orses that are no more than 'alf fit? And themdowns is just rotten with 'orse watchers; it has just come to this, thatyou can't comb out an 'orse's mane without seeing it in the papers the dayafter. If I had my way with them gentry----" Mr. Swindles finished hisbeer at a gulp, and he put down his glass as firmly as he desired to putdown the horse watchers. At the end of a long silence Mr. Leopold said--

"Come into my pantry and smoke a pipe. Mr. Arthur will be down presently. Perhaps he'll tell us what weight he was riding this morning. "

"Cunning old bird, " said Mr. Swindles, as he rose from the table and wipedhis shaven lips with the back of his hand; "and you'd have us believe thatyou didn't know, would you? You'd have us believe, would you, that theGaffer don't tell you everything when you bring up his hot water in themorning, would you?"

Mr. Leopold laughed under his breath, and looking mysterious and veryrat-like he led the way to his pantry. Esther watched them in strangetrouble of soul. She had heard of racecourses as shameful places where menwere led to their ruin, and betting she had always understood to besinful, but in this house no one seemed to think of anything else. It wasno place for a Christian girl. 

"Let's have some more of the story, " Margaret said. "You've got the newnumber. The last piece was where he is going to ask the opera-singer torun away with him. "

Sarah took an illustrated journal out of her pocket and began to readaloud. 

III

Esther was one of the Plymouth Brethren. In their chapel, if the house inwhich they met could be called a chapel, there were neither picturedstories of saints, nor vestments, nor music, nor even imaginativestimulant in the shape of written prayers. Her knowledge of life wasstrictly limited to her experience of life; she knew no drama of passionexcept that which the Gospels relate: this story in the _Family Reader_was the first representation of life she had met with, and its humanitythrilled her like the first idol set up for worship. The actress toldNorris that she loved him. They were on a balcony, the sky was blue, themoon was shining, the warm scent of the mignonette came up from the gardenbelow, the man was in evening dress with diamond shirt studs, theactress's arm was large and white. They had loved each other for years. The strangest events had happened for the purpose of bringing themtogether, and, fascinated against her will, Esther could not but listen. But at the end of the chapter the racial instinct forced reproval fromher. 

"I am sure it is wicked to read such tales. "

Sarah looked at her in mute astonishment. Grover said--

"You shouldn't be here at all. Can't Mrs. Latch find nothing for you to doin the scullery?"

"Then, " said Sarah, awaking to a sense of the situation, "I suppose thatwhere you come from you were not so much as allowed to read a tale;... Dirty little chapel-going folk!"

The incident might have closed with this reproval had not Margaretvolunteered the information that Esther's box was full of books. 

"I should like to see them books, " said Sarah. "I'll be bound that theyare only prayer-books. "

"I don't mind what you say to me, but you shall not insult my religion. "

"Insult your religion! I said you never had read a book in your lifeunless it was a prayer-book. "

"We don't use prayer-books. "

"Then what books have you read?"

Esther hesitated, her manner betrayed her, and, suspecting the truth, Sarah said:

"I don't believe that you can read at all. Come, I'll bet you twopencethat you can't read the first five lines of my story. "

Esther pushed the paper from her and walked out of the room in a tumult ofgrief and humiliation. Woodview and all belonging to it had grownunbearable, and heedless to what complaint the cook might make against hershe ran upstairs and shut herself into her room. She asked why they shouldtake pleasure in torturing her. It was not her fault if she did not knowhow to read. There were the books she loved for her mother's sake, thebooks that had brought such disgrace upon her. Even the names she couldnot read, and the shame of her ignorance lay upon her heavier than aweight of lead. "Peter Parley's Annual, " "Sunny Memories of ForeignLands, " "Children of the Abbey, " "Uncle Tom's Cabin, " Lamb's "Tales ofShakespeare's Plays, " a Cooking Book, "Roda's Mission of Love, " the HolyBible and the Common Prayer Book. 

She turned them over, wondering what were the mysteries that this printheld from her. It was to her mysterious as the stars. 

Esther Waters came from Barnstaple. She had been brought up in thestrictness of the Plymouth Brethren, and her earliest memories were ofprayers, of narrow, peaceful family life. This early life had lasted tillshe was ten years old. Then her father died. He had been a house-painter, but in early youth he had been led into intemperance by some wildcompanions. He was often not in a fit state to go to work, and one day thefumes of the beer he had drunk overpowered him as he sat in the strongsunlight on his scaffolding. In the hospital he called upon God to relievehim of his suffering; then the Brethren said, "You never thought of Godbefore. Be patient, your health is coming back; it is a present from God;you would like to know Him and thank Him from the bottom of your heart?"

John Waters' heart was touched. He became one of the Brethren, renouncingthose companions who refused to follow into the glory of God. Hisconversion and subsequent grace won for him the sympathies of MaryThornby. But Mary's father would not consent to the marriage unless Johnabandoned his dangerous trade of house-painter. John Waters consented todo this, and old James Thornby, who had made a competence in the curiosityline, offered to make over his shop to the young couple on certainconditions; these conditions were accepted, and under his father-in-law'sdirection John drove a successful trade in old glass, old jewellery, andold furniture. 

The Brethren liked not this trade, and they often came to John to speakwith him on the subject, and their words were----

"Of course this is between you and the Lord, but these things" (pointingto the old glass and jewellery) "often are but snares for the feet, andlead weaker brethren into temptation. Of course, it is between you and theLord. "

So John Waters was tormented with scruples concerning the righteousness ofhis trade, but his wife's gentle voice and eyes, and the limitations thathis accident, from which he had never wholly recovered, had set upon hislife, overruled his scruples, and he remained until he died a dealer inartistic ware, eliminating, however, from his dealings those things towhich the Brethren most strongly objected. 

When he died his widow strove to carry on the business, but her father, who was now a confirmed invalid, could not help her. In the following yearshe lost both her parents. Many changes were taking place in Barnstaple, new houses were being built, a much larger and finer shop had been openedin the more prosperous end of the town, and Mrs. Waters found herselfobliged to sell her business for almost nothing, and marry again. Childrenwere born of this second marriage in rapid succession, the cradle wasnever empty, and Esther was spoken of as the little nurse. 

Her great solicitude was for her poor mother, who had lost her health, whose blood was impoverished by constant child-bearing. Mother anddaughter were seen in the evenings, one with a baby at her breast, theother with an eighteen months old child in her arms. Esther did not dareleave her mother, and to protect her she gave up school, and this was whyshe had never learnt how to read. 

One of the many causes of quarrel between Mrs. Saunders and her husbandwas her attendance at prayer-meetings when he said she should be at homeminding her children. He used to accuse her of carrying on with theScripture-readers, and to punish her he would say, "This week I'll spendfive bob more in the public--that'll teach you, if beating won't, that Idon't want none of your hypocritical folk hanging round my place. " So itbefell the Saunders family to have little to eat; and Esther oftenwondered how she should get a bit of dinner for her sick mother and herhungry little brothers and sisters. Once they passed nearly thirty hourswithout food. She called them round her, and knelt down amid them: theyprayed that God might help them; and their prayers were answered, for athalf-past twelve a Scripture lady came in with flowers in her hands. Sheasked Mrs. Saunders how her appetite was. Mrs. Saunders answered that itwas more than she could afford, for there was nothing to eat in the house. Then the Scripture lady gave them eighteen pence, and they all knelt downand thanked God together. 

But although Saunders spent a great deal of his money in the public-house, he rarely got drunk and always kept his employment. He was a painter ofengines, a first-rate hand, earning good money, from twenty-five to thirtyshillings a week. He was a proud man, but so avaricious that he stopped atnothing to get money. He was an ardent politician, yet he would sell hisvote to the highest bidder, and when Esther was seventeen he compelled herto take service regardless of the character of the people or of what theplace was like. They had left Barnstaple many months, and were now livingin a little street off the Vauxhall Bridge Road, near the factory whereSaunders worked; and since they had been in London Esther had beenconstantly in service. Why should he keep her? She wasn't one of hischildren, he had quite enough of his own. Sometimes of an evening, whenEsther could escape from her drudgery for a few minutes, her mother wouldstep round, and mother and daughter, wrapped in the same shawl, would walkto and fro telling each other their troubles, just as in old times. Butthese moments were few. In grimy lodging-houses she worked from earlymorning till late at night, scrubbing grates, preparing bacon and eggs, cooking chops, and making beds. She had become one of those London girlsto whom rest, not to say pleasure, is unknown, who if they should sit downfor a few moments hear the mistress's voice, "Now, Eliza, have you nothingto do, that you are sitting there idle?" Two of her mistresses, one afterthe other, had been sold up, and now all the rooms in the neighbourhoodwere unlet, no one wanted a "slavey, " and Esther was obliged to returnhome. It was on the last of these occasions that her father had taken herby the shoulders, saying----

"No lodging-houses that want a slavey? I'll see about that. Tell me, first, have you been to 78?"

"Yes, but another girl was before me, and the place was taken when Iarrived. "

"I wonder what you were doing that you didn't get there sooner; danglingabout after your mother, I suppose! Well, what about 27 in the Crescent?"

"I couldn't go there--that Mrs. Dunbar is a bad woman. "

"Bad woman! Who are you, I should like to know, that you can take a lady'scharacter away? Who told you she was a bad woman? One of theScripture-readers, I suppose! I knew it was. Well, then, just get out ofmy house. "

"Where shall I go?"

"Go to hell for all I care. Do you hear me? Get out!"

Esther did not move--words, and then blows. Esther's escape from herstepfather seemed a miracle, and his anger was only appeased by Mrs. Saunders promising that Esther should accept the situation. 

"Only for a little while. Perhaps Mrs. Dunbar is a better woman than youthink for. For my sake, dearie. If you don't he may kill you and me too. "

Esther looked at her one moment, then she said, "Very well, mother, to-morrow I'll take the place. "

No longer was the girl starved, no longer was she made to drudge till thethought of another day was a despair and a terror. And seeing that she wasa good girl, Mrs. Dunbar respected her scruples. Indeed, she was verykind, and Esther soon learnt to like her, and, through her affection forher, to think less of the life she led. A dangerous point is this in ayoung girl's life. Esther was young, and pretty, and weary, and out ofhealth; and it was at this critical moment that Lady Elwin, who, whilevisiting, had heard her story, promised Mrs. Saunders to find Estheranother place. And to obviate all difficulties about references andcharacter, Lady Elwin proposed to take Esther as her own servant for asufficient while to justify her in recommending her. 

And now, as she turned over her books--the books she could not read--herpure and passionate mind was filled with the story of her life. Sheremembered her poor little brothers and sisters and her dear mother, andthat tyrant revenging himself upon them because of the little she mighteat and drink. No, she must bear with all insults and scorn, and forgetthat they thought her as dirt under their feet. But what were suchsufferings compared to those she would endure were she to return home? Intruth they were as nothing. And yet the girl longed to leave Woodview. Shehad never been out of sight of home before. Amid the violences of herstepfather there had always been her mother and the meeting-house. InWoodview there was nothing, only Margaret, who had come to console andpersuade her to come downstairs. The resolution she had to call out of hersoul to do this exhausted her, and she went downstairs heedless of whatanyone might say. 

Two and three days passed without anything occurring that might suggestthat the Fates were for or against her remaining. Mrs. Barfield continuedto be indisposed, but at the end of the week Esther, while she was at workin the scullery, heard a new voice speaking with Mrs. Latch. This must beMrs. Barfield. She heard Mrs. Latch tell the story of her refusal to go towork the evening she arrived. But Mrs. Barfield told her that she wouldlisten to no further complaints; this was the third kitchen-maid in fourmonths, and Mrs. Latch must make up her mind to bear with the faults andfailings of this last one, whatever they were. Then Mrs. Barfield calledEsther; and when she entered the kitchen she found herself face to facewith a little red-haired woman, with a pretty, pointed face. 

"I hear, Waters--that is your name, I think--that you refused to obeycook, and walked out of the kitchen the night you arrived. "

"I said, ma'am, that I would wait till my box came up from the station, sothat I might change my dress. Mrs. Latch said my dress didn't matter, butwhen one is poor and hasn't many dresses----"

"Are you short of clothes, then?"

"I have not many, ma'am, and the dress I had on the day I came----"

"Never mind about that. Tell me, are you short of clothes?--for if you areI daresay my daughter might find you something--you are about the sameheight--with a little alteration----"

"Oh, ma'am, you are too good. I shall be most grateful. But I think Ishall be able to manage till my first quarter's wages come to me. "

And the scowl upon Mrs. Latch's long face did not kill the pleasure whichthe little interview with that kind, sweet woman, Mrs. Barfield, hadcreated in her. She moved about her work, happy at heart, singing toherself as she washed the vegetables. Even Mrs. Latch's harshness didn'ttrouble her much. She felt it to be a manner under which there might be akind heart, and she hoped by her willingness to work to gain at least thecook's toleration. Margaret suggested that Esther should give up her beer. A solid pint extra a day could not fail, she said, to win the old woman'sgratitude, and perhaps induce her to teach Esther how to make pastry andjellies. 

True that Margaret joined in the common laugh and jeer that the knowledgethat Esther said her prayers morning and evening inspired. She sometimesunited with Grover and Sarah in perplexing Esther with questions regardingher previous situations, but her hostilities were, on the whole, gentle, and Esther felt that this almost neutral position was the best thatMargaret could have adopted. She defended her without seeming to do so, and seemed genuinely fond of her, helping her sometimes even with herwork, which Mrs. Latch made as heavy as possible. But Esther was nowdetermined to put up with every task they might impose upon her; she wouldgive them no excuse for sending her away; she would remain at Woodviewuntil she had learned sufficient cooking to enable her to get anotherplace. But Mrs. Latch had the power to thwart her in this. Beforebeginning on her jellies and gravies Mrs. Latch was sure to find somesaucepans that had not been sufficiently cleaned with white sand, and, ifher search proved abortive, she would send Esther upstairs to scrub outher bedroom. 

"I cannot think why she is so down upon me, " Esther often said toMargaret. 

"She isn't more down upon you than she was on the others. You needn'texpect to learn any cooking from her; her plan has always been to takecare that she shall not be supplanted by any of her kitchen-maids. But Idon't see why she should be always sending you upstairs to clean out herbedroom. If Grover wasn't so stand-offish, we might tell her about it, andshe could tell the Saint--that's what we call the missis; the Saint wouldsoon put a stop to all that nonsense. I will say that for the Saint, shedo like everyone to have fair play. "

Mrs. Barfield, or the Saint, as she was called, belonged, like Esther, tothe sect known as the Plymouth Brethren. She was the daughter of one ofthe farmers on the estate--a very old man called Elliot. He had spent hislife on his barren down farm, becoming intimate with no one, driving hardbargains with all, especially the squire and the poor flint-pickers. Hecould be seen still on the hill-sides, his long black coat buttonedstrictly about him, his soft felt hat crushed over the thin, grey face. Pretty Fanny Elliot had won the squire's heart as he rode across the down. Do you not see the shy figure of the Puritan maiden tripping through thegorse, hastening the hoofs of the squire's cob? And, furnished with somepretext of estate business, he often rode to the farm that lay under theshaws at the end of the coombe. The squire had to promise to become one ofthe Brethren and he had to promise never to bet again, before Fanny Elliotagreed to become Mrs. Barfield. The ambitious members of the Barfieldfamily declared that the marriage was social ruin, but more dispassionatecritics called it a very suitable match; for it was not forgotten thatthree generations ago the Barfields were livery-stable keepers; they hadrisen in the late squire's time to the level of county families, and theenvious were now saying that the Barfield family was sinking back whenceit came. 

He was faithful to his promises for a time. Race-horses disappeared fromthe Woodview stables. It was not until after the birth of both hischildren that he entered one of his hunters in the hunt steeplechase. Soonafter the racing stable was again in full swing at Woodview. Tears therewere, and some family disunion, but time extorts concessions from all ofus. Mrs. Barfield had ceased to quarrel with her husband on the subject ofhis racehorses, and he in his turn did not attempt to restrict her in theexercise of her religion. She attended prayer-meetings when her soul movedher, and read the Scriptures when and where she pleased. 

It was one of her practices to have the women-servants for half-an-hourevery Sunday afternoon in the library, and instruct them in the life ofChrist. Mrs. Barfield's goodness was even as a light upon her little ovalface--reddish hair growing thin at the parting and smoothed back above theears, as in an old engraving. Although nearly fifty, her figure was slightas a young girl's. Esther was attracted by the magnetism of racial andreligious affinities; and when their eyes met at prayers there wasacknowledgment of religious kinship. A glow of happiness filled Esther'ssoul, for she knew she was no longer wholly among strangers; she knew theywere united--she and her mistress--under the sweet dominion of Christ. Tolook at Mrs. Barfield filled her, somehow, with recollections of her piouschildhood; she saw herself in the old shop, moving again in an atmosphereof prayer, listening to the beautiful story, in the annunciation of whichher life had grown up. She answered her mistress's questions in sweetlight-heartedness of spirit, pleasing her with her knowledge of the HolyBook. But in turn the servants had begun to read verses aloud from the NewTestament, and Esther saw that her secret would be torn from her. Sarahhad read a verse, and Mrs. Barfield had explained it, and now Margaret wasreading. Esther listened, thinking if she might plead illness and escapefrom the room; but she could not summon sufficient presence of mind, andwhile she was still agitated and debating with herself, Mrs. Barfieldcalled to her to continue. She hung down her head, suffocated with theshame of the exposure, and when Mrs. Barfield told her again to continuethe reading Esther shook her head. 

"Can you not read, Esther?" she heard a kind voice saying; and the soundof this voice loosed the feelings long pent up, and the girl, giving wayutterly, burst into passionate weeping. She was alone with her suffering, conscious of nothing else, until a kind hand led her from the room, andthis hand soothed away the bitterness of the tittering which reached herears as the door closed. It was hard to persuade her to speak, but eventhe first words showed that there was more on the girl's heart than couldbe told in a few minutes. Mrs. Barfield determined to take the matter atonce in hand; she dismissed the other servants and returned to the librarywith Esther, and in that dim room of little green sofas, bookless shelves, and bird-cages, the women--mistress and maid--sealed the bond of afriendship which was to last for life. 

Esther told her mistress everything--the work that Mrs. Latch required ofher, the persecution she received from the other servants, principallybecause of her religion. In the course of the narrative allusion was madeto the race-horses, and Esther saw on Mrs. Barfield's face a look ofgrief, and it was clear to what cause Mrs. Barfield attributed thedemoralisation of her household. 

"I will teach you how to read, Esther. Every Sunday after our Bibleinstruction you shall remain when the others have left for half-an-hour. It is not difficult; you will soon learn. "

Henceforth, every Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Barfield devoted half-an-hour tothe instruction of her kitchen-maid. These half-hours were bright spots ofhappiness in the serving-girl's weeks of work--happiness that had been andwould be again. But although possessing a clear intelligence, Esther didnot make much progress, nor did her diligence seem to help her. Mrs. Barfield was puzzled by her pupil's slowness; she ascribed it to her owninaptitude to teach and the little time for lessons. Esther'spowerlessness to put syllables together, to grasp the meaning of words, was very marked. Strange it was, no doubt, but all that concerned theprinted page seemed to embarrass and elude her. 

IV

Esther's position in Woodview was now assured, and her fellow-servantsrecognised the fact, though they liked her none the better for it. Mrs. Latch still did what she could to prevent her from learning her trade, butshe no longer attempted to overburden her with work. Of Mr. Leopold shesaw almost as little as she did of the people upstairs. He passed alongthe passages or remained shut up in his pantry. Ginger used to go there tosmoke; and when the door stood ajar Esther saw his narrow person seated onthe edge of the table, his leg swinging. Among the pantry people Mr. Leopold's erudition was a constant subject of admiration. Hisreminiscences of the races of thirty years ago were full of interest; hehad seen the great horses whose names live in the stud-book, the horsesthe Gaffer had owned, had trained, had ridden, and he was full of anecdoteconcerning them and the Gaffer. Praise of his father's horsemanship alwayscaused a cloud to gather on Ginger's face, and when he left the pantrySwindles chuckled. "Whenever I wants to get a rise out of Ginger I says, 'Ah, we shall never see another gentleman jock who can use the whip at afinish like the Governor in his best days. '"

Everyone delighted in the pantry, and to make Mr. Leopold comfortable Mr. Swindles used to bring in the wolf-skin rug that went out with thecarriage, and wrap it round Mr. Leopold's wooden armchair, and the sallowlittle man would curl himself up, and, smoking his long clay, discuss theweights of the next big handicap. If Ginger contradicted him he would goto the press and extract from its obscurity a package of _Bell's Life_ ora file of the _Sportsman_. 

Mr. Leopold's press! For forty years no one had looked into that press. Mr. Leopold guarded it from every gaze, but it seemed to be a much-variedrepository from which, if he chose, he could produce almost any triflethat might be required. It seemed to combine the usefulness of a hardwareshop and a drug store. 

The pantry had its etiquette and its discipline. Jockey boys were rarelyadmitted, unless with the intention of securing their services for thecleaning of boots or knives. William was very proud of his right of entry. For that half-hour in the pantry he would willingly surrender the pleasureof walking in the drove-way with Sarah. But when Mrs. Latch learnt that hewas there her face darkened, and the noise she then made about the rangewith her saucepans was alarming. Mrs. Barfield shared her cook's horror ofthe pantry, and often spoke of Mr. Leopold as "that little man. " Althoughoutwardly the family butler, he had never ceased to be the Gaffer'sprivate servant; he represented the old days of bachelorhood. Mrs. Barfield and Mrs. Latch both disliked him. Had it not been for hisinfluence Mrs. Barfield felt sure her husband would never have returned tohis vice. Had it not been for Mr. Leopold Mrs. Latch felt that her husbandwould never have taken to betting. Legends and mystery had formed aroundMr. Leopold and his pantry, and in Esther's unsophisticated mind thislittle room, with its tobacco smoke and glasses on the table, became asymbol of all that was wicked and dangerous; and when she passed the doorshe closed her ears to the loud talk and instinctively lowered her eyes. 

The simplest human sentiments were abiding principles in Esther--love ofGod, and love of God in the home. But above this Protestantism was humannature; and at this time Esther was, above all else, a young girl. Hertwentieth year thrilled within her; she was no longer weary with work, andnew, rich blood filled her veins. She sang at her work, gladdened by thesights and sounds of the yard; the young rooks cawing lustily in theevergreens, the gardener passing to and fro with plants in his hands, thewhite cats licking themselves in the sun or running to meet the youngladies who brought them plates of milk. Then the race-horses were alwaysgoing to or coming from the downs. Sometimes they came in so covered withwhite mud that part of their toilette was accomplished in the yard; andfrom her kitchen window she could see the beautiful creature haltered tothe hook fixed in the high wall, and the little boy in his shirtsleevesand hitched-up trousers, not a bit afraid, but shouting and quieting himinto submission with the stick when he kicked and bit, tickled by thewashing brush passing under the belly. Then the wrestling, sparring, ball-playing of the lads when their work was done, the pale, patheticfigure of the Demon watching them. He was about to start for Portslade andback, wrapped, as he would put it, in a red-hot scorcher of an overcoat. 

Esther often longed for a romp with these boys; she was now primefavourite with them. Once they caught her in the hay yard, and fine sportit was in the warm hay throwing each other over. Sometimes her waywardtemper would get the better of her, but her momentary rage vanished at thesound of laughter. And after their tussling they would walk a little whilepensively, until perhaps one, with an adroit trip, would send the otherrolling over on the grass, and then, with wild cries, they would run downthe drove-way. Then there was the day when the Wool-gatherer told her hewas in love, and what fun they had had, and how well she had led him intobelief that she was jealous! She had taken a rope as if she were going tohang herself, and having fastened it to a branch, she had knelt down as ifshe were saying her prayers. The poor Wool-gatherer could stand it nolonger; he had rushed to her side, swearing that if she would promise notto hang herself he would never look at another girl again. The other boys, who had been crouching in the drove-way, rose up. How they did chaff theWool-gatherer! He had burst into tears and Esther had felt sorry for him, and almost inclined to marry him out of pity for his forlorn condition. 

Her life grew happier and happier. She forgot that Mrs. Latch would notteach her how to make jellies, and had grown somewhat used to Sarah'sallusions to her ignorance. She was still very poor, had not sufficientclothes, and her life was full of little troubles; but there werecompensations. It was to her that Mrs. Barfield always came when shewanted anything in a hurry, and Miss Mary, too, seemed to prefer to applyto Esther when she wanted milk for her cats or bran and oats for herrabbits. 

The Gaffer and his race-horses, the Saint and her greenhouse--so went thestream of life at Woodview. What few visitors came were entertained byMiss Mary in the drawing-room or on the tennis lawn. Mrs. Barfield saw noone. She desired to remain in her old gown--an old thing that her daughterhad discarded long ago--pinned up around her, and on her head an oldbonnet with a faded poppy hanging from the crown. In such attire shewished to be allowed to trot about to and fro from her greenhouse to herpotting-shed, watering, pruning, and syringing her plants. These plantswere dearer than all things to her except her children; she seemed, indeed, to treat them as if they were children, and with the sun pouringthrough the glass down on her back she would sit freeing them fromdevouring insects all the day long. She would carry can after can of waterup the long path and never complain of fatigue. She broke into complaintonly when Miss Mary forgot to feed her pets, of which she had a greatnumber--rabbits, and cats, and rooks, and all the work devolved upon her. She could not see these poor dumb creatures hungry, and would trudge tothe stables, coming back laden with trusses of hay. But it was sometimesmore than a pair of hands could do, and she would send Esther with scrapsof meat and bread and milk to the unfortunate rooks that Mary had sounmercifully forgotten. "I'll have no more pets, " she'd say, "Miss Marywon't look after them, and all the trouble falls upon me. See these poorcats, how they come mewing round my skirts. " She loved to expatiate on herinexhaustible affection for dumb animals, and she continued an anecdotaldiscourse till, suddenly wearying of it, she would break off and speak toEsther about Barnstaple and the Brethren. 

The Saint loved to hear Esther tell of her father and the little shop inBarnstaple, of the prayer-meetings and the simple earnestness andnarrowness of the faith of those good Brethren. Circumstances had effaced, though they had not obliterated, the once sharply-marked confines of herreligious habits. Her religion was like a garden--a little less sedulouslytended than of yore, but no whit less fondly loved; and while listening toEsther's story she dreamed her own early life over again, and paused, laying down her watering-can, penetrated with the happiness of gentlememories. So Esther's life grew and was fashioned; so amid the ceaselessround of simple daily occupations mistress and maid learned to know and tolove one another, and became united and strengthful in the tender andineffable sympathies of race and religion. 

V

The summer drowsed, baking the turf on the hills, and after every gallopthe Gaffer passed his fingers along the fine legs of the crack, in fearand apprehension lest he should detect any swelling. William came everyday for news. He had five shillings on; he stood to win five poundsten--quite a little fortune--and he often stopped to ask Esther if therewas any news as he made his way to the pantry. She told him that so far asshe knew Silver Braid was all right, and continued shaking the rug. 

"You'll never get the dust out of that rug, " he said at last, "here, giveit to me. " She hesitated, then gave it him, and he beat it against thebrick wall. "There, " he said, handing it back to her, "that's how I beatsa mat; you won't find much dust in it now. "

"Thank you.... Sarah went by an hour and a half ago. "

"Ah, she must have gone to the Gardens. You have never been to thosegardens, have you? Dancing-hall, theatre, sorcerers--every blessed thing. But you're that religious, I suppose you wouldn't come?"

"It is only the way you are brought up. "

"Well, will you come?"

"I don't think I should like those Gardens.... But I daresay they are noworse than any other place. I've heard so much since I was here, thatreally----"

"That really what?"

"That sometimes it seems useless like to be particular. "

"Of course--all rot. Well, will you come next Sunday?"

"Certainly not on Sunday. "

The Gaffer had engaged him as footman: his livery would be ready bySaturday, and he would enter service on Monday week. This reminded themthat henceforth they would see each other every day, and, speaking of thepain it would give his mother when he came running downstairs to go outwith the carriage, he said--

"It was always her idea that I shouldn't be a servant, but I believe indoing what you gets most coin for doing. I should like to have been ajockey, and I could have ridden well enough--the Gaffer thought better atone time of my riding than he did of Ginger's. But I never had any luck;when I was about fifteen I began to grow.... If I could have remained likethe Demon----"

Esther looked at him, wondering if he were speaking seriously, and reallywished away his splendid height and shoulders. 

A few days later he tried to persuade her to take a ticket in a shillingsweepstakes which he was getting up among the out and the indoor servants. She pleaded poverty--her wages would not be due till the end of August. But William offered to lend her the money, and he pressed the hatcontaining the bits of paper on which were written the horses' names soinsinuatingly upon her that a sudden impulse to oblige him came over her, and before she had time to think she had put her hand in the hat and takena number. 

"Come, none of your betting and gambling in my kitchen, " said Mrs. Latch, turning from her work. "Why can't you leave that innocent girl alone?"

"Don't be that disagreeable, mother; it ain't betting, it's asweepstakes. "

"It is all the same, " muttered Mrs. Latch; "it always begins that way, andit goes on from bad to worse. I never saw any good come from it, andHeaven knows I've seen enough misfortune. "

Margaret and Sarah paused, looking at her open-mouthed, a littleperplexed, holding the numbers they had drawn in both hands. Esther hadnot unfolded hers. She looked at Mrs. Latch and regretted having taken theticket in the lottery. She feared jeers from Sarah, or from Grover, whohad just come in, for her inability to read the name of the horse she haddrawn. Seeing her dilemma, William took her paper from her. 

"Silver Braid.... By Jingo! She has got the right one. "

At that moment the sound of hoofs was heard in the yard, and the servantsflew to the window. 

"He'll win, " cried William, leaning over the women's backs, waving hisbony hand to the Demon, who rode past on Silver Braid. "The Gaffer willbring him to the post as fit as a fiddle. "

"I think he will, " said Mr. Leopold. "The rain has done us a lot of good;he was beginning to go a bit short a week ago. We shall want some morerain. I should like to see it come down for the next week or more. "

Mr. Leopold's desires looked as if they were going to be fulfilled. Theheavens seemed to have taken the fortunes of the stable in hand. Rain fellgenerally in the afternoon and night, leaving the mornings fine, andSilver Braid went the mile gaily, becoming harder and stronger. And in theintermittent swish of showers blown up from the sea Woodview grew joyous, and a conviction of ultimate triumph gathered and settled on every faceexcept Mrs. Barfield's and Mrs. Latch's. And askance they looked at thetriumphant little butler. He became more and more the topic ofconversation. He seemed to hold the thread of their destiny in his press. Peggy was especially afraid of him. 

And, continuing her confidences to the under-housemaid, the young ladysaid, "I like to know things for the pleasure of talking about them, buthe for the pleasure of holding his tongue. " Peggy was Miss MargaretBarfield, a cousin, the daughter of a rich brewer. "If he brings in yourletters in the morning he hands them to you just as if he knew whom theyare from. Ugly little beast; it irritates me when he comes into the room. "

"He hates women, Miss; he never lets us near his pantry, and he keepsWilliam there talking racing. "

"Ah, William is very different. He ought never to have been a servant. Hisfamily was once quite as good as the Barfields. "

"So I have heard, Miss. But the world is that full of ups and downs younever can tell who is who. But we all likes William and 'ates that littleman and his pantry. Mrs. Latch calls him the 'evil genius. '"

A furtive and clandestine little man, ashamed of his women-folk andkeeping them out of sight as much as possible. His wife a pale, dim woman, tall as he was short, preserving still some of the graces of thelady's-maid, shy either by nature or by the severe rule of her lord, always anxious to obliterate herself against the hedges when you met herin the lane or against the pantry door when any of the family knocked toask for hot water, or came with a letter for the post. By nature abachelor, he was instinctively ashamed of his family, and when theweary-looking wife, the thin, shy girl, or the corpulent, stupid-faced sonwere with him and he heard steps outside, he would come out like a littlewasp, and, unmistakably resenting the intrusion, would ask what waswanted. 

If it were Ginger, Mr. Leopold would say, "Can I do anything for you, Mr. Arthur?"

"Oh, nothing, thank you; I only thought that----" and Ginger would inventsome paltry excuse and slink away to smoke elsewhere. 

Every day, a little before twelve, Mr. Leopold went out for his morningwalk; every day if it were fine you would meet him at that hour in thelane either coming from or going to Shoreham. For thirty years he had donehis little constitutional, always taking the same road, always startingwithin a few minutes of twelve, always returning in time to lay the clothfor lunch at half-past one. The hour between twelve and one he spent inthe little cottage which he rented from the squire for his wife andchildren, or in the "Red Lion, " where he had a glass of beer and talkedwith Watkins, the bookmaker. 

"There he goes, off to the 'Red Lion, '" said Mrs. Latch. "They try to getsome information out of him, but he's too sharp for them, and he knows it;that's what he goes there for--just for the pleasure of seeing themswallow the lies he tells them.... He has been telling them lies about thehorses for the last twenty years, and still he get them to believe what hesays. It is a cruel shame! It was the lies he told poor Jackson about BlueBeard that made the poor man back the horse for all he was worth. "

"And the horse didn't win?"

"Win! The master didn't even intend to run him, and Jackson lost all hehad, and more. He went down to the river and drowned himself. John Randalhas that man's death on his conscience. But his conscience don't troublehim much; if it did he'd be in his grave long ago. Lies, lies, nothing butlies! But I daresay I'm too 'ard on him; isn't lies our natural lot? Whatis servants for but to lie when it is in their master's interest, and tobe a confidential servant is to be the Prince of liars!"

"Perhaps he didn't know the 'orse was scratched. "

"I see you are falling in nicely with the lingo of the trade. "

"Oh, " replied Esther, laughing; "one never hears anything else; one picksit up without knowing. Mr. Leopold is very rich, so they say. The boystell me that he won a pile over the City and Suburban, and has thousandsin the bank. "

"So some says; but who knows what he has? One hears of the winnings, butthey say very little about the losings. "

VI

The boys were playing ball in the stables, but she did not feel as if shewanted to romp with them. There was a stillness and a sweetness abroadwhich penetrated and absorbed her. She moved towards the paddock gate; thepony and the donkey came towards her, and she rubbed their muzzles inturn. It was a pleasure to touch anything, especially anything alive. Sheeven noticed that the elm trees were strangely tall and still against thecalm sky, and the rich odour of some carnations which came through thebushes from the pleasure-ground excited her; the scent of earth and leavestingled in her, and the cawing of the rooks coming home took her soul awayskyward in an exquisite longing; she was, at the same time, full ofromantic love for the earth, and of a desire to mix herself with theinnermost essence of things. The beauty of the evening and the sea breezeinstilled a sensation of immortal health, and she wondered if a young mancame to her as young men came to the great ladies in Sarah's books, how itwould be to talk in the dusk, seeing the bats flitting and the moon risingthrough the branches. 

The family was absent from Woodview, and she was free to enjoy the beautyof every twilight and every rising moon for still another week. But shewearied for a companion. Sarah and Grover were far too grand to walk outwith her; and Margaret had a young man who came to fetch her, and in theirroom at night she related all he had said. But for Esther there wasnothing to do all the long summer evenings but to sit at the kitchenwindow sewing. Her hands fell on her lap, and her heart heaved a sigh ofweariness. In all this world there was nothing for her to do but tocontinue her sewing or to go for a walk on the hill. She was tired of thatweary hill! But she could not sit in the kitchen till bedtime. She mightmeet the old shepherd coming home with his sheep, and she put a piece ofbread in her pocket for his dogs and strolled up the hill-side. Margarethad gone down to the Gardens. One of these days a young man would come totake her out. What would he be like? She laughed the thought away. She didnot think that any young man would bother much about her. Happening atthat moment to look round, she saw a man coming through the hunting gate. His height and shoulders told her that he was William. "Trying to findSarah, " she thought. "I must not let him think I am waiting for him. " Shecontinued her walk, wondering if he were following, afraid to look round. At last she fancied she could hear footsteps; her heart beat faster. Hecalled to her. 

"I think Sarah has gone to the Gardens, " she said, turning round. 

"You always keep reminding me of Sarah. There's nothing between us;anything there ever was is all off long ago.... Are you going for a walk?"

She was glad of the chance to get a mouthful of fresh air, and they wenttowards the hunting gate. William held it open and she passed through. 

The plantations were enclosed by a wooden fence, and beyond them the baredowns rose hill after hill. On the left the land sloped into a shallowvalley sown with various crops; and the shaws about Elliot's farm were thelast trees. Beyond the farmhouse the downs ascended higher and higher, treeless, irreclaimable, scooped into long patriarchal solitudes, throwninto wild crests. 

There was a smell of sheep in the air, and the flock trotted past them ingood order, followed by the shepherd, a huge hat and a crook in his hand, and two shaggy dogs at his heels. A brace of partridges rose out of thesainfoin, and flew down the hills; and watching their curving flightEsther and William saw the sea under the sun-setting, and the string ofcoast towns. 

"A lovely evening, isn't it?"

Esther acquiesced; and tempted by the warmth of the grass they sat down, and the mystery of the twilight found way into their consciousness. 

"We shan't have any rain yet awhile. "

"How do you know?"

"I'll tell you, " William answered, eager to show his superior knowledge. "Look due south-west, straight through that last dip in that line ofhills. Do you see anything?"

"No, I can see nothing, " said Esther, after straining her eyes for a fewmoments. 

"I thought not.... Well, if it was going to rain you would see the Isle ofWight. "

For something to say, and hoping to please, Esther asked him where therace-course was. 

"There, over yonder. I can't show you the start, a long way behind thathill, Portslade way; then they come right along by that gorse and finishup by Truly barn--you can't see Truly barn from here, that's Thunder'sbarrow barn; they go quite half a mile farther. "

"And does all that land belong to the Gaffer?"

"Yes, and a great deal more, too; but this down land isn't worth much--notmore than about ten shillings an acre. "

"And how many acres are there?"

"Do you mean all that we can see?"

"Yes. "

"The Gaffer's property reaches to Southwick Hill, and it goes north a longway. I suppose you don't know that all this piece, all that lies betweenus and that barn yonder, once belonged to my family. "

"To your family?"

"Yes, the Latches were once big swells; in the time of mygreat-grandfather the Barfields could not hold their heads as high as theLatches. My great-grandfather had a pot of money, but it all went. "

"Racing?"

"A good bit, I've no doubt. A rare 'ard liver, cock-fighting, 'unting, 'orse-racing from one year's end to the other. Then after 'im came mygrandfather; he went to the law, and a sad mess he made of it--wentstony-broke and left my father without a sixpence; that is why motherdidn't want me to go into livery. The family 'ad been coming down forgenerations, and mother thought that I was born to restore it; and so Iwas, but not as she thought, by carrying parcels up and down the King'sRoad. "

Esther looked at William in silent admiration, and, feeling that he hadsecured an appreciative listener, he continued his monologue regarding thewealth and rank his family had formerly held, till a heavy dew forced themto their feet. In front of them was the moon, and out of the forlorn skylooked down the misted valleys; the crests of the hills were still touchedwith light, and lights flew from coast town to coast town, weaving aluminous garland. 

The sheep had been folded, and seeing them lying in the greyness of thishill-side, and beyond them the massive moonlit landscape and the vaguesea, Esther suddenly became aware, as she had never done before, of theexceeding beauty of the world. Looking up in William's face, she said--

"Oh, how beautiful!"

As they descended the drove-way their feet raised the chalk, and Williamsaid--

"This is bad for Silver Braid; we shall want some more rain in a day ortwo.... Let's come for a walk round the farm, " he said suddenly. "The farmbelongs to the Gaffer, but he's let the Lodge to a young fellow calledJohnson. He's the chap that Peggy used to go after--there was awful rowsabout that, and worse when he forestalled the Gaffer about Egmont. "

The conversation wandered agreeably, and they became more conscious ofeach other. He told her all he knew about the chap who had jilted MissMary, and the various burlesque actresses at the Shoreham Gardens who hadcaptivated Ginger's susceptible heart. While listening she suddenly becameaware that she had never been so happy before. Now all she had enduredseemed accidental; she felt that she had entered into the permanent; andin the midst of vague but intense sensations William showed her thepigeon-house with all the blue birds dozing on the tiles, a white one hereand there. They visited the workshop, the forge, and the old cottageswhere the bailiff and the shepherd lived; and all this inanimatenature--the most insignificant objects--seemed inspired, seemed likesymbols of her emotion. 

They left the farm and wandered on the high road until a stile leading toa cornfield beguiled and then delayed their steps. 

The silence of the moonlight was clear and immense; and they listened tothe trilling of the nightingale in the copse hard by. First they sought todiscover the brown bird in the branches of the poor hedge, and then thereason of the extraordinary emotion in their hearts. It seemed that alllife was beating in that moment, and they were as it were inflamed toreach out their hands to life and to grasp it together. Even Williamnoticed that. And the moon shone on the mist that had gathered on the longmarsh lands of the foreshore. Beyond the trees the land wavered out intodown land, the river gleamed and intensely. 

This moment was all the poetry of their lives. The striking of a match tolight his pipe, which had gone out, put the music to flight, and all alongthe white road he continued his monologue, interrupted only by thenecessity of puffing at his pipe. 

"Mother says that if I had twopence worth of pride in me I wouldn't haveconsented to put on the livery; but what I says to mother is, 'What's theuse of having pride if you haven't money?' I tells her that I am rottenwith pride, but my pride is to make money. I can't see that the man whatis willing to remain poor all his life has any pride at all.... But, Lord!I have argued with mother till I'm sick; she can see nothing further thanthe livery; that's what women are--they are that short-sighted.... A lotof good it would have done me to have carried parcels all my life, andwhen I could do four mile an hour no more, to be turned out to die in theditch and be buried by the parish. 'Not good enough, ' says I. 'If that'syour pride, mother, you may put it in your pipe and smoke it, and as you'aven't got a pipe, perhaps behind the oven will do as well, '--that's whatI said to her. I saw well enough there was nothing for me but service, andI means to stop here until I can get on three or four good things and thenretire into a nice comfortable public-house and do my own betting. "

"You would give up betting then?"

"I'd give up backing 'orses, if you mean that.... What I should like wouldbe to get on to a dozen good things at long prices--half-a-dozen likeSilver Braid would do it. For a thousand or fifteen hundred pounds I couldhave the 'Red Lion, ' and just inside my own bar I could do a hundred-poundbook on all the big races. "

Esther listened, hearing interminable references to jockeys, publicans, weights, odds, and the certainty, if he had the "Red Lion, " of being ableto get all Joe Walker's betting business away from him. Allusions to thepolice, and the care that must be taken not to bet with anyone who had notbeen properly introduced, frightened her; but her fears died in thesensation of his arm about her waist, and the music that the striking of amatch had put to flight had begun again in the next plantation, and itbegan again in their hearts. But if he were going to marry Sarah! The ideaamused him; he laughed loudly, and they walked up the avenue, his facebent over hers. 

VII

The Barfield calculation was that they had a stone in hand. Bayleaf, Mr. Leopold argued, would be backed to win a million of money if he werehandicapped in the race at seven stone; and Silver Braid, who had beentried again with Bayleaf, and with the same result as before, had been letoff with only six stone. 

More rain had fallen, the hay-crop had been irretrievably ruined, theprospects of the wheat harvest were jeopardized, but what did a fewbushels of wheat matter? Another pound of muscle in those superbhind-quarters was worth all the corn that could be grown between here andHenfield. Let the rain come down, let every ear of wheat be destroyed, solong as those delicate fore-legs remained sound. These were the ethicsthat obtained at Woodview, and within the last few days showed signs ofadoption by the little town and not a few of the farmers, grown tired ofseeing their crops rotting on the hill-sides. The fever of the gamble wasin eruption, breaking out in unexpected places--the station-master, theporters, the flymen, all had their bit on, and notwithstanding theenormous favouritism of two other horses in the race--Prisoner and StokeNewington--Silver Braid had advanced considerably in the betting. Reportsof trials won had reached Brighton, and not more than five-and-twenty toone could now be obtained. 

The discovery that the Demon had gone up several pounds in weight hadintroduced the necessary alloy into the mintage of their happiness; themost real consternation prevailed, and the strictest investigation wasmade as to when and how he had obtained the quantities of food required toproduce such a mass of adipose tissue. Then the Gaffer had the boyupstairs and administered to him a huge dose of salts, seeing him swallowevery drop; and when the effects of the medicine had worn off he was sentfor a walk to Portslade in two large overcoats, and was accompanied byWilliam, whose long legs led the way so effectively. On his return acouple of nice feather beds were ready, and Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindlesthemselves laid him between them, and when they noticed that he wasbeginning to cease to perspire Mr. Leopold made him a nice cup of hot tea. 

"That's the way the Gaffer used to get the flesh off in the old days whenhe rode the winner at Liverpool. "

"It's the Demon's own fault, " said Mr. Swindles; "if he hadn't been sogreedy he wouldn't have had to sweat, and we should 'ave been spared adeal of bother and anxiety. "

"Greedy!" murmured the little boy, in whom the warm tea had induced a newperspiration; "I haven't had what you might call a dinner for the lastthree months. I think I'll chuck the whole thing. "

"Not until this race is over, " said Mr. Swindles. "Supposing I was to passthe warming-pan down these 'ere sheets. What do you say, Mr. Leopold? Theyare beginning to feel a bit cold. "

"Cold! I 'ope you'll never go to a 'otter place. For God's sake, Mr. Leopold, don't let him come near me with the warming-pan, or else he'llmelt the little flesh that's left off me. "

"You 'ad better not make such a fuss, " said Mr. Leopold; "if you don't dowhat you are told, you'll have to take salts again and go for another walkwith William. "

"If we don't warm up them sheets 'e'll dry up, " said Mr. Swindles. 

"No, I won't; I'm teeming. "

"Be a good boy, and you shall have a nice cut of mutton when you get up, "said Mr. Leopold. 

"How much? Two slices?"

"Well, you see, we can't promise; it all depends on how much has come off, and 'aving once got it hoff, we don't want to put it on again. "

"I never did 'ear such rot, " said Swindles. "In my time a boy's feelingsweren't considered--one did what one considered good for them. "

Mr. Leopold strove to engage the Demon's attention with complimentsregarding his horsemanship in the City and Sub. While Mr. Swindles raisedthe bedclothes. 

"Oh, Mr. Swindles, you are burning me. "

"For 'eaven's sake don't let him start out from under the bed like that!Can't yer 'old him? Burning you! I never even touched you with it; it wasthe sheet that you felt. "

"Then the sheet is at 'ot as the bloody fire. Will yer leave off?"

"What! a Demon like you afraid of a little touch of 'eat; wouldn't 'avebelieved it unless I 'ad 'eard it with my own ears, " said Mr. Leopold. "Come, now, do yer want to ride the crack at Goodwood or do yer not? Ifyou do, remain quiet, and let us finish taking off the last couple ofpounds. "

"It is the last couple of pounds that takes it out of one; the first lotcomes off jest like butter, " said the boy, rolling out of the way of thepan. "I know what it will be; I shall be so weak that I shall just ride astinking bad race. "

Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles exchanged glances. It was clear they thoughtthat there was something in the last words of the fainting Demon, and thepan was withdrawn. But when the boy was got into the scale again it wasfound that he was not yet nearly the right weight, and the Gaffer orderedanother effort to be made. The Demon pleaded that his feet were sore, buthe was sent off to Portslade in charge of the redoubtable William. 

And as the last pounds came off the Demon's little carcass Mr. Leopold'sface resumed a more tranquil expression. It began to be whispered thatinstead of hedging any part of his money he would stand it all out, andone day a market gardener brought up word that he had seen Mr. Leopoldgoing into Brighton. 

"Old Watkins isn't good enough for him, that's about it. If Silver Braidwins, Woodview will see very little more of Mr. Leopold. He'll be forbuying one of them big houses on the sea road and keeping his own trap. "

VIII

The great day was now fast approaching, and the Gaffer had promised todrive his folk in a drag to Goodwood. No more rain was required, thecolt's legs remained sound, and three days of sunshine would make all thedifference in their sum of happiness. In the kitchen Mrs. Latch and Estherhad been busy for some time with chickens and pies and jellies, and in thepassage there were cases packed with fruit and wine. The dressmaker hadcome from Worthing, and for several days the young ladies had not lefther. And one fine morning, very early--about eight o'clock--the wheelerswere backed into the drag that had come from Brighton, and the yardresounded with the blaring of the horn. Ginger was practising under hissister's window. 

"You'll be late! You'll be late!"

With the exception of two young gentlemen, who had come at the invitationof the young ladies, it was quite a family party. Miss Mary sat beside herfather on the box, and looked very charming in white and blue. Peggy'sblack hair seemed blacker than ever under a white silk parasol, which shewaved negligently above her as she stood up calling and talking toeveryone until the Gaffer told her angrily to sit down, as he was going tostart. Then William and the coachman let go the leaders' heads, andrunning side by side swung themselves into their seats. At the same momenta glimpse was caught of Mr. Leopold's sallow profile amid the boxes andthe mackintoshes that filled the inside of the coach. 

"Oh, William did look that handsome in those beautiful new clothes!... Everyone said so--Sarah and Margaret and Miss Grover. I'm sorry you didnot come out to see him. "

Mrs. Latch made no answer, and Esther remembered how she hated her son towear livery, and thought that she had perhaps made a mistake in sayingthat Mrs. Latch should have come out to see him. "Perhaps this will makeher dislike me again, " thought the girl. Mrs. Latch moved about rapidly, and she opened and closed the oven; then, raising her eyes to the windowand seeing that the other women were still standing in the yard and safelyout of hearing, she said--

"Do you think that he has bet much on this race?"

"Oh, how should I know, Mrs. Latch?... But the horse is certain to win. "

"Certain to win! I have heard that tale before; they are always certain towin. So they have won you round to their way of thinking, have they?" saidMrs. Latch, straightening her back. 

"I know very well indeed that it is not right to bet; but what can I do, apoor girl like me? If it hadn't been for William I never would have takena number in that sweepstakes. "

"Do you like him very much, then?"

"He has been very kind to me--he was kind when--"

"Yes, I know, when I was unkind. I was unkind to you when you first came. You don't know all. I was much troubled at that time, and somehow I didnot--. But there is no ill-feeling?... I'll make it up to you--I'll teachyou how to be a cook. "

"Oh, Mrs. Latch, I am sure----"

"Never mind that. When you went out to walk with him the other night, didhe tell you that he had many bets on the race?"

"He talked about the race, like everyone else, but he did not tell me whatbets he had on. "

"No, they never do do that.... But you'll not tell him that I asked you?"

"No, Mrs. Latch, I promise. "

"It would do no good, he'd only be angry; it would only set him againstme. I am afraid that nothing will stop him now. Once they get a taste forit it is like drink. I wish he was married, that might get him out of it. Some woman who would have an influence over him, some strong-minded woman. I thought once that you were strong-minded----"

At that moment Sarah and Grover entered the kitchen talking loudly. Theyasked Mrs. Latch how soon they could have dinner--the sooner the better, for the Saint had told them that they were free to go out for the day. They were to try to be back before eight, that was all. Ah! the Saint wasa first-rate sort. She had said that she did not want anyone to attend onher. She would, get herself a bit of lunch in the dining-room. Mrs. Latchallowed Esther to hurry on the dinner, and by one o'clock they had allfinished. Sarah and Margaret were going into Brighton to do some shopping, Grover was going to Worthing to spend the afternoon with the wife of oneof the guards of the Brighton and South Coast Railway. Mrs. Latch wentupstairs to lie down. So it grew lonelier and lonelier in the kitchen. Esther's sewing fell out of her hands, and she wondered what she shoulddo. She thought that she might go down to the beach, and soon after sheput on her hat and stood thinking, remembering that she had not been bythe sea, that she had not seen the sea since she was a little girl. Butshe remembered the tall ships that came into the harbour, sail fallingover sail, and the tall ships that floated out of the harbour, sail risingover sail, catching the breeze as they went aloft--she remembered them. 

A suspension bridge, ornamented with straight-tailed lions, took her overthe weedy river, and having crossed some pieces of rough grass, sheclimbed the shingle bank. The heat rippled the blue air, and the sea, likean exhausted caged beast, licked the shingle. Sea-poppies bloomed underthe wheels of a decaying bathing-machine, and Esther wondered. But the seahere was lonely as a prison, and, seeing the treeless coast with its chainof towns, her thoughts suddenly reverted to William. She wished he werewith her, and for pleasant contemplation she thought of that happy eveningwhen she saw him coming through the hunting gate, when, his arm about her, William had explained that if the horse won she would take seven shillingsout of the sweepstakes. She knew now that William did not care aboutSarah; and that he cared for her had given a sudden and unexpected meaningto her existence. She lay on the shingle, her day-dream becoming softerand more delicate as it rounded into summer sleep. 

And when the light awoke her she saw flights of white clouds--white upabove, rose-coloured as they approached the west; and when she turned, atall, melancholy woman. 

"Good evening, Mrs. Randal, " said Esther, glad to find someone to speakto. "I've been asleep. "

"Good evening, Miss. You're from Woodview, I think?"

"Yes, I'm the kitchen-maid. They've gone to the races; there was nothingto do, so I came down here. "

Mrs. Randal's lips moved as if she were going to say something. But shedid not speak. Soon after she rose to her feet. "I think that it must begetting near tea-time; I must be going. You might come in and have a cupof tea with me, if you're not in a hurry back to Woodview. "

Esther was surprised at so much condescension, and in silence the twowomen crossed the meadows that lay between the shingle bank and the river. Trains were passing all the while, scattering, it seemed, in their noisypassage over the spider-legged bridge, the news from Goodwood. The newsseemed to be borne along shore in the dust, and, as if troubled byprescience of the news, Mrs. Randal said, as she unlocked the cottagedoor----

"It is all over now. The people in those trains know well enough which haswon. "

"Yes, I suppose they know, and somehow I feel as if I knew too. I feel asif Silver Braid had won. "

Mrs. Randal's home was gaunt as herself. Everything looked as if it hadbeen scraped, and the spare furniture expressed a meagre, lonely life. Shedropped a plate as she laid the table, and stood pathetically looking atthe pieces. When Esther asked for a teaspoon she gave way utterly. 

"I haven't one to give you; I had forgotten that they were gone. I shouldhave remembered and not asked you to tea. "

"It don't matter, Mrs. Randal; I can stir up my tea with anything--aknitting-needle will do very well--"

"I should have remembered and not asked you back to tea; but I was somiserable, and it is so lonely sitting in this house, that I could standit no longer.... Talking to you saved me from thinking, and I did not wantto think until this race was over. If Silver Braid is beaten we areruined. Indeed, I don't know what will become of us. For fifteen years Ihave borne up; I have lived on little at the best of times, and very oftenhave gone without; but that is nothing compared to the anxiety--to see himcome in with a white face, to see him drop into a chair and hear him say, 'Beaten a head on the post, ' or 'Broke down, otherwise he would have wonin a canter. ' I have always tried to be a good wife and tried to consolehim, and to do the best when he said, 'I have lost half a year's wages, Idon't know how we shall pull through. ' I have borne with ten thousandtimes more than I can tell you. The sufferings of a gambler's wife cannotbe told. Tell me, what do you think my feelings must have been when onenight I heard him calling me out of my sleep, when I heard him say, 'Ican't die, Annie, without bidding you good-bye. I can only hope that youwill be able to pull through, and I know that the Gaffer will do all hecan for you, but he has been hit awful hard too. You mustn't think toobadly of me, Annie, but I have had such a bad time that I couldn't put upwith it any longer, and I thought the best thing I could do would be togo. ' That's just how he talked--nice words to hear your husband speak inyour ear through the darkness! There was no time to send for the doctor, so I jumped out of bed, put the kettle on, and made him drink glass afterglass of salt and water. At last he brought up the laudanum. "

Esther listened to the melancholy woman, and remembered the little manwhom she saw every day so orderly, so precise, so sedate, so methodical, so unemotional, into whose life she thought no faintest emotion had everentered--and this was the truth. 

"So long as I only had myself to think of I didn't mind; but now there arethe children growing up. He should think of them. Heaven only knows whatwill become of them... John is as kind a husband as ever was if it weren'tfor that one fault; but he cannot resist having something on any more thana drunkard can resist the bar-room. "

"Winner, winner, winner of the Stewards' Cup!"

The women started to their feet. When they got into the street the boy wasfar away; besides, neither had a penny to pay for the paper, and theywandered about the town hearing and seeing nothing, so nervous were they. At last Esther proposed to ask at the "Red Lion" who had won. Mrs. Randalbegged her to refrain, urging that she was unable to bear the tidingsshould it be evil. 

"Silver Braid, " the barman answered. The girl rushed through the doors. "It is all right, it is all right; he has won!"

Soon after the little children in the lane were calling forth "SilverBraid won!" And overcome by the excitement Esther walked along thesea-road to meet the drag. She walked on and on until the sound of thehorn came through the crimson evening and she saw the leaders trotting ina cloud of dust. Ginger was driving, and he shouted to her, "He won!" TheGaffer waved the horn and shouted, "He won!" Peggy waved her brokenparasol and shouted, "He won!" Esther looked at William. He leaned overthe back seat and shouted, "He won!" She had forgotten all about latedinner. What would Mrs. Latch say? On such a day as this she would saynothing. 

IX

Nearly everything came down untouched. Eating and drinking had been inprogress almost all day on the course, and Esther had finished washing upbefore nine, and had laid the cloth in the servants' hall for supper. Butif little was eaten upstairs, plenty was eaten downstairs; the mutton wasfinished in a trice, and Mrs. Latch had to fetch from the larder whatremained of a beefsteak pudding. Even then they were not satisfied, andfine inroads were made into a new piece of cheese. Beer, according toorders, was served without limit, and four bottles of port were sent downso that the health of the horse might be adequately drunk. 

While assuaging their hunger the men had exchanged many allusive remarksregarding the Demon's bad ending, how nearly he had thrown the race away;and the meal being now over, and there being nothing to do but to sit andtalk, Mr. Leopold, encouraged by William, entered on an elaborate andtechnical account of the race. The women listened, playing with a rind ofcheese, glancing at the cheese itself, wondering if they could manageanother slice, and the men sipping their port wine, puffing at theirpipes, William listening most avidly of all, enjoying each sporting term, and ingeniously reminding Mr. Leopold of some detail whenever he seemeddisposed to shorten his narrative. The criticism of the Demon'shorsemanship took a long while, for by a variety of suggestive remarksWilliam led Mr. Leopold into reminiscences of the skill of certain famousjockeys in the first half of the century. These digressions wearied Sarahand Grover, and their thoughts wandered to the dresses that had been wornthat day, and the lady's-maid remembered she would hear all thatinterested her that night in the young ladies' rooms. At last, losing allpatience, Sarah declared that she didn't care what Chifney had said whenhe just managed to squeeze his horse's head in front in the last dozenyards, she wanted to know what the Demon had done to so nearly lose therace--had he mistaken the winning-post and pulled up? William looked ather contemptuously, and would have answered rudely, but at that moment Mr. Leopold began to tell the last instructions that the Gaffer had given theDemon. The orders were that the Demon should go right up to the leadersbefore they reached the half-mile, and remain there. Of course, if hefound that he was a stone or more in hand, as the Gaffer expected, hemight come away pretty well as he liked, for the greatest danger was thatthe horse might get shut out or might show temper and turn it up. 

"Well, " said Mr. Leopold, "there were two false starts, and Silver Braidmust have galloped a couple of 'undred yards afore the Demon could stophim. There wasn't twopence-halfpenny worth of strength in him--pulling offthose three or four pounds pretty well finished him. He'll never be ableto ride that weight again.... He said afore starting that he felt weak;you took him along too smartly from Portslade the last time you wentthere. "

"When he went by himself he'd stop playing marbles with the boys round theSouthwick public-house. "

"If there had been another false start I think it would have been all upwith us. The Gaffer was quite pale, and he stood there not taking hisglasses from his eyes. There were over thirty of them, so you can imaginehow hard it was to get them into line. However, at the third attempt theywere got straight and away they came, a black line stretching right acrossthe course. Presently the black cap and jacket came to the front, and notvery long after a murmur went round, 'Silver Braid wins. ' Never sawanything like it in all my life. He was three lengths a'ead, and theothers were pulling off. 'Damn the boy; he'll win by twenty lengths, ' saidthe Gaffer, without removing his glasses. But when within a few yards ofthe stand----"

At that moment the bell rang. Mr. Leopold said, "There, they are wantingtheir tea; I must go and get it. "

"Drat their tea, " said Margaret; "they can wait. Finish up; tell us how hewon. "

Mr. Leopold looked round, and seeing every eye fixed on him he consideredhow much remained of the story, and with quickened speech continued, "Well, approaching the stand, I noticed that Silver Braid was not goingquite so fast, and at the very instant the Demon looked over his shoulder, and seeing he was losing ground he took up the whip. But the moment hestruck him the horse swerved right across the course, right under thestand, running like a rat from underneath the whip. The Demon caught himone across the nose with his left hand, but seeing what was 'appening, theTinman, who was on Bullfinch, sat down and began riding. I felt as ifthere was a lump of ice down my back, " and Mr. Leopold lowered his voice, and his face became grave as he recalled that perilous moment. "I thoughtit was all over, " he said, "and the Gaffer thought the same; I never saw aman go so deadly pale. It was all the work of a moment, but that momentwas more than a year--at least, so it seemed to me. Well, about half-wayup the rails the Tinman got level with the Demon. It was ten to one thatSilver Braid would turn it up, or that the boy wouldn't 'ave the strengthto ride out so close a finish as it was bound to be. I thought then of theway you used to take him along from Portslade, and I'd have givensomething to've put a pound or two of flesh into his thighs and arms. TheTinman was riding splendid, getting every ounce and something more out ofBullfinch. The Demon, too weak to do much, was sitting nearly quite still. It looked as if it was all up with us, but somehow Silver Braid took togalloping of his own accord, and 'aving such a mighty lot in 'and he wonon the post by a 'ead--a short 'ead.... I never felt that queer in my lifeand the Gaffer was no better; but I said to him, just afore the numberswent up, 'It is all right, sir, he's just done it, ' and when the rightnumber went up I thought everything was on the dance, going for swim like. By golly, it was a near thing!" At the end of a long silence Mr. Leopoldsaid, shaking himself out of his thoughts, "Now I must go and get theirtea. "

Esther sat at the end of the table; her cheek leaned on her hand. Byturning her eyes she could see William. Sarah noticed one of thesestealthy backward glances and a look of anger crossed her face, andcalling to William she asked him when the sweepstakes money would bedivided. The question startled William from a reverie of small bets, andhe answered that there was no reason why the sweepstakes money should notbe divided at once. 

"There was twelve. That's right, isn't it?--Sarah, Margaret, Esther, MissGrover, Mr. Leopold, myself, the four boys, and Swindles and Wall.... Well, it was agreed that seven should go to the first, three to thesecond, and two to the third. No one got the third 'orse, so I suppose thetwo shillings that would have gone to him 'ad better be given to thefirst. "

"Given to the first! Why, that's Esther! Why should she get it?... What doyou mean? No third! Wasn't Soap-bubble third?"

"Yes, Soap-bubble was third right enough, but he wasn't in the sweep. "

"And why wasn't he?"

"Because he wasn't among the eleven first favourites. We took them as theywere quoted in the betting list published in the _Sportsman_. "

"How was it, then, that you put in Silver Braid?"

"Yer needn't get so angry, Sarah, no one's cheating; it is all aboveboard. If you don't believe us, you'd better accuse us straight out. "

"What I want to know is, why Silver Braid was included?--he wasn't amongthe eleven first favourites. "

"Oh, don't be so stupid, Sarah; you know that we agreed to make anexception in favour of our own 'orse--a nice sweep it would 'ave been ifwe 'adn't included Silver Braid. "

"And suppose, " she exclaimed, tightening her brows, "that Soap-bubble hadwon, what would have become of our money?"

"It would have been returned--everyone would have got his shilling back. "

"And now I am to get three shillings, and that little Methodist orPlymouth Brethren there, whatever you like to call her, is to get nine!"said Sarah, with a light of inspiration flashing through her beer-cloudedmind. "Why should the two shillings that would have gone to Soap-bubble, if anyone 'ad drawn 'im, go to the first 'orse rather than to the second?"

William hesitated, unable for the moment to give a good reason why theextra two shillings should be given to Silver Braid; and Sarah, perceivingher advantage, deliberately accused him of wishing to favour Esther. 

"Don't we know that you went out to walk with her, and that you remainedout till nearly eleven at night. That's why you want all the money to goto her. You don't take us for a lot of fools, do you? Never in any place Iever was in before would such a thing be allowed--the footman going outwith the kitchen-maid, and one of the Dissenting lot. "

"I am not going to have my religion insulted! How dare you?" And Estherstarted up from her place; but William was too quick for her. He graspedher arm. 

"Never mind what Sarah says. "

"Never mind what I says! ... A thing like that, who never was in asituation before; no doubt taken out of some 'ouse. Rescue work, I thinkthey call it----"

"She shan't insult me--no, she shan't!" said Esther, tremulous withpassion. 

"A nice sort of person to insult!" said Sarah, her arms akimbo. 

"Now look you here, Sarah Tucker, " said Mrs. Latch, starting from herseat, "I'm not going to see that girl aggravated, so that she may do whatshe shouldn't do, and give you an opportunity of going to the missis withtales about her. Come away, Esther, come with me. Let them go on bettingif they will; I never saw no good come of it. "

"That's all very fine, mother; but it must be settled, and we have todivide the money. "

"I don't want your money, " said Esther, sullenly; "I wouldn't take it. "

"What blooming nonsense! You must take your money. Ah, here's Mr. Leopold!he'll decide it. "

Mr. Leopold said at once that the money that under other circumstanceswould have gone to the third horse must be divided between the first andsecond; but Sarah refused to accept this decision. Finally, it wasproposed that the matter should be referred to the editor of the_Sportsman_; and as Sarah still remained deaf to argument, William offeredher choice between the _Sportsman_ and the _Sporting Life_. 

"Look here, " said William, getting between the women; "this evening isn'tone for fighting; we have all won our little bit, and ought to bethankful. The only difference between you is two shillings, that were tohave gone to the third horse if anyone had drawn him. Mr. Leopold says itought to be divided; you, Sarah, won't accept his decision. We haveoffered to write to the _Sportsman_, and Esther has offered to give up herclaim. Now, in the name of God, tell us what do you want?"

She raised some wholly irrelevant issue, and after a protracted argumentwith William, largely composed of insulting remarks, she declared that shewasn't going to take the two shillings, nor yet one of them; let them giveher the three she had won--that was all she wanted. William looked at her, shrugged his shoulders, and, after declaring that it was his convictionthat women wasn't intended to have nothing to do with horse-racing, hetook up his pipe and tobacco-pouch. 

"Good-night, ladies, I have had enough of you for to-night; I am going tofinish my smoke in the pantry. Don't scratch all your 'air out; leaveenough for me to put into a locket. "

When the pantry door was shut, and the men had smoked some moments insilence, William said--

"Do you think he has any chance of winning the Chesterfield Cup?"

"He'll win in a canter if he'll only run straight. If I was the Gaffer Ithink I'd put up a bigger boy. He'll 'ave to carry a seven-pound penalty, and Johnnie Scott could ride that weight. "

The likelihood that a horse will bolt with one jockey and run straightwith another was argued passionately, and illustrated with interestingreminiscences drawn from that remote past when Mr. Leopold was theGaffer's private servant--before either of them had married--when life wascomposed entirely of horse-racing and prize-fighting. But cutting shorthis tale of how he had met one day the Birmingham Chicken in a booth, and, not knowing who he was, had offered to fight him, Mr. Leopold confessed hedid not know how to act--he had a bet of fifty pounds to ten shillings forthe double event; should he stand it out or lay some of it off? Williamthrilled with admiration. What a 'ead, and who'd think it? that little'ead, hardly bigger than a cocoanut! What a brain there was inside! Fiftypounds to ten shillings; should he stand it out or hedge some of it? Whocould tell better than Mr. Leopold? It would, of course, be a pity tobreak into the fifty. What did ten shillings matter? Mr. Leopold was a bigenough man to stand the racket of it even if it didn't come back. Williamfelt very proud of being consulted, for Mr. Leopold had never before beenknown to let anyone know what he had on a race. 

Next day they walked into Shoreham together. The bar of the "Red Lion" wasfull of people. Above the thronging crowd the voice of the barman and thecustomers were heard calling, "Two glasses of Burton, glass of bitter, three of whiskey cold. " There were railway porters, sailors, boatmen, shop-boys, and market gardeners. They had all won something, and had comefor their winnings. 

Old Watkins, an elderly man with white whiskers and a curving stomach, hadjust run in to wet his whistle. He walked back to his office with Mr. Leopold and William, a little corner shelved out of some out-houses, intowhich you could walk from the street. 

"Talk of favourites!" he said; "I'd sooner pay over the three firstfavourites than this one--thirty, twenty to one starting price, and thewhole town onto him; it's enough to break any man.... Now, my men, what isit?" he said, turning to the railway porters. 

"Just the trifle me and my mates 'av won over that 'ere 'orse. "

"What was it?"

"A shilling at five and twenty to one. "

"Look it out, Joey. Is it all right?"

"Yes, sir; yes, sir, " said the clerk. 

And old Watkins slid his hand into his breeches pocket, and it came forthfilled with gold and silver. 

"Come, come, mates, we are bound to 'ave a bet on him for theChesterfield--we can afford it now; what say yer, a shilling each?"

"Done for a shilling each, " said the under-porter; "finest 'orse intraining.... What price, Musser Watkins?"

"Ten to one. "

"Right, 'ere's my bob. "

The other porters gave their shillings; Watkins slid them back into hispocket, and called to Joey to book the bet. 

"And, now, what is yours, Mr. Latch?"

William stated the various items. He had had a bet of ten shillings to oneon one race and had lost; he had had half-a-crown on another and had lost;in a word, three-and-sixpence had to be subtracted from his winnings onSilver Braid. These amounted to more than five pounds. William's faceflushed with pleasure, and the world seemed to be his when he slipped foursovereigns and a handful of silver into his waistcoat pocket. Should heput a sovereign of his winnings on Silver Braid for the Chesterfield?Half-a-sovereign was enough! ... The danger of risking a sovereign--a wholesovereign--frightened him. 

"Now, Mr. Latch, " said old Watkins, "if you want to back anything, make upyour mind; there are a good many besides yourself who have business withme. "

William hesitated, and then said he'd take ten half-sovereigns to oneagainst Silver Braid. 

"Ten half-sovereigns to one?" said old Watkins. 

William murmured "Yes, " and Joey booked the bet. 

Mr. Leopold's business demanded more consideration. The fat betting manand the scarecrow little butler walked aside and talked, both apparentlyindifferent to the impatience of a number of small customers; sometimesJoey called in his shrill cracked voice if he might lay ten half-crowns toone, or five shillings to one, as the case might be. Watkins would thenraise his eyes from Mr. Leopold's face and nod or shake his head, orperhaps would sign with his fingers what odds he was prepared to lay. Withno one else would Watkins talk so lengthily, showing so much deference. Mr. Leopold had the knack of investing all he did with an air of mystery, and the deepest interest was evinced in this conversation. At last, as ifdismissing matters of first importance, the two men approached William, and he heard Watkins pressing Mr. Leopold to lay off some of that fiftypounds. 

"I'll take twelve to one--twenty-four pounds to two. Shall I book it?"

Mr. Leopold shook his head, and, smiling enigmatically, said he must begetting back. William was much impressed, and congratulated himself on hiscourage in taking the ten half-sovereigns to one. Mr. Leopold knew a thingor two; he had been talking to the Gaffer that morning, and if it hadn'tbeen all right he would have laid off some of the money. 

Next day one of the Gaffer's two-year-olds won a race, and the day afterSilver Braid won the Chesterfield Cup. 

The second victory of Silver Braid nearly ruined old Watkins. He declaredthat he had never been so hard hit; but as he did not ask for time andcontinued to draw notes and gold and silver in handfuls from his capaciouspockets, his lamentations only served to stimulate the happiness of thefortunate backers, and, listening to the sweet note of self ringing intheir hearts, they returned to the public-house to drink the health of thehorse. 

So the flood of gold continued to roll into the little town, decrepit andcolourless by its high shingle beach and long reaches of muddy river. Thedear gold jingled merrily in the pockets, quickening the steps, lighteningthe heart, curling lips with smiles, opening lips with laughter. The deargold came falling softly, sweetly as rain, soothing the hard lives ofworking folk. Lives pressed with toil lifted up and began to dream again. The dear gold was like an opiate; it wiped away memories of hardship andsorrow, it showed life in a lighter and merrier guise, and the folklaughed at their fears for the morrow and wondered how they could havethought life so hard and relentless. The dear gold was pleasing as a birdon the branch, as a flower on the stem; the tune it sang was sweet, thecolour it flaunted was bright. 

The trade of former days had never brought the excitement and the fortunethat this horse's hoofs had done. The dust they had thrown up had fallen ahappy, golden shower upon Shoreham. In every corner and crevice of lifethe glitter appeared. That fine red dress on the builder's wife, and thefeathers that the girls flaunt at their sweethearts, the loud trousers onthe young man's legs, the cigar in his mouth--all is Goodwood gold. Itglitters in that girl's ears and on this girl's finger. 

It was said that the town of Shoreham had won two thousand pounds on therace; it was said that Mr. Leopold had won two hundred; it was said thatWilliam Latch had won fifty; it was said that Wall, the coachman, had wonfive-and-twenty; it was said that the Gaffer had won forty thousandpounds. For ten miles around nothing was talked of but the wealth of theBarfields, and, drawn like moths to a candle, the county came to call;even the most distant and reserved left cards, others walked up and downthe lawn with the Gaffer, listening to his slightest word. A goldenprosperity shone upon the yellow Italian house. Carriages passed under itselm-trees at every hour and swept round the evergreen oaks. Rumour saidthat large alterations were going to be made, so that larger and granderentertainments might be given; an Italian garden was spoken of, balustrades and terraces, stables were in course of construction, manymore race-horses were bought; they arrived daily, and the slendercreatures, their dark eyes glancing out of the sight holes in their clothhoods, walked up from the station followed by an admiring and commentingcrowd. Drink and expensive living, dancing and singing upstairs anddownstairs, and the jollifications culminated in a servants' ball given atthe Shoreham Gardens. All the Woodview servants, excepting Mrs. Latch, were there; likewise all the servants from Mr. Northcote's, and those fromSir George Preston's--two leading county families. A great number ofservants had come from West Brighton, and Lancing, and Worthing--altogether between two and three hundred. "Evening dress isindispensable" was printed on the cards. The butlers, footmen, cooks, ladies' maids, housemaids, and housekeepers hoped by this notification tokeep the ball select. But the restriction seemed to condemn Esther to playagain the part of Cinderella. 

X

A group of men turned from the circular buffet when Esther entered. MissMary had given her a white muslin dress, a square-cut bodice with sleevesreaching to the elbows, and a blue sash tied round the waist. The remarksas she passed were, "A nice, pretty girl. " William was waiting, and shewent away with him on the hop of a vigorous polka. 

Many of the dancers had gone to get cool in the gardens, but a few coupleshad begun to whirl, the women borne along by force, the men poising theirlegs into curious geometrical positions. 

Mr. Leopold was very busy dragging men away from the circular buffet--theymust dance whether they knew how or not. 

"The Gaffer has told me partic'lar to see that the 'gals' all hadpartners, and just look down that 'ere room; 'alf of that lot 'aven't beenon their legs yet. 'Ere's a partner for you, " and the butler pulled ayoung gamekeeper towards a young girl who had just arrived. She enteredslowly, her hands clasped across her bosom, her eyes fixed on the ground, and the strangeness of the spectacle caused Mr. Leopold to pause. It waswhispered that she had never worn a low dress before, and Grover came tothe rescue of her modesty with a pocket-handkerchief. 

But it had been found impossible to restrict the ball to those whopossessed or could obtain an evening suit, and plenty of check trousersand red neckties were hopping about. Among the villagers many a touchsuggested costume. A young girl had borrowed her grandmother's weddingdress, and a young man wore a canary-coloured waistcoat and a bluecoastguardsman's coat of old time. These touches of fancy and personaltaste divided the villagers from the household servants. The butlersseemed on the watch for side dishes, and the valets suggested hair brushesand hot water. Cooks trailed black silk dresses adorned with wide collars, and fastened with gold brooches containing portraits of their latehusbands; and the fine shirt fronts set off with rich pearls, thelavender-gloved hands, the delicate faces, expressive of ease and leisure, made Ginger's two friends--young Mr. Preston and young Mr. Northcote--noticeable among this menial, work-a-day crowd. Ginger loved theupper circles, and now he romped the polka in the most approvedLondon fashion, his elbows advanced like a yacht's bowsprit, and, hiscoat-tails flying, he dashed through a group of tradespeople who werebobbing up and down, hardly advancing at all. 

Esther was now being spoken of as the belle of the ball, she had dancedwith young Mr. Preston, and seeing her sitting alone Grover called her andasked her why she was not dancing. Esther answered sullenly that she wastired. 

"Come, the next polka, just to show there is no ill-feeling. " Half a dozentimes William repeated his demand. At last she said--

"You've spoilt all my pleasure in the dancing. "

"I'm sorry if I've done that, Esther. I was jealous, that's all. "

"Jealous! What was you jealous for? What do it matter what people think, so long as I know I haven't done no wrong?"

And in silence they walked into the garden. The night was warm, evenoppressive, and the moon hung like a balloon above the trees, and oftenthe straying revellers stopped to consider the markings now so plain uponits disc. There were arbours, artificial ruins, darkling pathways, and thebreathless garden was noisy in the illusive light. William showed Estherthe theatre and explained its purpose. She listened, though she did notunderstand, nor could she believe that she was not dreaming when theysuddenly stood on the borders of a beautiful lake full of the shadows oftall trees, and crossed by a wooden bridge at the narrowest end. 

"How still the water is; and the stars, they are lovely!"

"You should see the gardens about three o'clock on Saturday afternoons, when the excursion comes in from Brighton. "

They walked on a little further, and Esther said, "What's these places?Ain't they dark?"

"These are arbours, where we 'as shrimps and tea. I'll take you nextSaturday, if you'll come. "

A noisy band of young men, followed by three or four girls, ran across thebridge. Suddenly they stopped to argue on which side the boat was to befound. Some chose the left, some the right; those who went to the rightsent up a yell of triumph, and paddled into the middle of the water. Theyfirst addressed remarks to their companions, and then they admired themoon and stars. A song was demanded, and at the end of the second verseWilliam threw his arm round Esther. 

"Oh, Esther, I do love you. "

She looked at him, her grey eyes fixed in a long interrogation. 

"I wonder if that is true. What is there to love in me?"

He squeezed her tightly, and continued his protestations. "I do, I do, Ido love you, Esther. "

She did not answer, and they walked slowly on. A holly bush threw a blackshadow on the gravel path and a moment after the ornamental tin roof ofthe dancing room appeared between the trees. 

Even in their short absence a change had come upon the ball. About thecircular buffet numbers of men called for drink, and talked loudly ofhorse-racing. Many were away at supper, and those that remained wereamusing themselves in a desultory fashion. A tall, lean woman, dressedlike Sarah in white muslin, wearing amber beads round her neck, wasdancing the lancers with the Demon, and everyone shook with laughter whenshe whirled the little fellow round or took him in her arms and carriedhim across. William wanted to dance, but Esther was hungry, and led himaway to an adjoining building where cold beef, chicken, and beer might behad by the strong and adventurous. As they struggled through the crowdEsther spied three young gentlemen at the other end of the room. 

"Now tell me, if they ask me, the young gents yonder, to dance, am I tolook them straight in the face and say no?"

William considered a moment, and then he said, "I think you had betterdance with them if they asks you; if you refuse, Sarah will say it was Iwho put you up to it. "

"Let's have another bottle, " cried Ginger. "Come, what do you say, Mr. Thomas?"

Mr. Thomas coughed, smiled, and said that Mr. Arthur wished to see him inthe hands of the police. However, he promised to drink his share. Two morebottles were sent for, and, stimulated by the wine, the weights that wouldprobably be assigned to certain horses in the autumn handicap werediscussed. William was very proud of being admitted into such company, andhe listened, a cigar which he did not like between his teeth, and a glassof champagne in his hand.... Suddenly the conversation was interrupted bythe cornet sounding the first phrase of a favourite waltz, and the tipsyand the sober hastened away. 

Neither Esther nor William knew how to waltz, but they tumbled round theroom, enjoying themselves immensely. In the polka and mazurka they got onbetter; and there were quadrilles and lancers in which the gentlemenjoined, and all were gay and pleasant; even Sarah's usually sour faceglowed with cordiality when they joined hands and raced round the menstanding in the middle. In the chain they lost themselves as in alabyrinth and found their partners unexpectedly. But the dance of theevening was Sir Roger de Coverley, and Esther's usually sober little brainevaporated in the folly of running up the room, then turning and runningbackwards, getting into her place as best she could, and then startingagain. It always appeared to be her turn, and it was so sweet to see herdear William, and such a strange excitement to run forward to meet youngMr. Preston, to curtsey to him, and then run away; and this over and overagain. 

"There's the dawn. "

Esther looked, and in the whitening doorways she saw the little jockeystaggering about helplessly drunk. The smile died out of her eyes; shereturned to her true self, to Mrs. Barfield and the Brethren. She feltthat all this dancing, drinking, and kissing in the arbours was wicked. But Miss Mary had sent for her, and had told her that she would give herone of her dresses, and she had not known how to refuse Miss Mary. Then, if she had not gone, William--Sounds of loud voices were heard in thegarden, and the lean woman in the white muslin repeated some charge. Esther ran out to see what was happening, and there she witnessed adisgraceful scene. The lean woman in the muslin dress and the amber beadsaccused young Mr. Preston of something which he denied, and she heardWilliam tell someone that he was mistaken, that he and his pals didn'twant no rowing at this 'ere ball, and what was more they didn't mean tohave none. 

And her heart filled with love for her big William. What a fine fellow hewas! how handsome were his shoulders beside that round-shouldered littleman whom he so easily pulled aside! and having crushed out the quarrel, hehelped her on with her jacket, and, hanging on his arm, they returned homethrough the little town. Margaret followed with the railway porter; Sarahwas with her faithful admirer, a man with a red beard, whom she had pickedup at the ball; Grover waddled in the rear, embarrassed with the greensilk, which she held high out of the dust of the road. 

When they reached the station the sky was stained with rose, and thebarren downs--more tin-like than ever in the shadow-less light ofdawn--stretched across the sunrise from Lancing to Brighton. The littlebirds sat ruffling their feathers, and, awaking to the responsibilities ofthe day, flew away into the corn. The night had been close and sultry, andeven at this hour there was hardly any freshness in the air. Esther lookedat the hills, examining the landscape intently. She was thinking of thefirst time she saw it. Some vague association of ideas--the likeness thatthe morning landscape bore to the evening landscape, or the wish toprolong the sweetness of these, the last moments of her happiness, impelled her to linger and to ask William if the woods and fields were notbeautiful. The too familiar landscape awoke in William neither idea norsensation; Esther interested him more, and while she gazed dreamily on thehills he admired the white curve of her neck which showed beneath theunbuttoned jacket. She never looked prettier than she did that morning, standing on the dusty road, her white dress crumpled, the ends of the bluesash hanging beneath the black cloth jacket. 

XI

For days nothing was talked of but the ball--how this man had danced, thebad taste of this woman's dress, and the possibility of a marriage. Theball had brought amusement to all, to Esther it had brought happiness. Herhappiness was now visible in her face and audible in her voice, andSarah's ironical allusions to her inability to learn to read no longerannoyed her, no longer stirred her temper--her love seemed to induceforgiveness for all and love for everything. 

In the evenings when their work was done Esther and her lover lingeredabout the farm buildings, listening to the rooks, seeing the lights die inthe west; and in the summer darkness about nine she tripped by his sidewhen he took the letters to post. The wheat stacks were thatching, and inthe rickyard, in the carpenter's shop, and in the whist of the woods theytalked of love and marriage. They lay together in the warm valleys, listening to the tinkling of the sheep-bell, and one evening, putting hispipe aside, William threw his arm round her, whispering that she was hiswife. The words were delicious in her fainting ears, and her will died inwhat seemed like irresistible destiny. She could not struggle with him, though she knew that her fate depended upon her resistance, and swooningaway she awakened in pain, powerless to free herself.... Soon afterthoughts betook themselves on their painful way, and the stars wereshining when he followed her across the down, beseeching her to listen. But she fled along the grey road and up the stairs to her room. Margaretwas in bed, and awakening a little asked her what had kept her out solate. She did not answer... And hearing Margaret fall asleep sheremembered the supper-table. Sarah, who had come in late, had sat down byher; William sat on the opposite side; Mrs. Latch was in her place, thejockeys were all together; Mr. Swindles, his snuff-box on the table;Margaret and Grover. Everyone had drunk a great deal; and Mr. Leopold hadgone to the beer cellar many times. She thought that she rememberedfeeling a little dizzy when William asked her to come for a stroll up thehill. They had passed through the hunting gate; they had wandered into theloneliness of the hills. Over the folded sheep the rooks came home noisilythrough a deepening sky. So far she remembered, and she could not rememberfurther; and all night lay staring into the darkness, and when Margaretcalled her in the morning she was pale and deathlike. 

"Whatever is the matter? You do look ill. "

"I did not sleep all last night. My head aches as if it would drop off. Idon't feel as if I could go to work to-day. "

"That's the worst of being a servant. Well or ill, it makes no matter. "She turned from the glass, and holding her hair in her left hand, leanedher head so that she might pin it. "You do look bad, " she remarked dryly. 

Never had they been so late! Half-past seven, and the shutters still up!So said Margaret as they hurried downstairs. But Esther thought only ofthe meeting with William. She had seen him cleaning boots in the pantry asthey passed. He waited till Margaret left her, till he heard the baizedoor which separated the back premises from the front of the house close, then he ran to the kitchen, where he expected to find Esther alone. Butmeeting his mother he mumbled some excuse and retreated. There werevisitors in the house, he had a good deal to do that morning, and Estherkept close to Mrs. Latch; but at breakfast it suddenly became necessarythat she should answer him, and Sarah saw that Esther and William were nolonger friends. 

"Well I never! Look at her! She sits there over her tea-cup as melancholyas a prayer-meeting. "

"What is it to you?" said William. 

"What's it to me? I don't like an ugly face at the breakfast-table, that'sall. "

"I wouldn't be your looking-glass, then. Luckily there isn't one here. "

In the midst of an angry altercation, Esther walked out of the room. During dinner she hardly spoke at all. After dinner she went to her room, and did not come down until she thought he had gone out with the carriage. But she was too soon, William came running down the passage to meet her. He laid his hand supplicatingly on her arm. 

"Don't touch me!" she said, and her eyes filled with dangerous light. 

"Now, Esther! ... Come, don't lay it on too thick!"

"Go away. Don't speak to me!"

"Just listen one moment, that's all. "

"Go away. If you don't, I'll go straight to Mrs. Barfield. "

She passed into the kitchen and shut the door in his face. He had gone atrifle pale, and after lingering a few moments he hurried away to thestables, and Esther saw him spring on the box. 

As it was frequent with Esther not to speak to anyone with whom she hadhad a dispute for a week or fifteen days, her continued sulk excitedlittle suspicion, and the cause of the quarrel was attributed to sometrifle. Sarah said--

"Men are such fools. He is always begging of her to forgive him. Just lookat him--he is still after her, following her into the wood-shed. "

She rarely answered him a yes or no, but would push past him, and if heforcibly barred the way she would say, "Let me go by, will you? You areinterfering with my work. " And if he still insisted, she spoke ofappealing to Mrs. Barfield. And if her heart sometimes softened, and aninsidious thought whispered that it did not matter since they were goingto be married, instinct forced her to repel him; her instinct was that shecould only win his respect by refusing forgiveness for a long while. Thereligion in which her soul moved and lived--the sternestProtestantism--strengthened and enforced the original convictions and theprejudices of her race; and the natural shame which she had first feltalmost disappeared in the violence of her virtue. She even ceased to feardiscovery. What did it matter who knew, since she knew? She opened herheart to God. Christ looked down, but he seemed stern and unforgiving. HerChrist was the Christ of her forefathers; and He had not forgiven, becauseshe could not forgive herself. Hers was the unpardonable sin, the sinwhich her race had elected to fight against, and she lay down weary andsullen at heart. 

The days seemed to bring no change, and wearied by her stubbornness, William said, "Let her sulk, " and he went out with Sarah; and when Esthersaw them go down the yard her heart said, "Let him take her out, I don'twant him. " For she knew it to be a trick to make her jealous, and that heshould dare such a trick angered her still further against him, and whenthey met in the garden, where she had gone with some food for the cats, and he said, "Forgive me, Esther, I only went out with Sarah because youdrove me wild, " she closed her teeth and refused to answer. But he stoodin her path, determined not to leave her. "I am very fond of you, Esther, and I will marry you as soon as I have earned enough or won enough moneyto give you a comfortable 'ome. "

"You are a wicked man; I will never marry you. "

"I am very sorry, Esther. But I am not as bad as you think for. You letyour temper get the better of you. So soon as I have got a bit of moneytogether--"

"If you were a good man you would ask me to marry you now. "

"I will if you like, but the truth is that I have only three pounds in theworld. I have been unlucky lately--"

"You think of nothing but that wicked betting. Come, let me pass; I'm notgoing to listen to a lot of lies. "

"After the Leger--"

"Let me pass. I will not speak to you. "

"But look here, Esther: marriage or no marriage, we can't go on in thisway: they'll be suspecting something shortly. "

"I shall leave Woodview. " She had hardly spoken the words when it seemedclear to her that she must leave, and the sooner the better. "Come, let mepass.... If Mrs. Barfield--"

An angry look passed over William's face, and he said--

"I want to act honest with you, and you won't let me. If ever there was asulky pig! ... Sarah's quite right; you are just the sort that would makehell of a man's life. "

She was bound to make him respect her. She had vaguely felt from thebeginning that this was her only hope, and now the sensation developed anddefined itself into a thought and she decided that she would not yield, but would continue to affirm her belief that he must acknowledge his sin, and then come and ask her to marry him. Above all things, Esther desiredto see William repentant. Her natural piety, filling as it did her entirelife, unconsciously made her deem repentance an essential condition oftheir happiness. How could they be happy if he were not a God-fearing man?This question presented itself constantly, and she was suddenly convincedthat she could not marry him until he had asked forgiveness of the Lord. Then they would be joined together, and would love each other faithfullyunto death. 

But in conflict with her prejudices, her natural love of the man was asthe sun shining above a fog-laden valley; rays of passion pierced herstubborn nature, dissolving it, and unconsciously her eyes soughtWilliam's, and unconsciously her steps strayed from the kitchen when herears told her he was in the passage. But when her love went out freely toWilliam, when she longed to throw herself in his arms, saying, "Yes, Ilove you; make me your wife, " she noticed, or thought she noticed, that heavoided her eyes, and she felt that thoughts of which she knew nothing hadobtained a footing in his mind, and she was full of foreboding. 

Her heart being intent on him, she was aware of much that escaped theordinary eye, and she was the first to notice when the drawing-room bellrang, and Mr. Leopold rose, that William would say, "My legs are theyoungest, don't you stir. "

No one else, not even Sarah, thought William intended more than to keep inMr. Leopold's good graces, but Esther, although unable to guess the truth, heard the still tinkling bell ringing the knell of her hopes. She noted, too, the time he remained upstairs, and asked herself anxiously what itwas that detained him so long. The weather had turned colder lately.... Was it a fire that was wanted? In the course of the afternoon, she heardfrom Margaret that Miss Mary and Mrs. Barfield had gone to Southwick tomake a call, and she heard from one of the boys that the Gaffer and Gingerhad ridden over in the morning to Fendon Fair, and had not yet returned. It must have been Peggy who had rung the bell. Peggy? Suddenly sheremembered something--something that had been forgotten. The first Sunday, the first time she went to the library for family prayers, Peggy wassitting on the little green sofa, and as Esther passed across the room toher place she saw her cast a glance of admiration on William's tallfigure, and the memory of that glance had flamed up in her brain, and allthat night Esther saw the girl with the pale face and the coal-black hairlooking at her William. 

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 mistakenwhen the metal tongue commenced calling. She heard the baize door closebehind him; but the bell still continued to utter little pathetic notes. Amoment after all was still in the corridor, and like one sunk to the kneesin quicksands she felt that the time had come for a decided effort. Butwhat could she do? She could not follow him to the drawing-room. She hadbegun to notice that he seemed to avoid her, and by his conduct seemed towish that their quarrel might endure. But pride and temper had fallen fromher, and she lived conscious of him, noting every sign, and intensely, allthat related to him, divining all his intentions, and meeting him in thepassage 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-roombell 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 saidanother word. 

Sarah remarked that William seemed to spend a great deal of his time inthe drawing-room, and Esther started out of her moody contemplation, and, speaking instinctively, she said, "I don't think much of ladies who goafter their servants. "

Everyone looked up. Mrs. Latch laid her carving-knife on the meat andfixed her eyes on her son. 

"Lady?" said Sarah; "she's no lady! Her mother used to mop out the yardbefore she was 'churched. '"

"I can tell you what, " said William, "you had better mind what you area-saying of, for if any of your talk got wind upstairs you'd lose yersituation, and it might be some time before yer got another!"

"Lose my situation! and a good job, too. I shall always be able to suitmesel'; don't you fear about me. But if it comes to talking aboutsituations, I can tell you that you are more likely to lose yours than Iam to lose mine. "

William hesitated, and while he sought a judicious reply Mrs. Latch andMr. Leopold, putting forth their joint authority, brought the discussionto a close. The jockey-boys exchanged grins, Sarah sulked, Mr. Swindlespursed up his mouth in consideration, and the elder servants felt that thematter would not rest in the servant's hall; that evening it would be thetheme of conversation in the "Red Lion, " and the next day it would be thetalk of the town. 

About four o'clock Esther saw Mrs. Barfield, Miss Mary, and Peggy walkacross the yard towards the garden, and as Esther had to go soon after tothe wood-shed she saw Peggy slip out of the garden by a bottom gate andmake her way through the evergreens. Esther hastened back to the kitchenand stood waiting for the bell to ring. She had not to wait long; the belltinkled, but so faintly that Esther said, "She only just touched it; it isa signal; he was on the look-out for it; she did not want anyone else tohear. "

Esther remembered the thousands of pounds she had heard that the younglady possessed, and the beautiful dresses she wore. There was no hope forher. How could there be? Her poor little wages and her print dress! Hewould never look at her again! But oh! how cruel and wicked it was! Howcould one who had so much come to steal from one who had so little? Oh, itwas very cruel and very wicked, and no good would come of it either to heror 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 hispromises--after what had happened. Never would she have believed him to beso false. Then her thought turned to passionate hatred of the girl who hadso cruelly robbed her. He had gone through that baize door, and no doubthe was sitting by Peggy in the new drawing-room. He had gone where shecould not follow. He had gone where the grand folk lived in idleness, inthe sinfulness of the world and the flesh, eating and gambling, thinkingof nothing else, and with servants to wait on them, obeying their ordersand saving them from every trouble. She knew that these fine folk thoughtservants inferior beings. But was she not of the same flesh and blood asthey? Peggy wore a fine dress, but she was no better; take off her dressand they were the same, woman to woman. 

She pushed through the door and walked down the passage. A few stepsbrought her to the foot of a polished oak staircase, lit by a large windowin coloured glass, on either side of which there were statues. Thestaircase sloped slowly to an imposing landing set out with columns andblue 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--thedrawing-room of which she had heard so much, and where even now, amid goldfurniture and sweet-scented air, William listened to the wicked woman whohad tempted him away from her. Suddenly William appeared, and seeingEsther he seemed uncertain whether to draw back or come forward. Then hisface took an expression of mixed fear and anger; and coming rapidlytowards her, he said--

"What are you doing here?"... Then changing his voice, "This is againstthe 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 tellyou.... 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, herhandkerchief to her lips. Esther made a movement as if to follow, butWilliam prevented her. She turned and walked down the passage and enteredthe kitchen. Her face was one white tint, her short, strong arms hungtremblingly, and William saw that it would be better to temporise. 

"Now look here, Esther, " he said, "you ought to be damned thankful to mefor 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 herarm. Esther threw the knife; it struck the wall, falling with a rattle onthe meat screen. Escaping from Mrs. Latch, she rushed to secure it, buther 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 shouldnot go out with Sarah. "

"That is not true.... I can read the lie in your face; a girl doesn't takeup 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 walkedout of the house. 

Mrs. Latch saw him pass down the yard towards the stables, and when Estheropened her eyes she looked at Mrs. Latch questioningly, unable tounderstand 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 Istrike 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 knowwhat 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 seehim to-morrow. "

"I do not want to go after him; but he isn't hurt? That's what I want toknow. "

"No, he isn't hurt.... You're getting stronger.... Lean on me. You'llbegin 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 thedinner?"

"Don't you worry about that; you go upstairs and lie down. "

A desolate hope floated over the surface of her brain that William mightbe brought back to her. 

In the evening the kitchen was full of people: Margaret, Sarah, and Groverwere there, and she heard that immediately after lunch Mr. Leopold hadbeen sent for, and the Gaffer had instructed him to pay William a month'swages, 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 havehappened. William was now separated from her rival, and released from herbad influence he would return to his real love. At the first sign shewould go to him, she would forgive him. But a little later, when thedishes came down from the dining-room, it was whispered that Peggy was notthere. 

Later in the evening, when the servants were going to bed, it became knownthat she had left the house, that she had taken the six o'clock toBrighton. 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 knowwhere they are. "

Neither Sarah nor Grover made any remark, and in silence the servants wentto their rooms. Margaret closed the door and turned to look at Esther, whohad 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 seemsas 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 boxeswith the initials painted on them. Kneeling on the box-seat, the coachmanleaned over the roof making room for another--a small box covered with redcowhide and tied with a rough rope. The little box in its poor simplicitybrought William back to Esther, whelming her for a moment in so acute asense of her loss that she had to leave the kitchen. She went into thescullery, drew the door after her, sat down, and hid her face in herapron. A stifled sob or two, and then she recovered her habitual gravityof expression, and continued her work as if nothing had happened. 

XII

"They are just crazy about it upstairs. Ginger and the Gaffer are theworst. They say they had better sell the place and build another housesomewhere else. None of the county people will call on them now--and justas they were beginning to get on so well! Miss Mary, too, is terrible cutup about it; she says it will interfere with her prospects, and thatGinger has nothing to do now but to marry the kitchen-maid to complete theruin of the Barfields. "

"Miss Mary is far too kind to say anything to wound another's feelings. Itis only a nasty old deceitful thing like yourself who could think of sucha thing. "

"Eh, you got it there, my lady, " said Sarah, who had had a difference withGrover, and was anxious to avenge it. 

Grover looked at Sarah in astonishment, and her look clearly said, "Iseveryone going to side with that little kitchen-maid?"

Then, to flatter Mrs. Latch, Sarah spoke of the position the Latches hadheld three generations ago; the Barfields were then nobodies; they hadnothing even now but their money, and that had come out of a liverystable. "And it shows, too; just compare Ginger with young Preston oryoung Northcote. Anyone could tell the difference. "

Esther listened with an unmoved face and a heavy ache in her heart. Shehad now not an enemy nor yet an opponent; the cause of rivalry andjealousy being removed, all were sorry for her. They recognised that shehad suffered and was suffering, and seeing none but friends about her, shewas led to think how happy she might have been in this beautiful house ifit had not been for William. She loved her work, for she was working forthose she loved. She could imagine no life happier than hers might havebeen. But she had sinned, and the Lord had punished her for sin, and shemust bear her punishment uncomplainingly, giving Him thanks that He hadimposed no heavier one upon her. 

Such reflection was the substance of Esther's mind for three months afterWilliam's departure; and in the afternoons, about three o'clock, when herwork paused, Esther's thoughts would congregate and settle on the greatmisfortune of her life--William's desertion. 

It was one afternoon at the beginning of December; Mrs. Latch had goneupstairs to lie down. Esther had drawn her chair towards the fire. Abroken-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. Shesat on her wooden chair facing the wide kitchen window. She had advancedone foot on the iron fender; her head leaned back, rested on her hand. Shedid not think--her mind was lost in vague sensation of William, and it wasin this death of active memory that something awoke within her, somethingthat seemed to her like a flutter of wings; her heart seemed to drop fromits socket, and she nearly fainted away, but recovering herself she stoodby the kitchen table, her arms drawn back and pressed to her sides, adeath-like pallor over her face, and drops of sweat on her forehead. Thetruth was borne in upon her; she realised in a moment part of the awfuldrama that awaited her, and from which nothing could free her, and whichshe would have to live through hour by hour. So dreadful did it seem, thatshe 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, andwho thought so highly of her. Her father would not have her at home; shewould be homeless in London. No hope of obtaining a situation.... Theywould send her away without a character, homeless in London, and everymonth her position growing more desperate.... 

A sickly faintness crept up through her. The flesh had come to the reliefof the spirit; and she sank upon her chair, almost unconscious, sick, itseemed, to death, and she rose from the chair wiping her forehead slowlywith her apron.... She might be mistaken. And she hid her face in herhands, and then, falling on her knees, her arms thrown forward upon thetable, she prayed for strength to walk without flinching under any crossthat He had thought fit to lay upon her. 

There was still the hope that she might be mistaken; and this hope lastedfor one week, for two, but at the end of the third week it perished, andshe abandoned herself in prayer. She prayed for strength to endure withcourage what she now knew she must endure, and she prayed for light toguide her in her present decision. Mrs. Barfield, however much she mightpity her, could not keep her once she knew the truth, whereas none mightknow the truth if she did not tell it. She might remain at Woodviewearning another quarter's wages; the first she had spent on boots andclothes, the second she had just been paid. If she stayed on for anotherquarter she would have eight pounds, and with that money, and much lesstime to keep herself, she might be able to pull through. But would she beable to go undetected for nearly three whole months, until her next wagescame due? She must risk it. 

Three months of constant fear and agonising suspense wore away, and noone, not even Margaret, suspected Esther's condition. Encouraged by hersuccess, and seeing still very little sign of change in her person, and asevery penny she could earn was of vital consequence in the coming time, Esther determined to risk another month; then she would give notice andleave. Another month passed, and Esther was preparing for departure when awhisper went round, and before she could take steps to leave she was toldthat Mrs. Barfield wished to see her in the library. Esther turned alittle pale, and the expression of her face altered; it seemed to herimpossible to go before Mrs. Barfield and admit her shame. Margaret, whowas 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 enough to the faults of others. "

"What's this? What's the matter with Esther?" said Mrs. Latch, who had notyet 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 withoutfurther thought. She had then but to turn to the left and a few stepswould bring her to the library door. The room was already present in hermind. She could see it. The dim light, the little green sofa, the roundtable 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-knownvoice said, "Come in. " She turned the handle, and found herself alone withher mistress. Mrs. Barfield laid down the book she was reading, and lookedup. She did not look as angry as Esther had imagined, but her voice washarder 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 thensaid--

"And all this time--how long is it?"

"Nearly seven months, ma'am. "

"And all this time you were deceiving us. "

"I was three months gone before I knew it myself, ma'am. "

"Three months! Then for three months you have knelt every Sunday in prayerin this room, for twelve Sundays you sat by me learning to read, and younever said a word?"

A certain harshness in Mrs. Barfield's voice awakened a rebellious spiritin Esther, and a lowering expression gathered above her eyes. She said--

"Had I told you, you would have sent me away then and there. I had only aquarter's wages, and should have starved or gone and drowned myself. "

"I'm sorry to hear you speak like that, Esther. "

"It is trouble that makes me, ma'am, and I have had a great deal. "

"Why did you not confide in me? I have not shown myself cruel to you, haveI?"

"No, indeed, ma'am. You are the best mistress a servant ever had, but--"

"But what?"

"Why, ma'am, it is this way.... I hated being deceitful--indeed I did. ButI can no longer think of myself. There is another to think for now. "

There was in Mrs. Barfield's look something akin to admiration, and shefelt she had not been wholly wrong in her estimate of the girl'scharacter; she said, and in a different intonation--

"Perhaps you were right, Esther. I couldn't have kept you on, on accountof the bad example to the younger servants. I might have helped you withmoney. But six months alone in London and in your condition! ... I am gladyou did not tell me, Esther; and as you say there is another to think ofnow, I hope you will never neglect your child, if God give it to youalive. "

"I hope not, ma'am; I shall try and do my best. "

"My poor girl! my poor girl! you do not know what trial is in store foryou. A girl like you, and only twenty! ... Oh, it is a shame! May God giveyou courage to bear up in your adversity!"

"I know there is many a hard time before me, but I have prayed forstrength, and God will give me strength, and I must not complain. My caseis not so bad as many another. I have nearly eight pounds. I shall get on, ma'am, that is to say if you will stand by me and not refuse me acharacter. "

"Can I give you a character? You were tempted, you were led intotemptation. I ought to have watched over you better--mine is theresponsibility. Tell me, it was not your fault. "

"It is always a woman's fault, ma'am. But he should not have deserted meas he did, that's the only thing I reproach him with, the rest was myfault--I shouldn't have touched the second glass of ale. Besides, I was inlove with him, and you know what that is. I thought no harm, and I let himkiss me. He used to take me out for walks on the hill and round the farm. He told me he loved me, and would make me his wife--that's how it was. Afterwards he asked me to wait till after the Leger, and that riled me, and I knew then how wicked I had been. I would not go out with him orspeak to him any more; and while our quarrel was going on Miss Peggy wentafter him, and that's how I got left. "

At the mention of Peggy's name a cloud passed over Mrs. Barfield's face. "You have been shamefully treated, my poor child. I knew nothing of allthis. So he said he would marry you if he won his bet on the Leger? Oh, that betting! I know that nothing else is thought of here; upstairs anddownstairs, the whole place is poisoned with it, and it is the fault of--"Mrs. Barfield walked hurriedly across the room, but when she turned thesight of Esther provoked her into speech. "I have seen it all my life, nothing else, and I have seen nothing come of it but sin and sorrow; youare not the first victim. Ah, what ruin, what misery, what death!"

Mrs. Barfield covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out thememories that crowded upon her. 

"I think, ma'am, if you will excuse my saying so, that a great deal ofharm do come from this betting on race-horses. The day when you was allaway at Goodwood when the horse won, I went down to see what the sea waslike here. I was brought up by the seaside at Barnstaple. On the beach Imet Mrs. Leopold, that is to say Mrs. Randal, John's wife; she seemed tobe in great trouble, she looked that melancholy, and for company's sakeshe asked me to come home to tea with her. She was in that state of mind, ma'am, that she forgot the teaspoons were in pawn, and when she could notgive me one she broke down completely, and told me what her troubles hadbeen. "

"What did she tell you, Esther?"

"I hardly remember, ma'am, but it was all the same thing--ruin if thehorse didn't win, and more betting if he did. But she said they never hadbeen in such a fix as the day Silver Braid won. If he had been beaten theywould have been thrown out on the street, and from what I have heard thebest half of the town too. "

"So that little man has suffered. I thought he was wiser than the rest.... This house has been the ruin of the neighbourhood; we have dispensed viceinstead of righteousness. " Walking towards the window, Mrs. Barfieldcontinued to talk to herself. "I have struggled against the evil all mylife, and without result. How much more misery shall I see come of it?"Turning then to Esther she said, "Yes, the betting is an evil--one fromwhich many have suffered--but the question is now about yourself, Esther. How much money have you?"

"I have about eight pounds, ma'am. "

"And how much do you reckon will see you through it?"

"I don't know, ma'am, I have no experience. I think father will let mestay at home if I can pay my way. I could manage easily on seven shillingsa week. When my time comes I shall go to the hospital. "

While Esther spoke Mrs. Barfield calculated roughly that about ten poundswould meet most of her wants. Her train fare, two month's board at sevenshillings a week, the room she would have to take near the hospital beforeher confinement, and to which she would return with her baby--all thesewould run to about four or five pounds. There would be baby's clothes tobuy.... If she gave four pounds Esther would have then twelve pounds, andwith that she would be able to manage. Mrs. Barfield went over to anold-fashioned escritoire, and, pulling out some small drawers, took fromone some paper packages which she unfolded. "Now, my girl, look here. I'mgoing to give you four pounds; then you will have twelve, and that oughtto see you through your trouble. You have been a good servant, Esther; Ilike you very much, and am truly sorry to part with you. You will writeand tell me how you are getting on, and if one of these days you want aplace, and I have one to give you, I shall be glad to take you back. "

Harshness deadened and hardened her feelings, yet she was easily moved bykindness, and she longed to throw herself at her mistress's feet; but hernature did not admit of such effusion, and she said, in her blunt Englishway--

"You are far too good, ma'am; I do not deserve such treatment--I know Idon't. "

"Say no more, Esther. I hope that the Lord may give you strength to bearyour cross.... Now go and pack up your box. But, Esther, do you feel yoursin, can you truly say honestly before God that you repent?"

"Yes, ma'am, I think I can say all that. "

"Then, Esther, come and kneel down and pray to God to give you strength inthe future to stand against temptation. "

Mrs. Barfield took Esther's hand and they knelt down by the round table, leaning their hands on its edge. And, in a high, clear voice, Mrs. Barfield prayed aloud, Esther repeating the words after her--

"Dear Lord, Thou knowest all things, knowest how Thy servant has strayedand has fallen into sin. But Thou hast said there is more joy in heavenover one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just men. Therefore, Lord, kneeling here before Thee, we pray that this poor girl, who repents of the evil she has done, may be strengthened in Thy mercy tostand firm against temptation. Forgive her sin, even as Thou forgavest thewoman of Samaria. Give her strength to walk uprightly before Thee, andgive her strength to bear the pain and the suffering that lie before her. "

The women rose from their knees and stood looking at each other. Esther'seyes were full of tears. Without speaking she turned to go. 

"One word more, Esther. You asked me just now for a character; Ihesitated, but it seems to me now that it would be wrong to refuse. If Idid you might never get a place, and then it would be impossible to saywhat might happen. I am not certain that I am doing right, but I know whatit means to refuse to give a servant a character, and I cannot take uponmyself the responsibility. "

Mrs. Barfield wrote out a character for Esther, in which she described heras an honest, hard-working girl. She paused at the word "reliable, " andwrote instead, "I believe her to be at heart a thoroughly religious girl. "

She went upstairs to pack her box, and when she came down she found allthe women in the kitchen; evidently they were waiting for her. Comingforward, Sarah said--

"I hope we shall part friends, Esther; any quarrels we may havehad--There's no ill-feeling now, is there?"

"I bear no one any ill-feeling. We have been friends these last months;indeed, everyone has been very kind to me. " And Esther kissed Sarah onboth cheeks. 

"I'm sure we're all sorry to lose you, " said Margaret, pressing forward, "and we hope you'll write and let us know how you are getting on. "

Margaret, who was a tender-hearted girl, began to cry, and, kissingEsther, she declared that she had never got on with a girl who slept inher room so well before. Esther shook hands with Grover, and then her eyesmet Mrs. Latch's. The old woman took her in her arms. 

"It breaks my heart to think that one belonging to me should have done yousuch a wrong--But if you want for anything let me know, and you shall haveit. You will want money; I have some here for you. "

"Thank you, thank you, but I have all I want. Mrs. Barfield has been verygood to me. "

The babbling of so many voices drew Mr. Leopold from the pantry; he camewith a glass of beer in his hand, and this suggested a toast to Sarah. "Let's drink baby's health, " she said. "Mr. Leopold won't refuse us thebeer. "

The idea provoked some good-natured laughter, and Esther hid her face inher hands and tried to get away. But Margaret would not allow her. "Whatnonsense!" she said. "We don't think any the worse of you; why that's anaccident that might happen to any of us. "

"I hope not, " said Esther. 

The jug of beer was finished; she was kissed and hugged again, some tearswere shed, and Esther walked down the yard through the stables. 

The avenue was full of wind and rain; the branches creaked dolefullyoverhead; the lane was drenched, and the bare fields were fringed withwhite mist, and the houses seemed very desolate by the bleak sea; and thegirl's soul was desolate as the landscape. She had come to Woodview toescape the suffering of a home which had become unendurable, and she wasgoing back in circumstances a hundred times worse than those in which shehad left it, and she was going back with the memory of the happiness shehad lost. All the grief and trouble that girls of her class have sofrequently to bear gathered in Esther's heart when she looked out of therailway carriage window and saw for the last time the stiff plantations onthe downs and the angles of the Italian house between the trees. She drewher handkerchief from her jacket, and hid her distress as well as shecould from the other occupants of the carriage. 

XIII

When she arrived at Victoria it was raining. She picked up her skirt, andas she stepped across a puddle a wild and watery wind swept up the wetstreets, catching her full in the face. 

She had left her box in the cloak-room, for she did not know if her fatherwould have her at home. Her mother would tell her what she thought, but noone could say for certain what he would do. If she brought the box hemight fling it after her into the street; better come without it, even ifshe had to go back through the wet to fetch it. At that moment anothergust drove the rain violently over her, forcing it through her boots. Thesky was a tint of ashen grey, and all the low brick buildings were veiledin vapour; the rough roadway was full of pools, and nothing was heard butthe melancholy bell of the tram-car. She hesitated, not wishing to spend apenny unnecessarily, but remembering that a penny wise is often a poundfoolish she called to the driver and got in. The car passed by the littlebrick street where the Saunders lived, and when Esther pushed the dooropen she could see into the kitchen and overhear the voices of thechildren. Mrs. Saunders was sweeping down the stairs, but at the sound offootsteps she ceased to bang the broom, and, stooping till her head lookedover the banisters, she cried--

"Who is it?"

"Me, mother. "

"What! You, Esther?"

"Yes, mother. "

Mrs. Saunders hastened down, and, leaning the broom against the wall, shetook her daughter in her arms and kissed her. "Well, this is nice to seeyou again, after this long while. But you are looking a bit poorly, Esther. " Then her face changed expression. "What has happened? Have youlost your situation?"

"Yes, mother. "

"Oh, I am that sorry, for we thought you was so 'appy there and liked yourmistress above all those you 'ad ever met with. Did you lose your temperand answer her back? They is often trying, I know that, and your owntemper--you was never very sure of it. "

"I've no fault to find with my mistress; she is the kindest in theworld--none better, --and my temper--it wasn't that, mother--"

"My own darling, tell me--"

Esther paused. The children had ceased talking in the kitchen, and thefront door was open. "Come into the parlour. We can talk quietly there.... When do you expect father home?"

"Not for the best part of a couple of hours yet. "

Mrs. Saunders waited until Esther had closed the front door. Then theywent into the parlour and sat down side by side on the little horsehairsofa placed against the wall facing the window. The anxiety in theirhearts betrayed itself on their faces. 

"I had to leave, mother. I'm seven months gone. "

"Oh, Esther, Esther, I cannot believe it!"

"Yes, mother, it is quite true. "

Esther hurried through her story, and when her mother questioned herregarding details she said--

"Oh, mother, what does it matter? I don't care to talk about it more thanI can help. "

Tears had begun to roll down Mrs. Saunders' cheeks, and when she wipedthem away with the corner of her apron, Esther heard a sob. 

"Don't cry, mother, " said Esther. "I have been very wicked, I know, butGod will be good to me. I always pray to him, just as you taught me to do, and I daresay I shall get through my trouble somehow. "

"Your father will never let you stop 'ere; 'e'll say, just as afore, thatthere be too many mouths to feed as it is. "

"I don't want him to keep me for nothing--I know well enough if I did that'e'd put me outside quick enough. But I can pay my way. I earned goodmoney while I was with the Barfields, and though she did tell me I mustgo, Mrs. Barfield--the Saint they call her, and she is a saint if everthere was one--gave me four pounds to see me, as she said, through mytrouble. I've better than eleven pound. Don't cry, mother dear; cryingwon't do no good, and I want you to help me. So long as the money holdsout I can get a lodging anywhere, but I'd like to be near you; and fathermight be glad to let me have the parlour and my food for ten or elevenshillings a week--I could afford as much as that, and he never was the manto turn good money from his door. Do yer think he will?"

"I dunno, dearie; 'tis hard to say what 'e'll do; he's a 'ard man to livewith. I've 'ad a terrible time of it lately, and them babies allus coming. Ah, we poor women have more than our right to bear with!"

"Poor mother!" said Esther, and, taking her mother's hand in hers, shepassed her arm round her, drew her closer, and kissed her. "I know what hewas; is he any worse now?"

"Well, I think he drinks more, and is even rougher. It was only the otherday, just as I was attending to his dinner--it was a nice piece of steak, and it looked so nice that I cut off a weany piece to taste. He sees me doit, and he cries out, 'Now then, guts, what are you interfering with mydinner for?' I says, 'I only cut off a tiny piece to taste. ' 'Well, then, taste that, ' he says, and strikes me clean between the eyes. Ah, yes, lucky for you to be in service; you've half forgot by now what we've toput up with 'ere. "

"You was always that soft with him, mother; he never touched me since Idashed the hot water in his face. "

"Sometimes I thinks I can bear it no longer, Esther, and long to go anddrown meself. Jenny and Julia--you remember little Julia; she 'as grown upsuch a big girl, and is getting on so well--they are both at work now inthe kitchen. Johnnie gives us a deal of trouble; he cannot tell a word oftruth; father took off his strap the other day and beat him dreadful, butit ain't no use. If it wasn't for Jenny and Julia I don't think we shouldever make both ends meet; but they works all day at the dogs, and at thewarehouse their dogs is said to be neater and more lifelike than anyother. Their poor fingers is worn away cramming the paper into the moulds;but they never complains, no more shouldn't I if he was a bit gentler anddidn't take more than half of what he earns to the public-'ouse. I wasglad you was away, Esther, for you allus was of an 'asty temper andcouldn't 'ave borne it. I don't want to make my troubles seem worse thanthey be, but sometimes I think I will break up, 'special when I get tothinking what will become of us and all them children, money growing lessand expenses increasing. I haven't told yer, but I daresay you havenoticed that another one is coming. It is the children that breaks us poorwomen down altogether. Ah, well, yours be the hardest trouble, but youmust put a brave face on it; we'll do the best we can; none of us can sayno more. "

Mrs. Saunders wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; Esther lookedat her with her usual quiet, stubborn stare, and without further wordsmother and daughter went into the kitchen where the girls were at work. Itwas a long, low room, with one window looking on a small back-yard, at theback of which was the coal-hole, the dust-bin, and a small outhouse. Therewas a long table and a bench ran along the wall. The fireplace was on theleft-hand side; the dresser stood against the opposite wall; and amid thepoor crockery, piled about in every available space, were the toy dogs, some no larger than your hand, others almost as large as a small poodle. Jenny and Julia had been working busily for some days, and were nowfinishing the last few that remained of the order they had received fromthe shop they worked for. Three small children sat on the floor tearingthe brown paper, which they handed as it was wanted to Jenny and Julia. The big girls leaned over the table in front of iron moulds, filling themwith brown paper, pasting it down, tucking it in with strong and dexterousfingers. 

"Why, it is Esther!" said Jenny, the elder girl. "And, lorks, ain't shegrand!--quite the lady. Why, we hardly knowed ye. " And having kissed theirsister circumspectly, careful not to touch the clothes they admired withtheir pasty fingers, they stood lost in contemplation, thrilled withconsciousness of the advantage of service. 

Esther took Harry, a fine little boy of four, up in her arms, and askedhim if he remembered her. 

"Naw, I don't think I do. Will oo put me down?"

"But you do, Lizzie?" she said, addressing a girl of seven, whose brightred hair shone like a lamp in the gathering twilight. 

"Yes, you're my big sister; you've been away this year or more inservice. "

"And you, Maggie, do you remember me too?"

Maggie at first seemed doubtful, but after a moment's reflection shenodded her head vigorously. 

"Come, Esther, see how Julia is getting on, " said Mrs. Saunders; "shemakes her dogs nearly as fast as Jenny. She is still a bit careless indrawing the paper into the moulds. Well, just as I was speaking of it:'ere's a dog with one shoulder just 'arf the size of the other. "

"Oh, mother, I'm sure nobody'd never know the difference. "

"Wouldn't know the difference! Just look at the hanimal! Is it natural?Sich carelessness I never seed. "

"Esther, just look at Julia's dog, " cried Jenny, "'e 'asn't got no morethan 'arf a shoulder. It's lucky mother saw it, for if the manager'd seenit he'd have found something wrong with I don't know 'ow many more, anddocked us maybe a shilling or more on the week's work. "

Julia began to cry. 

"Jenny is always down on me. She is jealous just because mother said Iworked as fast as she did. If her work was overhauled--"

"There are all my dogs there on the right-hand side of the dresser--Ialways 'as the right for my dogs--and if you find one there with an unevenshoulder I'll--"

"Jennie is so fat that she likes everything like 'erself; that's why shestuffs so much paper into her dogs. "

It was little Ethel speaking from her corner, and her explanation of theexcellence of Jenny's dogs, given with stolid childish gravity in theinterval of tearing a large sheet of brown paper, made them laugh. But inthe midst of the laughter thought of her great trouble came upon Esther. Mrs. Saunders noticed this, and a look of pity came into her eyes, and tomake an end of the unseemly gaiety she took Julia's dog and told her thatit must be put into the mould again. She cut the skin away, and helped toforce the stiff paper over the edge of the mould. 

"Now, " she said, "it is a dog; both shoulders is equal, and if it was areal dog he could walk. "

"Oh, bother!" cried Jenny, "I shan't be able to finish my last dozen thisevening. I 'ave no more buttons for the eyes, and the black pins thatJulia is a-using of for her little one won't do for this size. "

"Won't they give yer any at the shop? I was counting on the money theywould bring to finish the week with. "

"No, we can't get no buttons in the shop: that's 'ome work, they says; andeven if they 'ad them they wouldn't let us put them in there. That's 'omework they says to everything; they is a that disagreeable lot. "

"But 'aven't you got sixpence, mother? and I'll run and get them. "

"No, I've run short. "

"But, " said Esther, "I'll give you sixpence to get your buttons with. "

"Yes, that's it; give us sixpence, and yer shall have it back to-morrow ifyou are 'ere. How long are yer up for? If not, we'll send it. "

"I'm not going back just yet. "

"What, 'ave yer lost yer situation?"

"No, no, " said Mrs. Saunders, "Esther ain't well--she 'as come up for 'er'ealth; take the sixpence and run along. "

"May I go too?" said Julia. "I've been at work since eight, and I've onlya few more dogs to do. "

"Yes, you may go with your sister. Run along; don't bother me any more, I've got to get your father's supper. "

When Jenny and Julia had left, Esther and Mrs. Saunders could talk freely;the other children were too young to understand. 

"There is times when 'e is well enough, " said Mrs. Saunders, "and otherswhen 'e is that awful. It is 'ard to know 'ow to get him, but 'e is to begot if we only knew 'ow. Sometimes 'tis most surprising how easy 'e dotake things, and at others--well, as about that piece of steak that I wasa-telling you of. Should you catch him in that humour 'e's as like as notto take ye by the shoulder and put you out; but if he be in a good humour'e's as like as not to say, 'Well, my gal, make yerself at 'ome. '"

"He can but turn me out, I'll leave yer to speak to 'im, mother. "

"I'll do my best, but I don't answer for nothing. A nice bit of supper domake a difference in 'im, and as ill luck will 'ave it, I've nothing but arasher, whereas if I only 'ad a bit of steak 'e'd brighten up the momenthe clapt eyes on it and become that cheerful. "

"But, mother, if you think it will make a difference I can easily slipround to the butcher's and----"

"Yes, get half a pound, and when it's nicely cooked and inside him it'llmake all the difference. That will please him. But I don't like to see youspending your money--money that you'll want badly. "

"It can't be helped, mother. I shan't be above a minute or two away, andI'll bring back a pint of porter with the steak. "

Coming back she met Jenny and Julia, and when she told them her purchasesthey remarked significantly that they were now quite sure of a pleasantevening. 

"When he's done eating 'e'll go out to smoke his pipe with some of hischaps, " said Jenny, "and we shall have the 'ouse to ourselves, and yer cantell us all about your situation. They keeps a butler and a footman, don'tthey? They must be grand folk. And what was the footman like? Was he veryhandsome? I've 'eard that they all is. "

"And you'll show us yer dresses, won't you?" said Julia. "How many 'aveyou got, and 'ow did yer manage to save up enough money to buy suchbeauties, if they're all like that?"

"This dress was given to me by Miss Mary. "

"Was it? She must be a real good 'un. I should like to go to service; I'mtired of making dogs; we have to work that 'ard, and it nearly all goes tothe public; father drinks worse than ever. "

Mrs. Saunders approved of Esther's purchase; it was a beautiful bit ofsteak. The fire was raked up, and a few minutes after the meat wasroasting on the gridiron. The clock continued its coarse ticking amid therough plates on the dresser. Jenny and Julia hastened with their work, pressing the paper with nervous fingers into the moulds, calling sharplyto the little group for what sized paper they required. Esther and Mrs. Saunders waited, full of apprehension, for the sound of a heavy tread inthe passage. At last it came. Mrs. Saunders turned the meat, hoping thatits savoury odour would greet his nostrils from afar, and that he wouldcome to them mollified and amiable. 

"Hullo, Jim; yer are 'ome a bit earlier to-day. I'm not quite ready withyer supper. "

"I dunno that I am. Hullo, Esther! Up for the day? Smells damned nice, what you're cooking for me, missus. What is it?"

"Bit of steak, Jim. It seems a beautiful piece. Hope it will eat tender. "

"That it will. I was afeard you would have nothing more than a rasher, andI'm that 'ungry. "

Jim Saunders was a stout, dark man about forty. He had not shaved for somedays, his face was black with beard; his moustache was cut into bristle;around his short, bull neck he wore a ragged comforter, and his bluejacket was shabby and dusty, and the trousers were worn at the heels. Hethrew his basket into a corner, and then himself on the rough bench nailedagainst the wall, and there, without speaking another word, he laysniffing the odour of the meat like an animal going to be fed. Suddenly awhiff from the beer jug came into his nostrils, and reaching out his roughhand he looked into the jug to assure himself he was not mistaken. 

"What's this?" he exclaimed; "a pint of porter! Yer are doing me prettywell this evening, I reckon. What's up?"

"Nothing, Jim; nothing, dear, but just as Esther has come up we thoughtwe'd try to make yer comfortable. It was Esther who fetched it; she 'asbeen doing pretty well, and can afford it. "

Jim looked at Esther in a sort of vague and brutal astonishment, andfeeling he must say something, and not knowing well what, he said----

"Well, 'ere's to your good health!" and he took a long pull at the jug. "Where did you get this?"

"In Durham street, at the 'Angel. '"

"I thought as much; they don't sell stuff like this at the 'Rose andCrown. ' Well, much obliged to yer. I shall enjoy my bit of steak now; andI see a tater in the cinders. How are you getting on, old woman--is itnearly done? Yer know I don't like all the goodness burnt out of it. "

"It isn't quite done yet, Jim; a few minutes more----"

Jim sniffed in eager anticipation, and then addressed himself to Esther. 

"Well, they seem to do yer pretty well down there. My word, what a toffyer are! Quite a lady.... There's nothing like service for a girl; I'vealways said so. Eh, Jenny, wouldn't yer like to go into service, like yersister? Looks better, don't it, than making toy dogs at three-and-sixpencethe gross?"

"I should just think it was. I wish I could. As soon as Maggie can take myplace, I mean to try. "

"It was the young lady of the 'ouse that gave 'er that nice dress, " saidJulia. "My eye! she must have been a favourite. "

At that moment Mrs. Saunders picked the steak from the gridiron, andputting it on a nice hot plate she carried it in her apron to Jim, saying, "Mind yer 'ands, it is burning 'ot. "

Jim fed in hungry silence, the children watching, regretting that none ofthem ever had suppers like that. He didn't speak until he had put away thebetter part of the steak; then, after taking a long pull at the jug ofbeer, he said--

"I 'aven't enjoyed a bit of food like that this many a day; I was thatbeat when I came in, and it does do one good to put a piece of honest meatinto one's stomach after a 'ard day's work!"

Then, prompted by a sudden thought, he complimented Esther on her looks, and then, with increasing interest, inquired what kind of people she wasstaying with. But Esther was in no humour for conversation, and answeredhis questions briefly without entering into details. Her reserve onlyincreased his curiosity, which fired up at the first mention of therace-horses. 

"I scarcely know much about them. I only used to see them passing throughthe yard as they went to exercise on the downs. There was always a lot oftalk about them in the servants' hall, but I didn't notice it. They were agreat trouble to Mrs. Barfield--I told you, mother, that she was one ofourselves, didn't I?"

A look of contempt passed over Jim's face, and he said--

"We've quite enough talk 'ere about the Brethren; give them a rest. Whatabout the 'orses? Did they win any races? Yer can't 'ave missed 'earingthat. "

"Yes, Silver Braid won the Stewards' Cup. "

"Silver Braid was one of your horses?"

"Yes, Mr. Barfield won thousands and thousands, everyone in Shoreham wonsomething, and a ball for the servants was given in the Gardens. "

"And you never thought of writing to me about it! I could have 'ad thirtyto one off Bill Short. One pound ten to a bob! And yer never thought itworth while to send me the tip. I'm blowed! Girls aren't worth a damn.... Thirty to one off Bill Short--he'd have laid it. I remember seeing theprice quoted in all the papers. Thirty to one taken and hoffered. If youhad told me all yer knowed I might 'ave gone 'alf a quid--fifteen pun to'alf a quid! as much as I'd earn in three months slaving eight and tenhours a day, paint-pot on 'and about them blooming engines. Well, there'sno use crying over what's done--sich a chance won't come again, butsomething else may. What are they going to do with the 'orse thisautumn--did yer 'ear that?"

"I think I 'eard that he was entered for the Cambridgeshire, but if Iremember rightly, Mr. Leopold--that's the butler, not his real name, butwhat we call him--"

"Ah, yes; I know; after the Baron. Now what do 'e say? I reckon 'e knows. I should like to 'ave 'alf-an-hour's talk with your Mr. Leopold. What do'e say? For what 'e says, unless I'm pretty well mistaken, is worthlistening to. A man wouldn't be a-wasting 'is time in listening to 'im. What do 'e say?"

"Mr. Leopold never says much. He's the only one the Gaffer ever confidesin. 'Tis said they are as thick as thieves, so they say. Mr. Leopold washis confidential servant when the Gaffer--that's the squire--was abachelor. "

Jim chuckled. "Yes, I think I know what kind of man your Mr. Leopold islike. But what did 'e say about the Cambridgeshire?"

"He only laughed a little once, and said he didn't think the 'orse woulddo much good in the autumn races--no, not races, that isn't the word. "

"Handicaps?"

"Yes, that's it. But there's no relying on what Mr. Leopold says--he neversays what he really means. But I 'eard William, that's the footman--"

"What are you stopping for? What did yer 'ear 'im say?"

"That he intends to have something on next spring. "

"Did he say any race? Did he say the City and Sub. ?"

"Yes, that was the race he mentioned. "

"I thought that would be about the length and the breadth of it, " Jimsaid, as he took up his knife and fork. There was only a small portion ofthe beef-steak left, and this he ate gluttonously, and, finishing the lastremaining beer, he leaned back in the happiness of repletion. He crammedtobacco into a dirty clay, with a dirtier finger-nail, and said--

"I'd be uncommon glad to 'ear how he is getting on. When are you goingback? Up for the day only?"

Esther did not answer, and Jim looked inquiringly as he reached across thetable for the matches. The decisive moment had arrived, and Mrs. Saunderssaid--

"Esther ain't a-going back; leastways--"

"Not going back! You don't mean that she ain't contented in hersituation--that she 'as--"

"Esther ain't going back no more, " Mrs. Saunders answered, incautiously. "Look ee 'ere, Jim--"

"Out with it, old woman--no 'umbug! What is it all about? Ain't going backto 'er sitooation, and where she 'as been treated like that--just look atthe duds she 'as got on. "

The evening was darkening rapidly, and the firelight flickered over theback of the toy dogs piled up on the dresser. Jim had lit his pipe, andthe acrid and warm odour of quickly-burning tobacco overpowered the smellof grease and the burnt skin of the baked potato, a fragment of whichremained on the plate; only the sickly flavour of drying paste wasdistinguishable in the reek of the short black clay which the man heldfirmly between his teeth. Esther sat by the fire, her hands crossed overher knees, no signs of emotion on her sullen, plump face. Mrs. Saundersstood on the other side of Esther, between her and the younger children, now quarrelling among themselves, and her face was full of fear as shewatched her husband anxiously. 

"Now, then, old woman, blurt it out!" he said. "What is it? Can it be thegirl 'as lost her sitooation--got the sack? Yes, I see that's about thecut of it. Her beastly temper! So they couldn't put up with it in thecountry any more than I could mesel'. Well, it's 'er own look-out! If shecan afford to chuck up a place like that, so much the better for 'er. Pity, though; she might 'ave put me up to many a good thing. "

"It ain't that, Jim. The girl is in trouble. "

"Wot do yer say? Esther in trouble? Well, that's the best bit I've heardthis long while. I always told ye that the religious ones were just thesame as the others--a bit more hypocritical, that's all. So she thatwouldn't 'ave nothing to do with such as was Mrs. Dunbar 'as got 'erselfinto trouble! Well I never! But 'tis just what I always suspected. Thegoody-goody sort are the worst. So she 'as got 'erself into trouble! Well, she'll 'ave to get 'erself out of it. "

"Now, Jim, dear, yer mustn't be 'ard on 'er; she could tell a verydifferent story if she wished it, but yer know what she is. There she sitslike a block of marble, and won't as much as say a word in 'er owndefence. "

"But I don't want 'er to speak. I don't care, it's nothing to me; I onlylaughed because--"

"Jim, dear, it is something to all of us. What we thought was that youmight let her stop 'ere till her time was come to go to the 'orspital. "

"Ah, that's it, is it? That was the meaning of the 'alf-pound of steak andthe pint of porter, was it. I thought there was something hup. So shewants to stop 'ere, do she? As if there wasn't enough already! Well, I beblowed if she do! A nice thing, too; a girl can't go away to servicewithout coming back to her respectable 'ome in trouble--in trouble, shecalls it. Now, I won't 'ave it; there's enough 'ere as it is, and anothercoming, worse luck. We wants no bastards 'ere.... And a nice example, too, for the other children! No, I won't 'ave it!"

Jenny and Julia looked curiously at Esther, who sat quite still, her faceshowing no sign of emotion. Mrs. Saunders turned towards her, a pityinglook on her face, saying clearly, "You see, my poor girl, how mattersstand; I can do nothing. "

The girl, although she did not raise her eyes, understood what was passingin her mother's mind, for there was a grave deliberativeness in the mannerin which she rose from the chair. 

But just as the daughter had guessed what was passing in the mother'smind, so did the mother guess what was passing in the daughter's. Mrs. Saunders threw herself before Esther, saying, "Oh, no, Esther, wait amoment; 'e won't be 'ard on 'ee. " Then turning to her husband, "Yer don'tunderstand, Jim. It is only for a little time. "

"No, I tell yer. No, I won't 'ave it! There be too many 'ere as it is. "

"Only a little while, Jim. "

"No. And those who ain't wanted 'ad better go at once--that's my advice tothem. The place is as full of us that we can 'ardly turn round as it is. No, I won't 'ear of it!"

"But, Jim, Esther is quite willing to pay her way; she's saved a goodlittle sum of money, and could afford to pay us ten shillings a week forboard and the parlour. "

A perplexed look came on Jim's face. 

"Why didn't yer tell me that afore? Of course I don't wish to be 'ard onthe girl, as yer 'ave just heard me say. Ten shillings a week for herboard and the parlour--that seems fair enough; and if it's any convenienceto 'er to remain, I'm sure we'll be glad to 'ave 'er. I'll say right glad, too. We was always good friends, Esther, wasn't we, though ye wasn't oneof my own?" So saying, Jim held out his hand. 

Esther tried to pass by her mother. "I don't want to stop where I'm notwanted; I wants no one's charity. Let me go, mother. "

"No, no, Esther. 'Aven't yer 'eard what 'e says? Ye are my child if youain't 'is, and it would break my 'eart, that it would, to see you go awayamong strangers. Yer place is among yer own people, who'll look afteryou. "

"Now, then, Esther, why should there be ill feeling. I didn't mean any'arm. There's a lot of us 'ere, and I've to think of the interests of myown. But for all that I should be main sorry to see yer take yer moneyamong strangers, where you wouldn't get no value for it. You'd betterstop. I'm sorry for what I said. Ain't that enough for yer?"

"Jim, Jim, dear, don't say no more; leave 'er to me. Esther, for my sakestop with us. You are in trouble, and it is right for you to stop with me. Jim 'as said no more than the truth. With all the best will in the worldwe couldn't afford to keep yer for nothing, but since yer can pay yer way, it is yer duty to stop. Think, Esther, dear, think. Go and shake 'andswith 'im, and I'll go and make yer up a bed on the sofa. "

"There's no bloody need for 'er to shake my 'and if she don't like, " Jimreplied, and he pulled doggedly at his pipe. 

Esther tried, but her fierce and heavy temper held her back. She couldn'tgo to her father for reconciliation, and the matter might have ended quitedifferently, but suddenly, without another word, Jim put on his hat andwent out to join "his chaps" who were waiting for him about thepublic-house, close to the cab-rank in the Vauxhall Bridge Road. The doorwas hardly closed behind him when the young children laughed and ran aboutjoyously, and Jenny and Julia went over to Esther and begged her to stop. 

"Of course she'll stop, " said Mrs. Saunders. "And now, Esther, come alongand help me to make you up a bed in the parlour. "

XIV

Esther was fast asleep next morning when Mrs. Saunders came into theparlour. Mrs. Saunders stood looking at her, and Esther turned suddenly onthe sofa and said----

"What time is it, mother?"

"It's gone six; but don't you get up. You're your own mistress whilstyou're here; you pays for what you 'as. "

"I can't afford them lazy habits. There's plenty of work here, and I musthelp you with some of it. "

"Plenty of work here, that's right enough. But why should you bother, andyou nearly seven months gone? I daresay you feels that 'eavy that younever care to get out of your chair. But they says that them who works upto the last 'as the easiest time in the end. Not that I've found it so. "

The conversation paused. Esther threw her legs over the side of the sofa, and still wrapped in the blanket, sat looking at her mother. 

"You can't be over-comfortable on that bit of sofa, " said Mrs. Saunders. 

"Lor, I can manage right enough, if that was all. "

"You is that cast down, Esther; you mustn't give way. Things sometimesturns out better than one expects. "

"You never found they did, mother. "

"Perhaps I didn't, but that says nothing for others. We must bear up asbest we can. "

One word led to another, and very soon Esther was telling her mother thewhole tale of her misfortune--all about William, the sweepstakes, the ballat the Shoreham Gardens, the walks about the farm and hillside. 

"Service is no place for a girl who wants to live as we used to live whenfather was alive--no service that I've seen. I see that plain enough. Mistress was one of the Brethren like ourselves, and she had to put upwith betting and drinking and dancing, and never a thought of the Lord. There was no standing out against it. They call you Creeping Jesus if yousay your prayers, and you can't say them with a girl laughing or singingbehind your back, so you think you'll say them to yourself in bed, butsleep comes sooner than you expect, and so you slips out of the habit. Then the drinking. We was brought up teetotal, but they're always pressingit upon you, and to please him I said I would drink the 'orse's 'ealth. That's how it began.... You don't know what it is, mother; you only knewGod-fearing men until you married him. We aren't all good like you, mother. But I thought no harm, indeed I didn't. "

"A girl can't know what a man is thinking of, and we takes the worst forthe best. "

"I don't say that I was altogether blameless but--"

"You didn't know he was that bad. "

Esther hesitated. 

"I knew he was like other men. But he told me--he promised me he'd marryme. "

Mrs. Saunders did not answer, and Esther said, "You don't believe I'mspeaking the truth. "

"Yes, I do, dearie. I was only thinking. You're my daughter; no mother hada better daughter. There never was a better girl in this world. "

"I was telling you, mother--"

"But I don't want no telling that my Esther ain't a bad girl. "

Mrs. Saunders sat nodding her head, a sweet, uncritical mother; and Estherunderstood how unselfishly her mother loved her, and how simply shethought of how she might help her in her trouble. Neither spoke, andEsther continued dressing. 

"You 'aven't told me what you think of your room. It looks pretty, don'tyou think? I keeps it as nice as I can. Jenny hung up them pictures. Theylivens it up a bit, " she said, pointing to the coloured supplements, fromthe illustrated papers, on the wall. "The china shepherd and shepherdess, you know; they was at Barnstaple. "

When Esther was dressed, she and Mrs. Saunders knelt down and said aprayer together. Then Esther said she would make up her room, and whenthat was done she insisted on helping her mother with the housework. 

In the afternoon she sat with her sisters, helping them with their dogs, folding the paper into the moulds, pasting it down, or cutting the skinsinto the requisite sizes. About five, when the children had had their tea, she and her mother went for a short walk. Very often they strolled throughVictoria Station, amused by the bustle of the traffic, or maybe theywandered down the Buckingham Palace Road, attracted by the shops. Andthere was a sad pleasure in these walks. The elder woman had borne yearsof exceeding trouble, and felt her strength failing under her burdens, which instead of lightening were increasing; the younger woman was full ofnervous apprehension for the future and grief for the past. But they lovedeach other deeply. Esther threw herself in the way to protect her mother, whether at a dangerous crossing or from the heedlessness of the crowd at acorner, and often a passer-by turned his head and looked after them, attracted by the solicitude which the younger woman showed for the elder. In those walks very little was said. They walked in silence, slipping nowand then into occasional speech, and here and there a casual allusion or abroken sentence would indicate what was passing in their minds. 

One day some flannel and shirts in a window caught Mrs. Saunder's eye, andshe said--

"It is time, Esther, you thought about your baby clothes. One must beprepared; one never knows if one will go one's full time. "

The words came upon Esther with something of a shock, helping her torealise the imminence of her trouble. 

"You must have something by you, dear; one never knows how it is going toturn out; even I who have been through it do feel that nervous. I looksround the kitchen when I'm taken with the pains, and I says, 'I may neversee this room again. '"

The words were said in an undertone to Esther, and the shop-woman turnedto get down the ready-made things which Mrs. Saunders had asked to see. 

"Here, " said the shopwoman, "is the gown, longcloth, one-and-sixpence;here is the flannel, one-and-sixpence; and here is the little shirt, sixpence. "

"You must have these to go on with, dear, and if the baby lives you'llwant another set. "

"Oh, mother, of course he'll live; why shouldn't he?"

Even the shopwoman smiled, and Mrs. Saunders, addressing the shopwoman, said--

"Them that knows nothing about it is allus full of 'ope. "

The shopwoman raised her eyes, sighed, and inquired sympathetically ifthis was the young lady's first confinement. 

Mrs. Saunders nodded and sighed, and then the shopwoman asked Mrs. Saunders if she required any baby clothes. Mrs. Saunders said she had allshe required. The parcel was made up, and they were preparing to leave, when Esther said--

"I may as well buy the material and make another set--it will give mesomething to do in the afternoons. I think I should like to make them. "

We have some first-rate longcloth at sixpence-half-penny a yard. "

"You might take three yards, Esther; if anything should happen to yerbairn it will always come in useful. And you had better take three yardsof flannel. How much is yer flannel?"

"We have some excellent flannel, " said the woman, lifting down a long, heavy package in dull yellow paper; "this is ten-pence a yard. You willwant a finer longcloth for the little shirts. "

And every afternoon Esther sat in the parlour by the window, seeing, whenshe raised her eyes from the sewing, the low brick street full ofchildren, and hearing the working women calling from the open doors orwindows; and as she worked at the baby clothes, never perhaps to be worn, her heart sank at the long prospect that awaited her, the end of which shecould not see, for it seemed to reach to the very end of her life. Inthese hours she realised in some measure the duties that life held instore, and it seemed to her that they exceeded her strength. Never wouldshe be able to bring him up--he would have no one to look to but her. Shenever imagined other than that her child would be a boy. The task wasclearly more than she could perform, and in despair she thought it wouldbe better for it to die. What would happen if she remained out of asituation? Her father would not have her at home, that she knew wellenough. What should she do, and the life of another depending on her? Shewould never see William again--that was certain. He had married a lady, and, were they to meet, he would not look at her. Her temper grew hot, andthe memory of the injustice of which she had been a victim pressed uponher. But when vain anger passed away she thought of her baby, anticipatingthe joy she would experience when he held out tiny hands to her, and that, too, which she would feel when he laid an innocent cheek to hers; and herdream persisting, she saw him learning a trade, going to work in themorning and coming back to her in the evening, proud in the accomplishmentof something done, of good money honestly earned. 

She thought a great deal, too, of her poor mother, who was lookingstrangely weak and poorly, and whose condition was rendered worse by hernervous fears that she would not get through this confinement. For thedoctor had told Mrs. Saunders that the next time it might go hard withher; and in this house, her husband growing more reckless and drunken, itwas altogether a bad look-out, and she might die for want of a littlenourishment or a little care. Unfortunately they would both be down at thesame time, and it was almost impossible that Esther should be well in timeto look after her mother. That brute! It was wrong to think of her fatherso, but he seemed to be without mercy for any of them. He had come inyesterday half-boozed, having kept back part of his money--he had come intramping and hiccuping. 

"Now, then, old girl, out with it! I must have a few halfpence; my chapsis waiting for me, and I can't be looking down their mouths with nothingin my pockets. "

"I only have a few halfpence to get the children a bit of dinner; if Igive them to you they'll have nothing to eat. "

"Oh, the children can eat anything; I want beer. If yer 'aven't money, make it. "

Mrs. Saunders said that if he had any spare clothes she would take themround the corner. He only answered--

"Well, if I 'aven't a spare waistcoat left just take some of yer ownthings. I tell yer I want beer, and I mean to have some. "

Then, with his fist raised, he came at his poor wife, ordering her to takeone of the sheets from the bed and "make money, " and would have struck herif Esther had not come between them and, with her hand in her pocket, said, "Be quiet, father; I'll give you the money you want. "

She had done the same before, and, if needs be, she would do so again. Shecould not see her mother struck, perhaps killed by that brute; her firstduty was to save her mother, but these constant demands on her littlesavings filled her with terror. She would want every penny; the tenshillings he had already had from her might be the very sum required toput her on her feet again, and send her in search of a situation where shewould be able to earn money for the boy. But if this extortion continuedshe did not know what she would do, and that night she prayed that Godmight not delay the birth of her child. 

XV

"I wish, mother, you was going to the hospital with me; it would save alot of expense and you'd be better cared for. "

"I'd like to be with you, dearie, but I can't leave my 'ome, all theseyoung children about and no one to give an order. I must stop where I am. But I've been intending to tell you--it is time that you was thinkingabout yer letter. "

"What letter, mother?"

"They don't take you without a letter from one of the subscribers. If Iwas you, now that the weather is fine and you have strength for the walk, I'd go up to Queen Charlotte's. It is up the Edgware Road way, I think. What do you think about to-morrow?"

"To-morrow's Sunday. "

"That makes no matter, them horspitals is open. "

"I'll go to-morrow when we have washed up. "

On Friday Esther had had to give her father more money for drink. She gavehim two shillings, and that made a sovereign that he had had from her. OnSaturday night he had been brought home helplessly drunk long aftermidnight, and next morning one of the girls had to fetch him a drop ofsomething to pull him together. He had lain in bed until dinner-time, swearing he would brain anyone who made the least noise. Even the Sundaydinner, a nice beef-steak pudding, hardly tempted him, and he left thetable saying that if he could find Tom Carter they would take a penny boatand go for a blow on the river. The whole family waited for his departure. But he lingered, talked inconsequently, and several times Mrs. Saundersand the children gave up hope. Esther sat without a word. He called her asulky brute, and, snatching up his hat, left the house. The moment he wasgone the children began to chatter like birds. Esther put on her hat andjacket. 

"I'm going, mother. "

"Well, take care of yourself. Good luck to you. "

Esther smiled sadly. But the beautiful weather melted on her lips, herlungs swelled with the warm air, and she noticed the sparrow that flewacross the cab rank, and saw the black dot pass down a mews and disappearunder the eaves. It was a warm day in the middle of April, a mist of greenhad begun in the branches of the elms of the Green Park; and in Park Lane, in all the balconies and gardens, wherever nature could find roothold, aspray of gentle green met the eye. There was music, too, in the air, thesound of fifes and drums, and all along the roadway as far as she couldsee the rapid movement of assembling crowds. A procession with banners wasturning the corner of the Edgware Road, and the policeman had stopped thetraffic to allow it to pass. The principal banner blew out blue and goldin the wind, and the men that bore the poles walked with strained backsunder the weight; the music changed, opinions about the objects of thedemonstration were exchanged, and it was some time before Esther couldgain the policeman's attention. At last the conductor rang his bell, theomnibus started, and gathering courage she asked the way. It seemed to herthat every one was noticing her, and fearing to be overheard she spoke solow that the policeman understood her to say Charlotte Street. At thatmoment an omnibus drew up close beside them. 

"Charlotte Street, Charlotte Street, " said the policeman, "there'sCharlotte Street, Bloomsbury. " Before Esther could answer he had turned tothe conductor. "You don't know any Charlotte Street about here, do you?"

"No, I don't. But can't yer see that it ain't no Charlotte Street shewants, but Queen Charlotte's Hospital? And ye'd better lose no time indirecting her. "

A roar of coarse laughter greeted this pleasantry, and burning with shameshe hurried down the Edgware Road. But she had not gone far before she hadto ask again, and she scanned the passers-by seeking some respectablewoman, or in default an innocent child. 

She came at last to an ugly desert place. There was the hospital, square, forbidding; and opposite a tall, lean building with long grey columns. Esther rang, and the great door, some fifteen feet high, was opened by asmall boy. 

"I want to see the secretary. "

"Will you come this way?"

She was shown into a waiting-room, and while waiting she looked at thereligious prints on the walls. A lad of fifteen or sixteen came in. Hesaid--

"You want to see the secretary?"

"Yes. "

"But I'm afraid you can't see him; he's out. "

"I have come a long way; is there no one else I can see?"

"Yes, you can see me--I'm his clerk. Have you come to be confined?"

Esther answered that she had. 

"But, " said the boy, "you are not in labour; we never take anyone inbefore. "

"I do not expect to be confined for another month. I came to makearrangements. "

"You've got a letter?"

"No. "

"Then you must get a letter from one of the subscribers. "

"But I do not know any. "

"You can have a book of their names and addresses. "

"But I know no one. "

"You needn't know them. You can go and call. Take those that livenearest--that's the way it is done. "

"Then will you give me the book?"

"I'll go and get one. "

The boy returned a moment after with a small book, for which he demanded ashilling. Since she had come to London her hand had never been out of herpocket. She had her money with her; she did not dare leave it at home onaccount of her father. The clerk looked out the addresses for her and shetried to remember them--two were in Cumberland Place, another was inBryanstone Square. In Cumberland Place she was received by an elderly ladywho said she did not wish to judge anyone, but it was her invariablepractice to give letters only to married women. There was a delicate smellof perfume in the room; the lady stirred the fire and lay back in herarmchair. Once or twice Esther tried to withdraw, but the lady, althoughunswervingly faithful to her principles, seemed not indifferent toEsther's story, and asked her many questions. 

"I don't see what interest all that can be to you, as you ain't going togive me a letter, " Esther answered. 

The next house she called at the lady was not at home, but she wasexpected back presently, and the maid servant asked her to take a seat inthe hall. But when Esther refused information about her troubles she wascalled a stuck-up thing who deserved all she got, and was told there wasno use her waiting. At the next place she was received by a footman whoinsisted on her communicating her business to him. Then he said he wouldsee if his master was in. He wasn't in; he must have just gone out. Thebest time to find him was before half-past ten in the morning. 

"He'll be sure to do all he can for you--he always do for the good-lookingones. How did it all happen?"

"What business is that of yours? I don't ask your business. "

"Well, you needn't turn that rusty. "

At that moment the master entered. He asked Esther to come into his study. He was a tall, youngish-looking man of three or four-and-thirty, withbright eyes and hair, and there was in his voice and manner a kindnessthat impressed Esther. She wished, however, that she had seen his motherinstead of him, for she was more than ever ashamed of her condition. Heseemed genuinely sorry for her, and regretted that he had given all histickets away. Then a thought struck him, and he wrote a letter to one ofhis friends, a banker in Lincoln's Inn Fields. This gentleman, he said, was a large subscriber to the hospital, and would certainly give her theletter she required. He hoped that Esther would get through her troubleall right. 

The visit brought a little comfort into the girl's heart; and thinking ofhis kind eyes she walked slowly, inquiring out her way until she got backto the Marble Arch, and stood looking down the long Bayswater Road. Thelamps were beginning in the light, and the tall houses towered above thesunset. Esther watched the spectral city, and some sensation of the poetryof the hour must have stolen into her heart, for she turned into the Park, choosing to walk there. Upon its dim green grey the scattered crowds werelike strips of black tape. Here and there by the railings the tape hadbeen wound up in a black ball, and the peg was some democratic orator, promising poor human nature unconditional deliverance from evil. Furtheron were heard sounds from a harmonium, and hymns were being sung, and ineach doubting face there was something of the perplexing, haunting lookwhich the city wore. 

A chill wind was blowing. Winter had returned with the night, but theinstinct of spring continued in the branches. The deep, sweet scent of thehyacinth floated along the railings, and the lovers that sat with theirarms about each other on every seat were of Esther's own class. She wouldhave liked to have called them round her and told them her miserablestory, so that they might profit by her experience. 

XVI

No more than three weeks now remained between her and the dreaded day. Shehad hoped to spend them with her mother, who was timorous and desponding, and stood in need of consolation. But this was not to be; her father'sdrunkenness continued, and daily he became more extortionate in hisdemands for money. Esther had not six pounds left, and she felt that shemust leave. It had come to this, that she doubted if she were to stay onthat the clothes on her back might not be taken from her. Mrs. Saunderswas of the same opinion, and she urged Esther to go. But scruplesrestrained her. 

"I can't bring myself to leave you, mother; something tells me I shouldstay with you. It is dreadful to be parted from you. I wish you was comingto the hospital; you'd be far safer there than at home. "

"I know that, dearie; but where's the good in talking about it? It onlymakes it harder to bear. You know I can't leave. It is terrible hard, asyou says. " Mrs. Saunders held her apron to her eyes and cried. "You havealways been a good girl, never a better--my one consolation since yourpoor father died. "

"Don't cry, mother, " said Esther; "the Lord will watch over us, and weshall both pray for each other. In about a month, dear, we shall be bothquite well, and you'll bless my baby, and I shall think of the time when Ishall put him into your arms. "

"I hope so, Esther; I hope so, but I am full of fears. I'm sore afraidthat we shall never see one another again--leastways on this earth. "

"Oh, mother, dear, yer mustn't talk like that; you'll break my heart, thatyou will. "

The cab that took Esther to her lodging cost half-a-crown, and this wasteof money frightened her thrifty nature, inherited through centuries ofworking folk. The waste, however, had ceased at last, and it was none toosoon, she thought, as she sat in the room she had taken near the hospital, in a little eight-roomed house, kept by an old woman whose son was abricklayer. 

It was at the end of the week, one afternoon, as Esther was sitting alonein her room, that there came within her a great and sudden shock--lifeseemed to be slipping from her, and she sat for some minutes quite unableto move. She knew that her time had come, and when the pain ceased shewent downstairs to consult Mrs. Jones. 

"Hadn't I better go to the hospital now, Mrs. Jones?"

"Not just yet, my dear; them is but the first labour pains; plenty of timeto think of the hospital; we shall see how you are in a couple of hours. "

"Will it last so long as that?"

"You'll be lucky if you get it over before midnight. I have been down forlonger than that. "

"Do you mind my stopping in the kitchen with you? I feel frightened whenI'm alone. "

"No, I'll be glad of your company. I'll get you some tea presently. "

"I could not touch anything. Oh, this is dreadful!" she exclaimed, and shewalked to and fro holding her sides, balancing herself dolefully. OftenMrs. Jones stopped in her work about the range and said, looking at her, "I know what it is, I have been through it many a time--we all must--it isour earthly lot. " About seven o'clock Esther was clinging to the table, and with pain so vivid on her face that Mrs. Jones laid aside the sausagesshe was cooking and approached the suffering girl. 

"What! is it so bad as all that?"

"Oh, " she said, "I think I'm dying, I cannot stand up; give me a chair, give me a chair!" and she sank down upon it, leaning across the table, herface and neck bathed in a cold sweat. 

"John will have to get his supper himself; I'll leave these sausages onthe hob, and run upstairs and put on my bonnet. The things you intend tobring with you, the baby clothes, are made up in a bundle, aren't they?"

"Yes, yes. "

Little Mrs. Jones came running down; she threw a shawl over Esther, and itwas astonishing what support she lent to the suffering girl, calling onher the whole time to lean on her and not to be afraid. "Now then, dear, you must keep your heart up, we have only a few yards further to go. "

"You are too good, you are too kind, " Esther said, and she leaned againstthe wall, and Mrs. Jones rang the bell. 

"Keep up your spirits; to-morrow it will be all over. I will come roundand see how you are. "

The door opened. The porter rang the bell, and a sister came running down. 

"Come, come, take my arm, " she said, "and breathe hard as you areascending the stairs. Come along, you mustn't loiter. "

On the second landing a door was thrown open, and she found herself in aroom full of people, eight or nine young men and women. 

"What! in there? and all those people?" said Esther. 

"Of course; those are the midwives and the students. "

She saw that the screams she had heard in the passage came from a bed onthe left-hand side. A woman lay there huddled up. In the midst of herterror Esther was taken behind a screen by the sister who had brought herupstairs and quickly undressed. She was clothed in a chemise a great dealtoo big for her, and a jacket which was also many sizes too large. Sheremembered hearing the sister say so at the time. Both windows were wideopen, and as she walked across the room she noticed the basins on thefloor, the lamp on the round table, and the glint of steel instruments. 

The students and the nurses were behind her; she knew they were eatingsweets, for she heard a young man ask the young women if they would haveany more fondants. Their chatter and laughter jarred on her nerves; but atthat moment her pains began again and she saw the young man whom she hadseen handing the sweets approaching her bedside. 

"Oh, no, not him, not him!" she cried to the nurse. "Not him, not him! heis too young! Do not let him come near me!"

They laughed loudly, and she buried her head in the pillow, overcome withpain and shame; and when she felt him by her she tried to rise from thebed. 

"Let me go! take me away! Oh, you are all beasts!"

"Come, come, no nonsense!" said the nurse; "you can't have what you like;they are here to learn;" and when he had tried the pains she heard themidwife say that it wasn't necessary to send for the doctor. Another saidthat it would be all over in about three hours' time. "An easyconfinement, I should say. The other will be more interesting.... " Thenthey talked of the plays they had seen, and those they wished to see. Adiscussion arose regarding the merits of a shilling novel which every onewas reading, and then Esther heard a stampede of nurses, midwives, andstudents in the direction of the window. A German band had come into thestreet. 

"Is that the way to leave your patient, sister?" said the student who satby Esther's bed, a good-looking boy with a fair, plump face. Esther lookedinto his clear blue, girl-like eyes, wondered, and turned away for shame. 

The sister stopped her imitation of a popular comedian, and said, "Oh, she's all right; if they were all like her there'd be very little use ourcoming here. "

"Unfortunately that's just what they are, " said another student, a stoutfellow with a pointed red beard, the ends of which caught the light. Esther's eyes often went to those stubble ends, and she hated him for hisloud voice and jocularity. One of the midwives, a woman with a long noseand small grey eyes, seemed to mock her, and Esther hoped that this womanwould not come near her. She felt that she could not bear her touch. Therewas something sinister in her face, and Esther was glad when herfavourite, a little blond woman with wavy flaxen hair, came and asked herif she felt better. She looked a little like the young student who stillsat by her bedside, and Esther wondered if they were brother and sister, and then she thought that they were sweethearts. 

Soon after a bell rang, and the students went down to supper, the nurse incharge promising to warn them if any change should take place. The lastpains had so thoroughly exhausted her that she had fallen into a doze. Butshe could hear the chatter of the nurses so clearly that she did notbelieve herself asleep. And in this film of sleep reality was distorted, and the unsuccessful operation which the nurses were discussing Estherunderstood to be a conspiracy against her life. She awoke, listened, andgradually sense of the truth returned to her. She was in the hospital.... The nurses were talking of some one who had died last week.... That poorwoman in the other bed seemed to suffer dreadfully. Would she live throughit? Would she herself live to see the morning? How long the time, howfearful the place! If the nurses would only stop talking.... The painswould soon begin again.... It was awful to lie listening, waiting. Thewindows were open, and the mocking gaiety of the street was borne in onthe night wind. Then there came a trampling of feet and sound of voices inthe passage--the students and nurses were coming up from supper; and atthe same moment the pains began to creep up from her knees. One of theyoung men said that her time had not come. The woman with the sinisterlook that Esther dreaded, held a contrary opinion. The point was argued, and, interested in the question, the crowd came from the window andcollected round the disputants. The young man expounded much medical andanatomical knowledge; the nurses listened with the usual deference ofwomen. 

Suddenly the discussion was interrupted by a scream from Esther; it seemedto her that she was being torn asunder, that life was going from her. Thenurse ran to her side, a look of triumph came upon her face, and she said, "Now we shall see who's right, " and forthwith ran for the doctor. He camerunning up the stairs; immediately silence and scientific collectednessgathered round Esther, and after a brief examination he said, in a lowwhisper--

"I'm afraid this will not be as easy a case as one might have imagined. Ishall administer chloroform. "

He placed a small wire case over her mouth and nose, and the sickly odourwhich she breathed from the cotton wool filled her brain with nausea; itseemed to choke her, and then life faded, and at every inhalation sheexpected to lose sight of the circle of faces. 

 * * * * *

When she opened her eyes the doctors and nurses were still standing roundher, but there was no longer any expression of eager interest on theirfaces. She wondered at this change, and then out of the silence there camea tiny cry. 

"What's that?" Esther asked. 

"That's your baby. "

"My baby! Let me see it; is it a boy or a girl?"

"It is a boy; it will be given to you when we get you out of the labourward. "

"I knew it would be a boy. " Then a scream of pain rent the stillness ofthe room. "Is that the same woman who was here when I first came in?Hasn't she been confined yet?"

"No, and I don't think she will be till midday; she's very bad. "

The door was thrown open, and Esther was wheeled into the passage. She waslike a convalescent plant trying to lift its leaves to the strengtheninglight, but within this twilight of nature the thought of another life, nowin the world, grew momentarily more distinct. "Where is my boy?" she said;"give him to me. "

The nurse entered, and answered, "Here. " A pulp of red flesh rolled up inflannel was laid alongside of her. Its eyes were open; it looked at her, and her flesh filled with a sense of happiness so deep and so intense thatshe was like one enchanted. When she took the child in her arms shethought she must die of happiness. She did not hear the nurse speak, nordid she understand her when she took the babe from her arms and laid italongside on the pillow, saying, "You must let the little thing sleep, youmust try to sleep yourself. "

Her personal self seemed entirely withdrawn; she existed like anatmosphere about the babe, an impersonal emanation of love. She layabsorbed in this life of her life, this flesh of her flesh, unconscious ofherself as a sponge in warm sea-water. She touched this pulp of life, andwas thrilled, and once more her senses swooned with love; it was stillthere. She remembered that the nurse had said it was a boy. She must seeher boy, and her hands, working as in a dream, unwound him, and, deliriouswith love, she gazed until he awoke and cried. She tried to hush him andto enfold him, but her strength failed, she could not help him, and fearcame lest he should die. She strove to reach her hands to him, but allstrength had gone from her, and his cries sounded hollow in her weakbrain. Then the nurse came and said--

"See what you have done, the poor child is all uncovered; no wonder he iscrying. I will wrap him up, and you must not interfere with him again. "But as soon as the nurse turned away Esther had her child back in herarms. She did not sleep. She could not sleep for thinking of him, and thelong night passed in adoration. 

XVII

She was happy, her babe lay beside her. All her joints were loosened, andthe long hospital days passed in gentle weariness. Lady visitors came andasked questions. Esther said that her father and mother lived in theVauxhall Bridge Road, and she admitted that she had saved four pounds. There were two beds in this ward, and the woman who occupied the secondbed declared herself to be destitute, without home, or money, or friends. She secured all sympathy and promises of help, and Esther was looked uponas a person who did not need assistance and ought to have known better. They received visits from a clergyman. He spoke to Esther of God'sgoodness and wisdom, but his exhortations seemed a little remote, andEsther was sad and ashamed that she was not more deeply stirred. Had itbeen her own people who came and knelt about her bed, lifting their voicesin the plain prayers she was accustomed to, it might have been different;but this well-to-do clergyman, with his sophisticated speech, seemedforeign to her, and failed to draw her thoughts from the sleeping child. 

The ninth day passed, but Esther recovered slowly, and it was decided thatshe should not leave the hospital before the end of the third week. Sheknew that when she crossed the threshold of the hospital there would be nomore peace for her; and she was frightened as she listened to thenever-ending rumble of the street. She spent whole hours thinking of herdear mother, and longing for some news from home, and her face brightenedwhen she was told that her sister had come to see her. 

"Jenny, what has happened; is mother very bad?"

"Mother is dead, that's what I've come to tell you; I'd have come before, but----"

"Mother dead! Oh, no, Jenny! Oh, Jenny, not my poor mother!"

"Yes Esther. I knew it would cut you up dreadful; we was all very sorry, but she's dead. She's dead a long time now, I was just a-going to tellyou----"

"Jenny, what do you mean? Dead a long time?"

"Well, she was buried more than a week ago. We were so sorry you couldn'tbe at the funeral. We was all there, and had crape on our dresses andfather had crape on his 'at. We all cried, especially in church and aboutthe grave, and when the sexton threw in the soil it sounded that hollow itmade me sob. Julia, she lost her 'ead and asked to be buried with mother, and I had to lead her away; and then we went 'ome to dinner. "

"Oh, Jenny, our poor mother gone from us for ever! How did she die? Tellme, was it a peaceful death? Did she suffer?"

"There ain't much to tell. Mother was taken bad almost immediately afteryou was with us the last time. Mother was that bad all the day long andall night too we could 'ardly stop in the 'ouse; it gave one just thecreeps to listen to her crying and moaning. "

"And then?"

"Why, then the baby was born. It was dead, and mother died of weakness;prostration the doctor called it. "

Esther hid her face in the pillow. Jenny waited, and an anxious look ofself began to appear on the vulgar London street face. 

"Look 'ere, Esther, you can cry when I've gone; I've a deal to say to yerand time is short. "

"Oh, Jenny, don't speak like that! Father, was he kind to mother?"

"I dunno that he thought much about it; he spent 'alf 'is time in thepublic, 'e did. He said he couldn't abide the 'ouse with a womana-screaming like that. One of the neighbours came in to look after mother, and at last she had the doctor. " Esther looked at her sister throughstreaming tears, and the woman in the other bed alluded to the folly ofpoor women being confined "in their own 'omes--in a 'ome where there is adrunken 'usband, and most 'omes is like that nowadays. "

At that moment Esther's baby awoke crying for the breast. The little lipscaught at the nipple, the wee hand pressed the white curve, and in amoment Esther's face took that expression of holy solicitude which Raphaelsublimated in the Virgin's downward-gazing eyes. Jenny watched thegluttonous lips, interested in the spectacle, and yet absorbed in what shehad come to say to her sister. 

"Your baby do look 'ealthy. "

"Yes, and he is too, not an ache or a pain. He's as beautiful a boy asever lived. But think of poor mother, Jenny, think of poor mother. "

"I do think of her, Esther. But I can't help seeing your baby. He's likeyou, Esther. I can see a look of you in 'is eyes. But I don't know that Ishould care to 'ave a baby meself--the expense comes very 'eavy on a poorgirl. "

"Please God, my baby shall never want for anything as long as I can workfor him. But, Jenny, my trouble will be a lesson to you. I hope you willalways be a good girl, and never allow yourself to be led away; youpromise me?"

"Yes, I promise. "

"A 'ome like ours, a drunken father, and now that poor mother is gone itwill be worse than ever. Jenny, you are the eldest and must do your bestto look after the younger ones, and as much as possible to keep fatherfrom the public-house. I shall be away; the moment I'm well enough I mustlook out for a place. "

"That's just what I came to speak to you about. Father is going toAustralia. He is that tired of England, and as he lost his situation onthe railway he has made up his mind to emigrate. It is pretty well allarranged; he has been to an agency and they say he'll 'ave to pay twopounds a 'ead, and that runs to a lot of money in a big family like ours. So I'm likely to get left, for father says that I'm old enough to lookafter myself. He's willing to take me if I gets the money, not without. That's what I came to tell yer about. "

Esther understood that Jenny had come to ask for money. She could not giveit, and lapsed into thinking of this sudden loss of all her family. Shedid not know where Australia was; she fancied that she had once heard thatit took months to get there. But she knew that they were all going fromher, they were going out on the sea in a great ship that would sail andsail further and further away. She could see the ship from her bedside, atfirst strangely distinct, alive with hands and handkerchiefs; she coulddistinguish all the children--Jenny, Julia, and little Ethel. She lostsight of their faces as the ship cleared the harbour. Soon after the shipwas far away on the great round of waters, again a little while and allthe streaming canvas not larger than a gull's wing, again a little whileand the last speck on the horizon hesitated and disappeared. 

"What are you crying about, Esther? I never saw yer cry before. It do seemthat odd. "

"I'm so weak. Mother's death has broken my heart, and now to know that Ishall never see any one of you again. "

"It do seem 'ard. We shall miss you sadly. But I was going to say thatfather can't take me unless I finds two pounds. You won't see me stranded, will you, Esther?"

"I cannot give you the money, Jenny. Father has had too much of my moneyalready; there's 'ardly enough to see me through. I've only four poundsleft. I cannot give you my child's money; God knows how we shall liveuntil I can get to work again. "

"You're nearly well now. But if yer can't help me, yer can't. I don't knowwhat's to be done. Father can't take me if I don't find the money. "

"You say the agency wants two pounds for each person?"

"Yes, that's it. "

"And I've four. We might both go if it weren't for the baby, but I don'tsuppose they'd make any charge for a child on the breast. "

"I dunno. There's father; yer know what he is. "

"That's true. He don't want me; I'm not one of his. But, Jenny, dear, itis terrible to be left all alone. Poor mother dead, and all of you goingto Australia. I shall never see one of you again. "

The conversation paused. Esther changed the baby from the left to theright breast, and Jenny tried to think what she had best say to induce hersister to give her the money she wanted. 

"If you don't give me the money I shall be left; it is hard luck, that'sall, for there's fine chances for a girl, they says, out in Australia. IfI remain 'ere I dunno what will become of me. "

"You had better look out for a situation. We shall see each other fromtime to time. It's a pity you don't know a bit of cooking, enough to takethe place of kitchen-maid. "

"I only know that dog-making, and I've 'ad enough of that. "

"You can always get a situation as general servant in a lodging-'ouse. "

"Service in a lodging-'ouse! Not me. You know what that is. I'm surprisedthat you'd ask me. "

"Well, what are yer thinking of doing?"

"I was thinking of going on in the pantomime as one of the hextra ladies, if they'll 'ave me. "

"Oh, Jenny, you won't do that, will you? A theatre is only sinfulness, aswe 'ave always knowed. "

"You know that I don't 'old with all them preachy-preachy brethren saysabout the theatre. "

"I can't argue--I 'aven't the strength, and it interferes with the milk. "And then, as if prompted by some association of ideas, Esther said, "Ihope, Jenny, that you'll take example by me and will do nothing foolish;you'll always be a good girl. "

"Yes, if I gets the chance. "

"I'm sorry to 'ear you speak like that, and poor mother only just dead. "

The words that rose to Jenny's lips were: "A nice one you are, with a babyat your breast, to come a-lecturing me, " but, fearing Esther's temper, shechecked the dangerous words and said instead--

"I didn't mean that I was a-going on the streets right away this veryevening, only that a girl left alone in London without anyone to look tomay go wrong in spite of herself, as it were. "

"A girl never need go wrong; if she does it is always 'er own fault. "Esther spoke mechanically, but suddenly remembering her own circumstancesshe said: "I'd give you the money if I dared, but for the child's sake Imustn't. "

"You can afford it well enough--I wouldn't ask you if you couldn't. You'llbe earning a pound a week presently. "

"A pound a week! What do you mean, Jenny?"

"Yer can get that as wet-nurse, and yer food too. "

"How do yer know that, Jenny?"

"A friend of mine who was 'ere last year told me she got it, and you canget it too if yer likes. Fancy a pound for the next six months, andeverything found. Yer might spare me the money and let me go to Australiawith the others. "

"I'd give yer the money if what you said was true. "

"Yer can easily find out what I say is the truth by sending for thematron. Shall I go and fetch her? I won't be a minute; you'll see what shesays. "

A few moments after Jenny returned with a good-looking, middle-aged woman. On her face there was that testy and perplexed look that comes of muchbusiness and many interruptions. Before she had opened her lips her facehad said: "Come, what is it? Be quick about it. "

"Father and the others is going to Australia. Mother's dead and was buriedlast week, so father says there's nothing to keep 'im 'ere, for there isbetter prospects out there. But he says he can't take me, for the agencywants two pounds a 'ead, and it was all he could do to find the money forthe others. He is just short of two pounds, and as I'm the eldest barringEsther, who is 'is step-daughter, 'e says that I had better remain, thatI'm old enough to get my own living, which is very 'ard on a girl, for I'monly just turned sixteen. So I thought that I would come up 'ere and tellmy sister----"

"But, my good girl, what has all this got to do with me? I can't give youtwo pounds to go to Australia. You are only wasting my time for nothing. "

"'Ear me out, missis. I want you to explain to my sister that you can gether a situation as a wet-nurse at a pound a week--that's the usual moneythey gets, so I told her, but she won't believe me; but if you tells her, she'll give me two pounds and I shall be able to go with father toAustralia, where they says there is fine chances for a girl. "

The matron examined in critical disdain the vague skirt, the broken boots, and the misshapen hat, coming all the while to rapid conclusions regardingthe moral value of this unabashed child of the gutter. 

"I think your sister will be very foolish if she gives you her money. "

"Oh, don't say that, missis, don't. "

"How does she know that your story is true? Perhaps you are not going toAustralia at all. "

"Perhaps I'm not--that's just what I'm afraid of; but father is, and I canprove it to you. I've brought a letter from father--'ere it is; now, isthat good enough for yer?"

"Come, no impertinence, or I'll order you out of the hospital in doublequick time, " said the matron. 

"I didn't intend no impertinence, " said Jenny humbly, "only I didn't liketo be told I was telling lies when I was speaking the truth. "

"Well, I see that your father is going to Australia, " the matron replied, returning the letter to Jenny; "you want your sister to give you her moneyto take you there too. "

"What I wants is for you to tell my sister that you can get her asituation as wet-nurse; then perhaps she'll give me the money. "

"If your sister wants to go out as wet-nurse, I daresay I could get her apound a week. "

"But, " said Esther, "I should have to put baby out at nurse. "

"You'll have to do that in any case, " Jenny interposed; "you can't livefor nine months on your savings and have all the nourishing food thatyou'll want to keep your milk going, "

"If I was yer sister I'd see yer further before I'd give yer my money. Youmust 'ave a cheek to come a-asking for it, to go off to Australia where agirl 'as chances, and yer sister with a child at the breast left behind. Well I never!"

Jenny and the matron turned suddenly and looked at the woman in theopposite bed who had so unexpectedly expressed her views. Jenny wasfurious. 

"What odds is it to you?" she screamed; "what business is it of yours, coming poking your nose in my affairs?"

"Come, now, I can't have any rowing, " exclaimed the matron. 

"Rowing! I should like to know what business it is of 'ers. "

"Hush, hush, I can't have you interfering with my patients; another wordand I'll order you out of the hospital, "

"Horder me out of the horspital! and what for? Who began it? No, missis, be fair; wait until my sister gives her answer. "

"Well, then, she must be quick about it--I can't wait about here all day. "

"I'll give my sister the money to take her to Australia if you say you canget me a situation as wet-nurse. "

"Yes, I think I can do that. It was four pounds five that you gave me tokeep. I remember the amount, for since I've been here no one has come withhalf that. If they have five shillings they think they can buy halfLondon. "

"My sister is very careful, " said Jenny, sententiously. The matron lookedsharply at her and said--

"Now come along with me--I'm going to fetch your sister's money. I can'tleave you here--you'd get quarrelling with my patients. "

"No, missis, indeed I won't say nothing to her. "

"Do as I tell you. Come along with me. "

So with a passing scowl Jenny expressed her contempt for the woman who hadcome "a-interfering in 'er business, " and went after the matron, watchingher every movement. When they came back Jenny's eyes were fixed on thematron's fat hand as if she could see the yellow metal through thefingers. 

"Here is your money, " said the matron; "four pounds five. You can giveyour sister what you like. "

Esther held the four sovereigns and the two half-crowns in her hand for amoment, then she said--

"Here, Jenny, are the two pounds you want to take you to Australia. I 'opethey'll bring you good luck, and that you'll think of me sometimes. "

"Indeed I will, Esther. You've been a good sister to me, indeed you 'ave;I shall never forget you, and will write to you.... It is very 'ardparting. "

"Come, come, never mind those tears. You have got your money; say good-byeto your sister and run along. "

"Don't be so 'eartless, " cried Jenny, whose susceptibilities were now onthe move. "'Ave yer no feeling; don't yer know what it is to bid good-byeto yer sister, and perhaps for ever?" Jenny flung herself into Esther'sarms crying bitterly. "Oh, Esther, I do love you; yer 'ave been that kindto me I shall never forget it. I shall be very lonely without you. Writeto me sometimes; it will be a comfort to hear how you are getting on. If Imarry I'll send for you, and you'll bring the baby. "

"Do you think I'd leave him behind? Kiss 'im before you go. "

"Good-bye, Esther; take care of yourself. "

Esther was now alone in the world, and she remembered the night she walkedhome from the hospital and how cruel the city had seemed. She was nowalone in that great wilderness with her child, for whom she would have towork for many, many years. How would it all end? Would she be able to livethrough it? Had she done right in letting Jenny have the money--her boy'smoney? She should not have given it; but she hardly knew what she wasdoing, she was so weak, and the news of her mother's death had overcomeher. She should not have given Jenny her boy's money.... But perhaps itmight turn out all right after all. If the matron got her a situation aswet-nurse she'd be able to pull through. "So they would separate us, " shewhispered, bending over the sleeping child. "There is no help for it, mypoor darling. There's no help for it, no help for it. "

Next day Esther was taken out of bed. She spent part of the afternoonsitting in an easy-chair, and Mrs. Jones came to see her. The little oldwoman seemed like one whom she had known always, and Esther told her abouther mother's death and the departure of her family for Australia. Perhapsa week lay between her and the beginning of the struggle which shedreaded. She had been told that they did not usually keep anyone in thehospital more than a fortnight. Three days after Mrs. Jones' visit thematron came into their room hurriedly. 

"I'm very sorry, " she said, "but a number of new patients are expected;there's nothing for it but to get rid of you. It is a pity, for I can seeyou are both very weak. "

"What, me too?" said the woman in the other bed. "I can hardly stand; Itried just now to get across the room. "

"I'm very sorry, but we've new patients coming, and there's all our springcleaning. Have you any place to go to?"

"No place except a lodging, " said Esther; "and I have only two pounds fivenow. "

"What's the use in taking us at all if you fling us out on the street whenwe can hardly walk?" said the other woman. "I wish I had gone and drownedmyself. I was very near doing it. If I had it would be all over now for meand the poor baby. "

"I'm used to all this ingratitude, " said the matron. "You have got throughyour confinement very comfortably, and your baby is quite healthy; I hopeyou'll try and keep it so. Have you any money?"

"Only four-and-sixpence. "

"Have you got any friends to whom you can go?"

"No. "

"Then you'll have to apply for admission to the workhouse. "

The woman made no answer, and at that moment two sisters came and forciblybegan to dress her. She fell back from time to time in their arms, almostfainting. 

"Lord, what a job!" said one sister; "she's just like so much lead inone's arms. But if we listened to them we should have them loafing hereover a month more. " Esther did not require much assistance, and the sistersaid, "Oh, you are as strong as they make 'em; you might have gone twodays ago. "

"You're no better than brutes, " Esther muttered. Then, turning to thematron, she said, "You promised to get me a situation as wet-nurse. "

"Yes, so I did, but the lady who I intended to recommend you to wrote thismorning to say that she had suited herself. "

"But do you think you could get me a situation as wet-nurse?" said theother woman; "it would save me from going to the workhouse. "

"I really don't know what to do with you all; you all want to stop in thehospital at least a month, eating and drinking the best of everything, andthen you want situations as wet-nurses at a pound a week. "

"But, " said Esther, indignantly, "I never should have given my sister twopounds if you had not told me you could get me the situation. "

"I'm sorry, " said the matron, "to have to send you away. I should like tohave kept you, but really there is no help for it. As for the situation, I'll do the best I can. It is true that place I intended for you is filledup, but there will be another shortly, and you shall have the first. Giveme your address. I shall not keep you long waiting, you can depend uponme. You are still very weak, I can see that. Would you like to have one ofthe nurses to walk round with you? You had better--you might fall and hurtthe baby. My word, he is a fine boy. "

"Yes, he is a beautiful boy; it will break my heart to part with him. "

Some eight or nine poor girls stood outside, dressed alike in dingygarments. They were like half-dead flies trying to crawl through anOctober afternoon; and with their babies and a keen wind blowing, theyfound it difficult to hold on their hats. 

"It do catch you a bit rough, coming out of them 'ot rooms, " said a womanstanding by her. "I'm that weak I can 'ardly carry my baby. I dunno 'ow Ishall get as far as the Edgware Road. I take my 'bus there. Are you goingthat way?"

"No, I'm going close by, round the corner. "

XVIII

Her hair hung about her, her hands and wrists were shrunken, her flesh wassoft and flabby, and she had dark shadows in her face. Nursing her childseemed to draw all strength from her, and her nervous depressionincreased; she was too weary and ill to think of the future, and for awhole week her physical condition held her, to the exclusion of everyother thought. Mrs. Jones was very kind, and only charged her tenshillings a week for her board and lodging, but this was a great deal whenonly two pounds five shillings remained between her and the workhouse, andthis fact was brought home to her when Mrs. Jones came to her for thefirst week's money. Ten shillings gone; only one pound fifteen shillingsleft, and still she was so weak that she could hardly get up and downstairs. But if she were twice as weak, if she had to crawl along thestreet on her hands and knees, she must go to the hospital and implore thematron to get her a situation as wet-nurse. It was raining heavily, andMrs. Jones said it was madness for her to go out in such weather, but goshe must; and though it was distant only a few hundred yards, she oftenthought she would like to lie down and die. And at the hospital onlydisappointment. Why hadn't she called yesterday? Yesterday two ladies oftitle had come and taken two girls away. Such a chance might not occur forsome time. "For some time, " thought Esther; "very soon I shall have toapply for admission at the workhouse. " She reminded the matron of herpromise, and returned home more dead than alive. Mrs. Jones helped her tochange her clothes, and bade her be of good heart. Esther looked at herhopelessly, and sitting down on the edge of her bed she put the baby toher breast. 

Another week passed. She had been to the hospital every day, but no onehad been to inquire for a wet-nurse. Her money was reduced to a fewshillings, and she tried to reconcile herself to the idea that she mightdo worse than to accept the harsh shelter of the workhouse. Her naturerevolted against it; but she must do what was best for the child. Sheoften asked herself how it would all end, and the more she thought, themore terrible did the future seem. Her miserable meditations wereinterrupted by a footstep on the stairs. It was Mrs. Jones, coming to tellher that a lady who wanted a wet-nurse had come from the hospital; and alady entered dressed in a beautiful brown silk, and looked around thehumble room, clearly shocked at its poverty. Esther, who was sitting onthe bed, rose to meet the fine lady, a thin woman, with narrow temples, aquiline features, bright eyes, and a disagreeable voice. 

"You are the young person who wants a situation as wet-nurse?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"Are you married?"

"No, ma'am. "

"Is that your first child?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"Ah, that's a pity. But it doesn't matter much, so long as you and yourbaby are healthy. Will you show it to me?"

"He is asleep now, ma'am, " Esther said, raising the bed-clothes; "therenever was a healthier child. "

"Yes, he seems healthy enough. You have a good supply of milk?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"Fifteen shillings, and all found. Does that suit you?"

"I had expected a pound a week. "

"It is only your first baby. Fifteen shillings is quite enough. Of courseI only engage you subject to the doctor's approval. I'll ask him to call. "

"Very well, ma'am; I shall be glad of the place. "

"Then it is settled. You can come at once?"

"I must arrange to put my baby out to nurse, ma'am. "

The lady's face clouded. But following up another train of thought, shesaid--

"Of course you must arrange about your baby, and I hope you'll make properarrangements. Tell the woman in whose charge you leave it that I shallwant to see it every three weeks. It will be better so, " she added underher breath, "for two have died already. "

"This is my card, " said the lady--"Mrs. Rivers, Curzon Street, Mayfair--and I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon--that is to say, ifthe doctor approves of you. Here is one-and-sixpence for your cab fare. "

"Thank you, ma'am. "

"I shall expect you not later than four o'clock. I hope you won'tdisappoint me; remember my child is waiting. "

When Mrs. Rivers left, Esther consulted with Mrs. Jones. The difficultywas now where she should put the child out at nurse. It was now just aftertwo o'clock. The baby was fast asleep, and would want nothing for three orfour hours. It would be well for Esther to put on her hat and jacket andgo off at once. Mrs. Jones gave her the address of a respectable woman whoused to take charge of children. But this woman was nursing twins, andcould not possibly undertake the charge of another baby. And Esthervisited many streets, always failing for one reason or another. At lastshe found herself in Wandsworth, in a battered tumble-down little street, no thoroughfare, only four houses and a coal-shed. Broken wooden palingsstood in front of the small area into which descent was made by means of afew wooden steps. The wall opposite seemed to be the back of some stables, and in the area of No. 3 three little mites were playing. The baby wastied in a chair, and a short fat woman came out of the kitchen at Esther'scall, her dirty apron sloping over her high stomach, and her pale brownhair twisted into a knot at the top of her head. 

"Well, what is it?"

"I came about putting a child out to nurse. You are Mrs. Spires, ain'tyer?"

"Yes, that's my name. May I ask who sent you?"

Esther told her, and then Mrs. Spires asked her to step down into thekitchen. 

"Them 'ere children you saw in the area I looks after while their mothersare out washing or charing. They takes them 'ome in the evening. I onlycharges them four-pence a-day, and it is a loss at that, for they doestake a lot of minding. What age is yours?"

"Mine is only a month old. I've a chance to go out as wet-nurse if I canfind a place to put him out at nurse. Will you look after my baby?"

"How much do you think of paying for him?"

"Five shillings a week. "

"And you a-going out as wet-nurse at a pound a week; you can afford morethan that. "

"I'm only getting fifteen shillings a week. "

"Well, you can afford to pay six. I tell you the responsibility I oflooking after a hinfant is that awful nowadays that I don't care toundertake it for less. "

Esther hesitated; she did not like this woman. 

"I suppose, " said the woman, altering her tone to one of mildinterrogation, "you would like your baby to have the best of everything, and not the drainings of any bottle that's handy?"

"I should like my child to be well looked after, and I must see the childevery three weeks. "

"Do you expect me to bring up the child to wherever the lady lives, andpay my 'bus fare, all out of five shillings a week? It can't be done!"Esther did not answer. "You ain't married, of course?" Mrs. Spires saidsuddenly. 

"No, I ain't; what about that?"

"Oh, nothing; there is so many of you, that's all. You can't lay yer 'andon the father and get a bit out of 'im?"

The conversation paused. Esther felt strangely undecided. She looked roundsuspiciously, and noticing the look the woman said--

"Your baby will be well looked after 'ere; a nice warm kitchen, and I'veno other babies for the moment; them children don't give no trouble, theyplays in the area. You had better let me have the child; you won't dobetter than 'ere. "

Esther promised to think it over and let her know to-morrow. It took hermany omnibuses to get home, and it was quite dark when she pushed the doorto. The first thing that caught her ear was her child crying. "What is thematter?" she cried, hurrying down the passage. 

"Oh, is that you? You have been away a time. The poor child is that hungryhe has been crying this hour or more. If I'd 'ad a bottle I'd 'ave givenhim a little milk. "

"Hungry, is he? Then he shall have plenty soon. It is nearly the last timeI shall nurse the poor darling. " Then she told Mrs. Jones about Mrs. Spires, and both women tried to arrive at a decision. 

"Since you have to put the child out to nurse, you might as well put himthere as elsewhere; the woman will look after him as well as shecan--she'll do that, if it is for the sake of the six shillings a week. "

"Yes, yes, I know; but I've always heard that children die that are putout to nurse. If mine died I never should forgive myself. "

She could not sleep; she lay with her arms about her baby, distracted atthe thought of parting from him. What had she done that her baby should beseparated from her? What had the poor little darling done? He at least wasinnocent; why should he be deprived of his mother? At midnight she got upand lighted a candle, looked at him, took him in her arms, squeezed him toher bosom till he cried, and the thought came that it would be sweeter tokill him with her own hands than to be parted from him. 

The thought of murder went with the night, and she enjoyed the journey toWandsworth. Her baby laughed and cooed, and was much admired in theomnibus, and the little street where Mrs. Spires lived seemed different. Acart of hay was being unloaded, and this gave the place a pleasant ruralair. Mrs. Spires, too, was cleaner, tidier; Esther no longer disliked her;she had a nice little cot ready for the baby, and he seemed so comfortablein it that Esther did not feel the pangs at parting which she had expectedto feel. She would see him in a few weeks, and in those weeks she would bericher. It seemed quite wonderful to earn so much money in so short atime. She had had a great deal of bad luck, but her luck seemed to haveturned at last. So engrossed was she in the consideration of her goodfortune that she nearly forgot to get out of her 'bus at Charing Cross, and had it not been for the attention of the conductor might have gone on, she did not know where--perhaps to Clerkenwell, or may be to Islington. When the second 'bus turned into Oxford Street she got out, not wishing tospend more money than was necessary. Mrs. Jones approved of all she haddone, helped her to pack up her box, and sent her away with many kindwishes to Curzon Street in a cab. 

Esther was full of the adventure and the golden prospect before her. Shewondered if the house she was going to was as grand as Woodview, and shewas struck by the appearance of the maidservant who opened the door toher. 

"Oh, here you are, " Mrs. Rivers said. "I have been anxiously expectingyou; my baby is not at all well. Come up to the nursery at once. I don'tknow your name, " she said, turning to Esther. 

"Waters, ma'am. "

"Emily, you'll see that Waters' box is taken to her room. "

"I'll see to it, ma'am. "

"Then come up at once, Waters. I hope you'll succeed better than theothers. "

A tall, handsome gentleman stood at the door of a room full of beautifulthings, and as they went past him Mrs. Rivers said, "This is the newnurse, dear. " Higher up, Esther saw a bedroom of soft hangings and brightporcelain. Then another staircase, and the little wail of a child caughton the ear, and Mrs. Rivers said, "The poor little thing; it never ceasescrying. Take it, Waters, take it. "

Esther sat down, and soon the little thing ceased crying. 

"It seems to take to you, " said the anxious mother. 

"So it seems, " said Esther; "it is a wee thing, not half the size of myboy. "

"I hope the milk will suit it, and that it won't bring up what it takes. This is our last chance. "

"I daresay it will come round, ma'am. I suppose you weren't strong enoughto nurse it yourself, and yet you looks healthy. "

"I? No, I could not undertake to nurse it. " Then, glancing suspiciously atEsther, whose breast was like a little cup, Mrs. Rivers said, "I hope youhave plenty of milk?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am; they said at the hospital I could bring up twins. "

"Your supper will be ready at nine. But that will be a long time for youto wait. I told them to cut you some sandwiches, and you'll have a glassof porter. Or perhaps you'd prefer to wait till supper? You can have yoursupper, you know, at eight, if you like?"

Esther took a sandwich and Mrs. Rivers poured out a glass of porter. Andlater in the evening Mrs. Rivers came down from her drawing-room to seethat Esther's supper was all right, and not satisfied with the handsomefare that had been laid before her child's nurse, she went into thekitchen and gave strict orders that the meat for the future was not to bequite so much cooked. 

Henceforth it seemed to Esther that she was eating all day. The food wasdoubtless necessary after the great trial of the flesh she had beenthrough, likewise pleasant after her long abstinences. She grew happy inthe tide of new blood flowing in her veins, and might easily haveabandoned herself in the seduction of these carnal influences. But hermoral nature was of tough fibre, and made mute revolt. Such constantmealing did not seem natural, and the obtuse brain of this lowlyservant-girl was perplexed. Her self-respect was wounded; she hated herposition in this house, and sought consolation in the thought that she wasearning good money for her baby. She noticed, too, that she never wasallowed out alone, and that her walks were limited to just sufficientexercise to keep her in health. 

A fortnight passed, and one afternoon, after having put baby to sleep, shesaid to Mrs. Rivers, "I hope, ma'am, you'll be able to spare me for acouple of hours; baby won't want me before then. I'm very anxious about mylittle one. "

"Oh, nurse, I couldn't possibly hear of it; such a thing is never allowed. You can write to the woman, if you like. "

"I do not know how to write, ma'am. "

"Then you can get some one to write for you. But your baby is no doubt allright. "

"But, ma'am, you are uneasy about your baby; you are up in the nurserytwenty times a day; it is only natural I should be uneasy about mine. "

"But, nurse, I've no one to send with you. "

"There is no reason why any one should go with me, ma'am; I can take careof myself. "

"What! let you go off all the way to--where did you say you had leftit--Wandsworth?--by yourself! I really couldn't think of it. I don't wantto be unnecessarily hard--but I really couldn't--no mother could. I mustconsider the interests of my child. But I don't want you to agitateyourself, and if you like I'll write myself to the woman who has charge ofyour baby. I cannot do more, and I hope you'll be satisfied. "

By what right, by what law, was she separated from her child? She wastired of hearing Mrs. Rivers speak of "my child, my child, my child, " andof seeing this fine lady turn up her nose when she spoke of her ownbeautiful boy. When Mrs. Rivers came to engage her she had said that itwould be better for the baby to be brought to see her every three or fourweeks, for two had died already. At the time Esther had not understood. She had supposed vaguely, in a passing way, that Mrs. Rivers had alreadylost two children. But yesterday the housemaid had told her that thatlittle thing in the cradle had had two wet-nurses before Esther, and thatboth babies had died. It was then a life for a life. It was more. Thechildren of two poor girls had been sacrificed so that this rich woman'schild might be saved. Even that was not enough, the life of her beautifulboy was called for. Then other memories swept into Esther's frenziedbrain. She remembered vague hints, allusions that Mrs. Spires had thrownout; and as if in the obtuseness of a nightmare, it seemed to thisignorant girl that she was the victim of a dark and far-reachingconspiracy; she experienced the sensation of the captured animal, and shescanned the doors and windows, thinking of some means of escape. 

At that moment a knock was heard and the housemaid came in. 

"The woman who has charge of your baby has come to see you. "

Esther started up from her chair, and fat little Mrs. Spires waddled intothe room, the ends of her shawl touching the ground. 

"Where is my baby?" said Esther. "Why haven't you brought him?"

"Why, you see, my dear, the sweet little thing didn't seem as well asusual this afternoon, and I did not care to bring him out, it being a longway and a trifle cold.... It is nice and warm in here. May I sit down?"

"Yes, there's a chair; but tell me what is the matter with him?"

"A little cold, dear--nothing to speak of. You must not excite yourself, it isn't worth while; besides, it's bad for you and the little darling inthe cradle. May I have a look?... A little girl, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is a girl. "

"And a beautiful little girl too. 'Ow 'ealthy she do look! I'll be boundyou have made a difference in her. I suppose you are beginning to like herjust as if she was your own?"

Esther did not answer. 

"Yer know, all you girls are dreadful taken with their babies at first. But they is a awful drag on a girl who gets her living in service. For mypart I do think it providential-like that rich folk don't nurse their own. If they did, I dunno what would become of all you poor girls. Thesituation of wet-nurse is just what you wants at the time, and it is goodmoney. I hope yer did what I told you and stuck out for a pound a week. Rich folk like these here would think nothing of a pound a week, nor yettwo, when they sees their child is suited. "

"Never mind about my money, that's my affair. Tell me what's the matterwith my baby?"

"'Ow yer do 'arp on it! I've told yer that 'e's all right; nothing tosignify, only a little poorly, but knowing you was that anxious I thoughtit better to come up. I didn't know but what you might like to 'ave in thedoctor. "

"Does he require the doctor? I thought you said it was nothing tosignify. "

"That depends on 'ow yer looks at it. Some likes to 'ave in the doctor, however little the ailing; then others won't 'ave anything to do withdoctors--don't believe in them. So I thought I'd come up and see what youthought about it. I would 'ave sent for the doctor this morning--I'm oneof those who 'as faith in doctors--but being a bit short of money Ithought I'd come up and ask you for a trifle. "

At that moment Mrs. Rivers came into the nursery and her first look wentin the direction of the cradle, then she turned to consider curtseyingMrs. Spires. 

"This is Mrs. Spires, the lady who is looking after my baby, ma'am, " saidEsther; "she has come with bad news--my baby is ill. "

"Oh, I'm sorry. But I daresay it is nothing. "

"But Mrs. Spires says, ma'am----"

"Yes, ma'am, the little thing seemed a bit poorly, and I being short ofmoney, ma'am, I had to come and see nurse. I knows right well that theymust not be disturbed, and of course your child's 'ealth is everything;but if I may make so bold I'd like to say that the little dear do lookbeautiful. Nurse is bringing her up that well that yer must have everysatisfaction in 'er. "

"Yes, she seems to suit the child; that's the reason I don't want herupset. "

"It won't occur again, ma'am, I promise you. "

Esther did not answer, and her white, sullen face remained unchanged. Shehad a great deal on her mind, and would have spoken if the words did notseem to betray her when she attempted to speak. 

"When the baby is well, and the doctor is satisfied there is no danger ofinfection, you can bring it here--once a month will be sufficient. Isthere anything more?"

"Mrs. Spires thinks my baby ought to see the doctor. "

"Well, let her send for the doctor. "

"Being a bit short of money----"

"How much is it?" said Esther. 

"Well, what we pays is five shillings to the doctor, but then there's themedicine he will order, and I was going to speak to you about a piece offlannel; if yer could let me have ten shillings to go on with. "

"But I haven't so much left. I must see my baby, " and Esther moved towardsthe door. 

"No, no, nurse, I cannot hear of it; I'd sooner pay the money myself. Now, how much do you want, Mrs. Spires?"

"Ten shillings will do for the present, ma'am. "

"Here they are; let the child have every attendance, and remember you arenot to come troubling my nurse. Above all, you are not to come up to thenursery. I don't know how it happened, it was a mistake on the part of thenew housemaid. You must have my permission before you see my nurse. " Andwhile talking rapidly and imperatively Mrs. Rivers, as it were, drove Mrs. Spires out of the nursery. Esther could hear them talking on thestaircase, and she listened, all the while striving to collect herthoughts. Mrs. Rivers said when she returned, "I really cannot allow herto come here upsetting you. " Then, as if impressed by the sombre look onEsther's face, she added: "Upsetting you about nothing. I assure you itwill be all right; only a little indisposition. "

"I must see my baby, " Esther replied. 

"Come, nurse, you shall see your baby the moment the doctor says it is fitto come here. You can't expect me to do more than that. " Esther did notmove, and thinking that it would not be well to argue with her, Mrs. Rivers went over to the cradle. "See, nurse, the little darling has justwoke up; come and take her, I'm sure she wants you. "

Esther did not answer her. She stood looking into space, and it seemed toMrs. Rivers that it would be better not to provoke a scene. She wenttowards the door slowly, but a little cry from the cradle stopped her, andshe said--

"Come, nurse, what is it? Come, the baby is waiting for you. "

Then, like one waking from a dream, Esther said: "If my baby is all right, ma'am, I'll come back, but if he wants me, I'll have to look after himfirst. "

"You forget that I'm paying you fifteen shillings a week. I pay you fornursing my baby; you take my money, that's sufficient. "

"Yes, I do take your money, ma'am. But the housemaid has told me that youhad two wet-nurses before me, and that both their babies died, so I cannotstop here now that mine's ill. Everyone for her own; you can't blame me. I'm sorry for yours--poor little thing, she was getting on nicely too. "

"But, Waters, you won't leave my baby. It's cruel of you. If I could nurseit myself----"

"Why couldn't you, ma'am? You look fairly strong and healthy. "

Esther spoke in her quiet, stolid way, finding her words unconsciously. 

"You don't know what you're saying, nurse; you can't.... You've forgottenyourself. Next time I engage a nurse I'll try to get one who has lost herbaby, and then there'll be no bother. "

"It is a life for a life--more than that, ma'am--two lives for a life; andnow the life of my boy is asked for. "

A strange look passed over Mrs. Rivers' face. She knew, of course, thatshe stood well within the law, that she was doing no more than a hundredother fashionable women were doing at the same moment; but this plain girlhad a plain way of putting things, and she did not care for it to bepublicly known that the life of her child had been bought with the livesof two poor children. But her temper was getting the better of her. 

"He'll only be a drag on you. You'll never be able to bring him up, poorlittle bastard child. "

"It is wicked of you to speak like that, ma'am, though it is I who amsaying it. It is none of the child's fault if he hasn't got a father, noris it right that he should be deserted for that... And it is not for youto tell me to do such a thing. If you had made sacrifice of yourself inthe beginning and nursed your own child such thoughts would not have cometo you. But when you hire a poor girl such as me to give the milk thatbelongs to another to your child, you think nothing of the poor desertedone. He is but a bastard, you say, and had better be dead and done with. Isee it all now; I have been thinking it out. It is all so hidden up thatthe meaning is not clear at first, but what it comes to is this, that finefolks like you pays the money, and Mrs. Spires and her like gets rid ofthe poor little things. Change the milk a few times, a little neglect, andthe poor servant girl is spared the trouble of bringing up her baby andcan make a handsome child of the rich woman's little starveling. "

At that moment the baby began to cry; both women looked in the directionof the cradle. 

"Nurse, you have utterly forgotten yourself, you have talked a great dealof nonsense, you have said a great deal that is untrue. You accused me ofwishing your baby were dead, indeed I hardly know what wild remarks youdid not indulge in. Of course, I cannot put up with suchconduct--to-morrow you will come to me and apologise. In the meantime thebaby wants you, are you not going to her?"

"I'm going to my own child. "

"That means that you refuse to nurse my baby?"

"Yes, I'm going straight to look after my own. "

"If you leave my house you shall never enter it again. "

"I don't want to enter it again. "

"I shall not pay you one shilling if you leave my baby. You have nomoney. "

"I shall try to manage without. I shall go with my baby to the workhouse. However bad the living may be there, he'll be with his mother. "

"If you go to-night my baby will die. She cannot be brought up on thebottle. "

"Oh, I hope not, ma'am. I should be sorry, indeed I should. "

"Then stay, nurse. "

"I must go to my baby, ma'am. "

"Then you shall go at once--this very instant. "

"I'm going this very instant, as soon as I've put on my hat and jacket. "

"You had better take your box with you. If you don't I'll shall have itthrown into the street. "

"I daresay you're cruel enough to do that if the law allows you, only becareful that it do. "

XIX

The moment Esther got out of the house in Curzon Street she felt in herpocket for her money. She had only a few pence; enough for her 'bus fare, however, and her thoughts did not go further. She was absorbed by onedesire, how to save her child--how to save him from Mrs. Spires, whom shevaguely suspected; from the world, which called him a bastard and deniedto him the right to live. And she sat as if petrified in the corner of the'bus, seeing nothing but a little street of four houses, facing somehaylofts, the low-pitched kitchen, the fat woman, the cradle in thecorner. The intensity and the oneness of her desire seemed to annihilatetime, and when she got out of the omnibus she walked with a sort ofanimal-like instinct straight for the house. There was a light in thekitchen just as she expected, and as she descended the four wooden stepsinto the area she looked to see if Mrs. Spires was there. She was there, and Esther pushed open the door. 

"Where's my baby?"

"Lord, 'ow yer did frighten me!" said Mrs. Spires, turning from the rangeand leaning against the table, which was laid for supper. "Coming likethat into other folk's places without a word of warning--without as muchas knocking at the door. "

"I beg your pardon, but I was that anxious about my baby. "

"Was you indeed? It is easy to see it is the first one. There it is in thecradle there. "

"Have you sent for the doctor?"

"Sent for the doctor! I've to get my husband's supper. "

Esther took her baby out of the cradle. It woke up crying, and Esthersaid, "You don't mind my sitting down a moment. The poor little thingwants its mother. "

"If Mrs. Rivers saw you now a-nursing of yer baby?"

"I shouldn't care if she did. He's thinner than when I left him; ten days'ave made a difference in him. "

"Well, yer don't expect a child to do as well without its mother as withher. But tell me, how did yer get out? You must have come away shortlyafter me. "

"I wasn't going to stop there and my child ill. "

"Yer don't mean to tell me that yer 'ave gone and thrown hup thesituation?"

"She told me if I went out, I should never enter her door again. "

"And what did you say?"

"Told her I didn't want to. "

"And what, may I ask, are yer thinking of doing? I 'eard yer say yer 'adno money. "

"I don't know. "

"Take my advice, and go straight back and ask 'er to overlook it, thisonce. "

"Oh, no, she'd never take me back. "

"Yes, she will; you suits the child, and that's all they think of. "

"I don't know what will become of me and my baby. "

"No more don't I. Yer can't stop always in the work'us, and a baby'll be a'eavy drag on you. Can't you lay 'ands on 'is father, some'ow?"

Esther shook her head, and Mrs. Spires noticed that she was crying. 

"I'm all alone, " she said; "I don't know 'ow I'm ever to pull through. "

"Not with that child yer won't--it ain't possible.... You girls is allalike, yer thinks of nothing but yer babies for the first few weeks, thenyer tires of them, the drag on yer is that 'eavy--I knows yer--and thenyer begins to wish they 'ad never been born, or yer wishes they had diedafore they knew they was alive. I don't say I'm not often sorry for them, poor little dears, but they takes less notice than you'd think for, andthey is better out of the way; they really is, it saves a lot of troublehereafter. I often do think that to neglect them, to let them go offquiet, that I be their best friend; not wilful neglect, yer know, but whatis a woman to do with ten or a dozen, and I often 'as as many? I am surethey'd thank me for it. "

Esther did not answer, but judging by her face that she had lost all hope, Mrs. Spires was tempted to continue. 

"There's that other baby in the far corner, that was brought 'ere sinceyou was 'ere by a servant-girl like yerself. She's out a'nursing of alady's child, getting a pound a week, just as you was; well, now I asks'ow she can 'ope to bring up that 'ere child--a weakly little thing thatwants the doctor and all sorts of looking after. If that child was to liveit would be the ruin of that girl's life. Don't yer 'ear what I'm saying?"

"Yes, I hear, " said Esther, speaking like one in a dream; "don't she carefor her baby, then?"

"She used to care for them, but if they had all lived I should like toknow where she'd be. There 'as been five of them--that's the fifth--so, instead of them a-costing 'er money, they brings 'er money. She 'as neverfailed yet to suit 'erself in a situation as wet-nurse. "

"And they all died?"

"Yes, they all died; and this little one don't look as if it was long forthe world, do it?" said Mrs. Spires, who had taken the infant from thecradle to show Esther. Esther looked at the poor wizened features, twitched with pain, and the far-off cry of doom, a tiny tinkle from theverge, shivered in the ear with a strange pathos. 

"It goes to my 'eart, " said Mrs. Spires, "it do indeed, but, Lord, it isthe best that could 'appen to 'em; who's to care for 'em? and there is'undreds and 'undreds of them--ay, thousands and thousands every year--andthey all dies like the early shoots. It is 'ard, very 'ard, poor littledears, but they is best out of the way--they is only an expense and adisgrace. "

Mrs. Spires talked on in a rapid, soothing, soporific voice. She had justfinished pouring some milk in the baby's bottle and had taken down a jugof water from the dresser. 

"But that's cold water, " said Esther, waking from the stupor of herdespair; "it will give the baby gripes for certain. "

"I've no 'ot water ready; I'll let the bottle stand afore the fire, that'll do as well. " Watching Esther all the while, Mrs. Spires held thebottle a few moments before the fire, and then gave it to the child tosuck. Very soon after a cry of pain came from the cradle. 

"The little dear never was well; it wouldn't surprise me a bit if itdied--went off before morning. It do look that poorly. One can't 'elpbeing sorry for them, though one knows there is no 'ouse for them 'ere. Poor little angels, and not even baptised. There's them that thinks a lotof getting that over. But who's to baptise the little angels?"

"Baptise them?" Esther repeated. "Oh, sprinkle them, you mean. That's notthe way with the Lord's people;" and to escape from a too overpoweringreality she continued to repeat the half-forgotten patter of the Brethren, "You must wait until it is a symbol of living faith in the Lord!" Andtaking the baby in her hands for a moment, the wonder crossed her mindwhether he would ever grow up and find salvation and testify to the Lordas an adult in voluntary baptism. 

All the while Mrs. Spires was getting on with her cooking. Several timesshe looked as if she were going to speak, and several times she checkedherself. In truth, she didn't know what to make of Esther. Was her love ofher child such love as would enable her to put up with all hardships forits sake, or was it the fleeting affection of the ordinary young mother, which, though ardent at first, gives way under difficulties? Mrs. Spireshad heard many mothers talk as Esther talked, but when the real strain oflife was put upon them they had yielded to the temptation of riddingthemselves of their burdens. So Mrs. Spires could not believe that Estherwas really different from the others, and if carefully handled she woulddo what the others had done. Still, there was something in Esther whichkept Mrs. Spires from making any distinct proposal. But it were a pity tolet the girl slip through her fingers--five pounds were not picked upevery day. There were three five-pound notes in the cradles. If Estherwould listen to reason there would be twenty pounds, and the money waswanted badly. Once more greed set Mrs. Spires' tongue flowing, and, representing herself as a sort of guardian angel, she spoke again aboutthe mother of the dying child, pressing Esther to think what the girl'scircumstances would have been if they had all lived. 

"And they all died?" said Esther. 

"Yes, and a good job, too, " said Mrs. Spires, whose temper for the momentoutsped her discretion. Was this penniless drab doing it on purpose toannoy her? A nice one indeed to high-and-mighty it over her. She wouldshow her in mighty quick time she had come to the wrong shop. Just as Mrs. Spires was about to speak out she noticed that Esther was in tears. Mrs. Spires always looked upon tears as a good sign, so she resolved to giveher one more chance. "What are you crying about?" she said. 

"Oh, " said Esther, "I don't even know where I shall sleep tonight. I haveonly threepence, and not a friend in the world. "

"Now look 'ere, if you'll listen to reason I'll talk to you. Yer mustn'tlook upon me as a henemy. I've been a good friend to many a poor girl likeyou afore now, and I'll be one to you if you're sensible. I'll do for youwhat I'm doing for the other girl. Give me five pounds--"

"Five pounds! I've only a few pence. "

"'Ear me out. Go back to yer situation--she'll take you back, yer suitsthe child, that's all she cares about; ask 'er for an advance of fivepounds; she'll give it when she 'ears it is to get rid of yer child--they'ates their nurses to be a-'ankering after their own, they likes them tobe forgotten like; they asks if the child is dead very often, and won'tengage them if it isn't, so believe me she'll give yer the money when yertells 'er that it is to give the child to someone who wants to adopt it. That's what you 'as to say. "

"And you'll take the child off my hands for ever for five pounds?"

"Yes; and if you likes to go out again as wet-nurse, I'll take the secondoff yer 'ands too, and at the same price. "

"You wicked woman; oh, this is awful!"

"Come, come.... What do you mean by talking to me like that? And because Ioffered to find someone who would adopt your child. "

"You did nothing of the kind; ever since I've been in your house you havebeen trying to get me to give you up my child to murder as you aremurdering those poor innocents in the cradles. "

"It is a lie, but I don't want no hargument with yer; pay me what you oweme and take yerself hoff. I want no more of yer, do you 'ear?"

Esther did not shrink before her as Mrs. Spires expected. Clasping herbaby more tightly, she said: "I've paid you what I owe you, you've hadmore than your due. Mrs. Rivers gave you ten shillings for a doctor whichyou didn't send for. Let me go. "

"Yes, when yer pays me. "

"What's all this row about?" said a tall, red-bearded man who had justcome in; "no one takes their babies out of this 'ere 'ouse before theypays. Come now, come now, who are yer getting at? If yer thinks yer cancome here insulting of my wife yer mistaken; yer've come to the wrongshop. "

"I've paid all I owe, " said Esther. "You're no better than murderers, butyer shan't have my poor babe to murder for a five-pound note. "

"Take back them words, or else I'll do for yer; take them back, " he said, raising his fist. 

"Help, help, murder!" Esther screamed. Before the brute could seize hershe had slipped past, but before she could scream again he had laid holdof her. Esther thought her last moment had come. 

"Let 'er go, let 'er go, " cried Mrs. Spires, clinging on her husband'sarm. "We don't want the perlice in 'ere. "

"Perlice! What do I care about the perlice? Let 'er pay what she owes. "

"Never mind, Tom; it is only a trifle. Let her go. Now then, take yerhook, " she said, turning to Esther; "we don't want nothing to do with suchas you. "

With a growl the man loosed his hold, and feeling herself free Estherrushed through the open doorway. Her feet flew up the wooden steps and sheran out of the street. So shaken were her nerves that the sight of somemen drinking in a public-house frightened her. She ran on again. There wasa cab-stand in the next street, and to avoid the cabmen and the loafersshe hastily crossed to the other side. Her heart beat violently, herthoughts were in disorder, and she walked a long while before she realisedthat she did not know where she was going. She stopped to ask the way, andthen remembered there was no place where she might go. 

She would have to spend the night in the workhouse, and then?

She did not know.... All sorts of thoughts came upon her unsolicited, andshe walked on and on. At last she rested her burden on the parapet of abridge, and saw the London night, blue and gold, vast water rolling, andthe spectacle of the stars like a dream from which she could notdisentangle her individuality. Was she to die in the star-lit city, sheand her child; and why should such cruelty happen to her more than to thenext one? Steadying her thoughts with an effort, she said, "Why not go tothe workhouse, only for the night?... She did not mind for herself, onlyshe did not wish her boy to go there. But if God willed it.... "

She drew her shawl about her baby and tried once more to persuade herselfinto accepting the shelter of the workhouse. It seemed strange even to herthat a pale, glassy moon should float high up in the sky, and that sheshould suffer; and then she looked at the lights that fell like goldendaggers from the Surrey shore into the river. What had she done to deservethe workhouse? Above all, what had the poor, innocent child done todeserve it? She felt that if she once entered the workhouse she wouldremain there. She and her child paupers for ever. "But what can I do?" sheasked herself crazily, and sat down on one of the seats. 

A young man coming home from an evening party looked at her as he passed. She asked herself if she should run after him and tell him her story. Whyshould he not assist her? He could so easily spare it. Would he? Butbefore she could decide to appeal to him he had called a passing hansomand was soon far away. Then looking at the windows of the great hotels, she thought of the folk there who could so easily save her from theworkhouse if they knew. There must be many a kind heart behind thosewindows who would help her if she could only make known her trouble. Butthat was the difficulty. She could not make known her trouble; she couldnot tell the misery she was enduring. She was so ignorant; she could notmake herself understood. She would be mistaken for a common beggar. Nowhere would she find anyone to listen to her. Was this punishment forher wrong-doing? An idea of the blind cruelty of fate maddened her, and inthe delirium of her misery she asked herself if it would not have beenbetter, perhaps, if she had left him with Mrs. Spires. What indeed had thepoor little fellow to live for? A young man in evening dress came towardsher, looking so happy and easy in life, walking with long, swingingstrides. He stopped and asked her if she was out for a walk. 

"No, sir; I'm out because I've no place to go. "

"How's that?"

She told him the story of the baby-farmer and he listened kindly, and shethought the necessary miracle was about to happen. But he onlycomplimented her on her pluck and got up to go. Then she understood thathe did not care to listen to sad stories, and a vagrant came and sat down. 

"The 'copper, '" he said, "will be moving us on presently. It don't muchmatter; it's too cold to get to sleep, and I think it will rain. My coughis that bad. "

She might beg a night's lodging of Mrs. Jones. It was far away; she didnot think she could walk so far. Mrs. Jones might have left, then whatwould she do? The workhouse up there was much the same as the workhousedown here. Mrs. Jones couldn't keep her for nothing, and there was no usetrying for another situation as wet-nurse; the hospital would notrecommend her again.... She must go to the workhouse. Then her thoughtswandered. She thought of her father, brothers, and sisters, who had goneto Australia. She wondered if they had yet arrived, if they ever thoughtof her, if--She and her baby were on their way to the workhouse. They weregoing to become paupers. She looked at the vagrant--he had fallen asleep. He knew all about the workhouse--should she ask him what it was like? He, too, was friendless. If he had a friend he would not be sleeping on theEmbankment. Should she ask him? Poor chap, he was asleep. People werehappy when they were asleep. 

A full moon floated high up in the sky, and the city was no more than afaint shadow on the glassy stillness of the night; and she longed to floataway with the moon and the river, to be borne away out of sight of thisworld. 

Her baby grew heavy in her arms, and the vagrant, a bundle of rags thrownforward in a heap, slept at the other end of the bench. But she could notsleep, and the moon whirled on her miserable way. Then the glassystillness was broken by the measured tramp of the policeman going hisrounds. He directed her to Lambeth Workhouse, and as she walked towardsWestminster she heard him rousing the vagrant and bidding him move onward. 

XX

Those who came to the workhouse for servants never offered more thanfourteen pounds a year, and these wages would not pay for her baby's keepout at nurse. Her friend the matron did all she could, but it was alwaysfourteen pounds. "We cannot afford more. " At last an offer of sixteenpounds a year came from a tradesman in Chelsea; and the matron introducedEsther to Mrs. Lewis, a lonely widowed woman, who for five shillings aweek would undertake to look after the child. This would leave Estherthree pounds a year for dress; three pounds a year for herself. 

What luck!

The shop was advantageously placed at a street corner. Twelve feet offronting on the King's Road, and more than half that amount on the sidestreet, exposed to every view wall papers and stained glass designs. Thedwelling-house was over the shop; the shop entrance faced the kerb in theKing's Road. 

The Bingleys were Dissenters. They were ugly, and exacted the uttermostfarthing from their customers and their workpeople. Mrs. Bingley was atall, gaunt woman, with little grey ringlets on either side of her face. She spoke in a sour, resolute voice, when she came down in a wrapper tosuperintend the cooking. On Sundays she wore a black satin, fastened witha cameo brooch, and round her neck a long gold chain. Then her mannerswere lofty, and when her husband called "Mother, " she answered testily, "Don't keep on mothering me. " She frequently stopped him to settle hisnecktie or collar. All the week he wore the same short jacket; on Sundayshe appeared in an ill-fitting frock-coat. His long upper lip was cleanshaven, but under his chin there grew a ring of discoloured hair, neitherbrown nor red, but the neutral tint that hair which does not turn greyacquires. When he spoke he opened his mouth wide, and seemed quiteunashamed of the empty spaces and the three or four yellow fangs thatremained. 

John, the elder of the two brothers, was a silent youth whose one passionseemed to be eavesdropping. He hung round doors in the hopes ofoverhearing his sisters' conversation and if he heard Esther and thelittle girl who helped Esther in her work talking in the kitchen, he wouldsteal cautiously halfway down the stairs. Esther often thought that hisyoung woman must be sadly in want of a sweetheart to take on with one suchas he. "Come along, Amy, " he would cry, passing out before her; and noteven at the end of a long walk did he offer her his arm; and they camestrolling home just like boy and girl. 

Hubert, John's younger brother, was quite different. He had escaped thefamily temperament, as he had escaped the family upper lip. He was the onespot of colour in a somewhat sombre household, and Esther liked to hearhim call back to his mother, "All right, mother, I've got the key; no oneneed wait up for me. I'll make the door fast. "

"Oh, Hubert, don't be later than eleven. You are not going out dancingagain, are you? Your father will have the electric bell put on the door, so that he may know when you come in. "

The four girls were all ruddy-complexioned and long upper-lipped. Theeldest was the plainest; she kept her father's books, and made the pastry. The second and third entertained vague hopes of marriage. The youngest wassubject to hysterics, fits of some kind. 

The Bingleys' own house was representative of their ideas, and the tastethey had imposed upon the neighbourhood. The staircase was covered withwhite drugget, and the white enamelled walls had to be kept scrupulouslyclean. There were no flowers in the windows, but the springs of the blindswere always in perfect order. The drawing-room was furnished withsubstantial tables, cabinets and chairs, and antimacassars, long and wide, and china ornaments and glass vases. There was a piano, and on thisinstrument, every Sunday evening, hymns were played by one of the youngladies, and the entire family sang in the chorus. 

It was into this house that Esther entered as general servant, with wagesfixed at sixteen pounds a year. And for seventeen long hours every day, for two hundred and thirty hours every fortnight, she washed, shescrubbed, she cooked, she ran errands, with never a moment that she mightcall her own. Every second Sunday she was allowed out for four, perhapsfor four and a half hours; the time fixed was from three to nine, but shewas expected to be back in time to get the supper ready, and if it weremany minutes later than nine there were complaints. 

She had no money. Her quarter's wages would not be due for anotherfortnight, and as they did not coincide with her Sunday out, she would notsee her baby for another three weeks. She had not seen him for a month, and a great longing was in her heart to clasp him in her arms again, tofeel his soft cheek against hers, to take his chubby legs and warm, fatfeet in her hands. The four lovely hours of liberty would slip by, shewould enter on another long fortnight of slavery. But no matter, only toget them, however quickly they sped from her. She resigned herself to herfate, her soul rose in revolt, and it grew hourly more difficult for herto renounce this pleasure. She must pawn her dress--the only decent dressshe had left. No matter, she must see the child. She would be able to getthe dress out of pawn when she was paid her wages. Then she would have tobuy herself a pair of boots; and she owed Mrs. Lewis a good deal of money. Five shillings a week came to thirteen pound a year, leaving her threepound a year for boots and clothes, journeys back and forward, andeverything the baby might want. Oh, it was not to be done--she never wouldbe able to pull through. She dare not pawn her dress; if she did she'dnever be able to get it out again. At that moment something bright lyingon the floor, under the basin-stand, caught her eye. It was half-a-crown. She looked at it, and as the temptation came into her heart to steal, sheraised her eyes and looked round the room. 

She was in John's room--in the sneak's room. No one was about. She wouldhave cut off one of her fingers for the coin. That half-crown meantpleasure and a happiness so tender and seductive that she closed her eyesfor a moment. The half-crown she held between forefinger and thumbpresented a ready solution of the besetting difficulty. She threw out theinsidious temptation, but it came quickly upon her again. If she did nottake the half-crown she would not be able to go Peckham on Sunday. Shecould replace the money where she found it when she was paid her wages. Noone knew it was there; it had evidently rolled there, and having tumbledbetween the carpet and the wall had not been discovered. It had probablylain there for months, perhaps it was utterly forgotten. Besides, she neednot take it now. It would be quite safe if she put it back in its place;on Sunday afternoon she would take it, and if she changed it at once--Itwas not marked. She examined it all over. No, it was not marked. Then thedesire paused, and she wondered how she, an honest girl, who had neverharboured a dishonest thought in her life before, could desire to steal; abitter feeling of shame came upon her. 

It was a case of flying from temptation, and she left the room sohurriedly that John, who was spying in the passage, had not time either toslip downstairs or to hide in his brother's room. They met face to face. 

"Oh, I beg pardon, sir, but I found this half-crown in your room. "

"Well, there's nothing wonderful in that. What are you so agitated about?I suppose you intended to return it to me?"

"Intended to return it! Of course. "

An expression of hate and contempt leaped into her handsome grey eyes, and, like a dog's, the red lip turned down. She suddenly understood thatthis pasty-faced, despicable chap had placed the coin where it might haveaccidentally rolled, where she would be likely to find it. He hadcomplained that morning that she did not keep his room sufficiently clean!It was a carefully-laid plan, he was watching her all the while, and nodoubt thought that it was his own indiscretion that had prevented her fromfalling into the snare. Without a word Esther dropped the half-crown athis feet and returned to her work; and all the time she remained in herpresent situation she persistently refused to speak to him; she broughthim what he asked for, but never answered him, even with a Yes or No. 

It was during the few minutes' rest after dinner that the burden of theday pressed heaviest upon her; then a painful weariness grew into herlimbs, and it seemed impossible to summon strength and will to beatcarpets or sweep down the stairs. But if she were not moving about beforethe clock struck, Mrs. Bingley came down to the kitchen. 

"Now, Esther, is there nothing for you to do?"

And again, about eight o'clock, she felt too tired to bear the weight ofher own flesh. She had passed through fourteen hours of almostunintermittent toil, and it seemed to her that she would never be able tosummon up sufficient courage to get through the last three hours. It wasthis last summit that taxed all her strength and all her will. Even therest that awaited her at eleven o'clock was blighted by the knowledge ofthe day that was coming; and its cruel hours, long and lean andhollow-eyed, stared at her through the darkness. She was often too tiredto rest, and rolled over and over in her miserable garret bed, her wholebody aching. Toil crushed all that was human out of her; even her baby wasgrowing indifferent to her. If it were to die! She did not desire herbaby's death, but she could not forget what the baby-farmer had toldher--the burden would not become lighter, it would become heavier andheavier. What would become of her? Was there no hope? She buried her facein her pillow, seeking to escape from the passion of her despair. She wasan unfortunate girl, and had missed all her chances. 

In the six months she had spent in the house in Chelsea her nature hadbeen strained to the uttermost, and what we call chance now came to decidethe course of her destiny. The fight between circumstances and characterhad gone till now in favour of character, but circumstances must call upno further forces against character. A hair would turn the scale eitherway. One morning she was startled out of her sleep by a loud knocking atthe door. It was Mrs. Bingley, who had come to ask her if she knew whattime it was. It was nearly seven o'clock. But Mrs. Bingley could not blameher much, having herself forgotten to put on the electric bell, and Estherhurried through her dressing. But in hurrying she happened to tread on herdress, tearing it right across. It was most unfortunate, and just when shewas most in a hurry. She held up the torn skirt. It was a poor, frayed, worn-out rag that would hardly bear mending again. Her mistress wascalling her; there was nothing for it but to run down and tell her whathad happened. 

"Haven't you got another dress that you can put on?"

"No, ma'am. "

"Really, I can't have you going to the door in that thing. You don't docredit to my house; you must get yourself a new dress at once. "

Esther muttered that she had no money to buy one. 

"Then I don't know what you do with your money. "

"What I do with my wages is my affair; I've plenty of use for my money. "

"I cannot allow any servant of mine to speak to me like that. "

Esther did not answer, and Mrs. Bingley continued--

"It is my duty to know what you do with your money, and to see that you donot spend it in any wrong way. I am responsible for your moral welfare. "

"Then, ma'am, I think I had better leave you. "

"Leave me, because I don't wish you to spend your money wrongfully, because I know the temptations that a young girl's life is beset with?"

"There ain't much chance of temptation for them who work seventeen hours aday. "

"Esther, you seem to forget--"

"No, ma'am; but there's no use talking about what I do with mymoney--there are other reasons; the place is too hard a one. I've felt itso for some time, ma'am. My health ain't equal to it. "

Once she had spoken, Esther showed no disposition to retract, and shesteadily resisted all Mrs. Bingley's solicitations to remain with her. Sheknew the risk she was running in leaving her situation, and yet she feltshe must yield to an instinct like that which impels the hunted animal toleave the cover and seek safety in the open country. Her whole body criedout for rest, she must have rest; that was the thing that must be. Mrs. Lewis would keep her and her baby for twelve shillings a week; the presentwas the Christmas quarter, and she was richer by five and twenty shillingsthan she had been before. Mrs. Bingley had given her ten shillings, Mr. Hubert five, and the other ten had been contributed by the four youngladies. Out of this money she hoped to be able to buy a dress and a pairof boots, as well as a fortnight's rest with Mrs. Lewis. She haddetermined on her plans some three weeks before her month's warning wouldexpire, and henceforth the mountainous days of her servitude drew outinterminably, seeming more than ever exhausting, and the longing in herheart to be free at times rose to her head, and her brain turned as if indelirium. Every time she sat down to a meal she remembered she was so manyhours nearer to rest--a fortnight's rest--she could not afford more; butin her present slavery that fortnight seemed at once as a paradise and aneternity. Her only fear was that her health might give way, and that shewould be laid up during the time she intended for rest--personal rest. Herbaby was lost sight of. Even a mother demands something in return for herlove, and in the last year Jackie had taken much and given nothing. Butwhen she opened Mrs. Lewis's door he came running to her, calling herMummie; and the immediate preference he showed for her, climbing on herknees instead of on Mrs. Lewis's, was a fresh sowing of love in themother's heart. 

They were in the midst of those few days of sunny weather which come inJanuary, deluding us so with their brightness and warmth that we lookround for roses and are astonished to see the earth bare of flowers. Andthese bright afternoons Esther spent entirely with Jackie. At the top ofthe hill their way led through a narrow passage between a brick wall and ahigh paling. She had always to carry him through this passage, for theground there was sloppy and dirty, and the child wanted to stop to watchthe pigs through the chinks in the boards. But when they came to thesmooth, wide, high roads overlooking the valley, she put him down, and hewould run on ahead, crying, "Turn for a walk, Mummie, turn along, " and hislittle feet went so quickly beneath his frock that it seemed as if he wereon wheels. She followed, often forced to break into a run, tremulous lesthe should fall. They descended the hill into the ornamental park, andspent happy hours amid geometrically-designed flower-beds and curvingwalks. She ventured with him as far as the old Dulwich village, and theystrolled through the long street. Behind the street were low-lying, shiftless fields, intersected with broken hedges. And when Jackie calledto his mother to carry him, she rejoiced in the labour of his weight; andwhen he grew too heavy, she rested on the farm-gate, and looked into thevague lowlands. And when the chill of night awoke her from her dream sheclasped Jackie to her bosom and turned towards home, very soon to loseherself again in another tide of happiness. 

The evenings, too, were charming. When the candles were lighted, and teawas on the table, Esther sat with the dozing child on her knee, lookinginto the flickering fire, her mind a reverie, occasionally broken by thehomely talk of her companion; and when the baby was laid in his cot shetook up her sewing--she was making herself a new dress; or else the greatkettle was steaming on the hob, and the women stood over the washing-tubs. On the following evening they worked on either side of the ironing-table, the candle burning brightly and their vague woman's chatter soundingpleasant in the hush of the little cottage. A little after nine they werein bed, and so the days went softly, like happy, trivial dreams. It wasnot till the end of the third week that Mrs. Lewis would hear of Estherlooking out for another place. And then Esther was surprised at her goodfortune. A friend of Mrs. Lewis's knew a servant who was leaving hersituation in the West End of London. Esther got the address, and went nextday after the place. She was fortunate enough to obtain it, and hermistress seemed well satisfied with her. But one day in the beginning ofher second year of service she was told that her mistress wished to speakto her in the dining-room. 

"I fancy, " said the cook, "that it is about that baby of yours; they'revery strict here. "

Mrs. Trubner was sitting on a low wicker chair by the fire. She was alarge woman with eagle features. Her eyesight had been failing for someyears, and her maid was reading to her. The maid closed the book and leftthe room. 

"It has come to my knowledge, Waters, that you have a child. You're not amarried woman, I believe?"

"I've been unfortunate; I've a child, but that don't make no difference solong as I gives satisfaction in my work. I don't think that the cook hascomplained, ma'am. "

"No, the cook hasn't complained, but had I known this I don't think Ishould have engaged you. In the character which you showed me, Mrs. Barfield said that she believed you to be a thoroughly religious girl atheart. "

"And I hope I am that, ma'am. I'm truly sorry for my fault. I've suffereda great deal. "

"So you all say; but supposing it were to happen again, and in my house?Supposing----"

"Then don't you think, ma'am, there is repentance and forgiveness? OurLord said----"

"You ought to have told me; and as for Mrs. Barfield, her conduct is mostreprehensible. "

"Then, ma'am, would you prevent every poor girl who has had a misfortunefrom earning her bread? If they was all like you there would be more girlswho'd do away with themselves and their babies. You don't know how hardpressed we are. The baby-farmer says, 'Give me five pounds and I'll find agood woman who wants a little one, and you shall hear no more about it. 'Them very words were said to me. I took him away and hoped to be able torear him, but if I'm to lose my situations----"

"I should be sorry to prevent anyone from earning their bread----"

"You're a mother yourself, ma'am, and you know what it is. "

"Really, it's quite different.... I don't know what you mean, Waters. "

"I mean that if I am to lose my situations on account of my baby, I don'tknow what will become of me. If I give satisfaction--"

At that moment Mr. Trubner entered. He was a large, stout man, with hismother's aquiline features. He arrived with his glasses on his nose, andslightly out of breath. 

"Oh, oh, I didn't know, mother, " he blurted out, and was about to withdrawwhen Mrs. Trubner said--

"This is the new servant whom that lady in Sussex recommended. "

Esther saw a look of instinctive repulsion come over his face. 

"I'll leave you to settle with her, mother. "

"I must speak to you, Harold--I must. "

"I really can't; I know nothing of this matter. "

He tried to leave the room, and when his mother stopped him he saidtestily, "Well, what is it? I am very busy just now, and--" Mrs. Trubnertold Esther to wait in the passage. 

"Well, " said Mr. Trubner, "have you discharged her? I leave all thesethings to you. "

"She has told me her story; she is trying to bring up her child on herwages.... She said if she was kept from earning her bread she didn't knowwhat would become of her. Her position is a very terrible one. "

"I know that.... But we can't have loose women about the place. They allcan tell a fine story; the world is full of impostors. "

"I don't think the girl is an impostor. "

"Very likely not, but everyone has a right to protect themselves. "

"Don't speak so loud, Harold, " said Mrs. Trubner, lowering her voice. "Remember her child is dependent upon her; if we send her away we don'tknow what may happen. I'll pay her a month's wages if you like, but youmust take the responsibility. "

"I won't take any responsibility in the matter. If she had been here twoyears--she has only been here a year--not so much more--and had proved asatisfactory servant, I don't say that we'd be justified in sending heraway.... There are plenty of good girls who want a situation as much asshe. I don't see why we should harbour loose women when there are so manydeserving cases. "

"Then you want me to send her away?"

"I don't want to interfere; you ought to know how to act. Supposing thesame thing were to happen again? My cousins, young men, coming to thehouse--"

"But she won't see them. "

"Do as you like; it is your business, not mine. It doesn't matter to me, so long as I'm not interfered with; keep her if you like. You ought tohave looked into her character more closely before you engaged her. Ithink that the lady who recommended her ought to be written to verysharply. "

They had forgotten to close the door, and Esther stood in the passageburning and choking with shame. 

"It is a strange thing that religion should make some people sounfeeling, " Esther thought as she left Onslow Square. 

It was necessary to keep her child secret, and in her next situation sheshunned intimacy with her fellow-servants, and was so strict in herconduct that she exposed herself to their sneers. She dreaded the remarkthat she always went out alone, and often arrived at the cottagebreathless with fear and expectation--at a cottage where a little boystood by a stout middle-aged woman, turning over the pages of theillustrated papers that his mother had brought him; she had no money tobuy him toys. Dropping the Illustrated London News, he cried, "Here isMummie, " and ran to her with outstretched arms. Ah, what an embrace! Mrs. Lewis continued her sewing, and for an hour or more Esther told about herfellow-servants, about the people she lived with, the conversationinterrupted by the child calling his mother's attention to the pictures, or by the delicate intrusion of his little hand into hers. 

Her clothes were her great difficulty, and she often thought that shewould rather go back to the slavery of the house in Chelsea than bear thehumiliation of going out any longer on Sunday in the old things that theservants had seen her in for eight or nine months or more. She was made tofeel that she was the lowest of the low--the servant of servants. She hadto accept everybody's sneer and everybody's bad language, and oftentimesgross familiarity, in order to avoid arguments and disputes which mightendanger her situation. She had to shut her eyes to the thefts of cooks;she had to fetch them drink, and to do their work when they were unable todo it themselves. But there was no help for it. She could not pick andchoose where she would live, and any wages above sixteen pound a year shemust always accept, and put up with whatever inconvenience she might meet. 

Hers is an heroic adventure if one considers it--a mother's fight for thelife of her child against all the forces that civilisation arrays againstthe lowly and the illegitimate. She is in a situation to-day, but on whatsecurity does she hold it? She is strangely dependent on her own health, and still more upon the fortunes and the personal caprice of heremployers; and she realised the perils of her life when an outcast motherat the corner of the street, stretching out of her rags a brown hand andarm, asked alms for the sake of the little children. Esther rememberedthen that three months out of a situation and she too would be on thestreet as a flower-seller, match-seller, or----

It did not seem, however, that any of these fears were to be realised. Herluck had mended; for nearly two years she had been living with some richpeople in the West End; she liked her mistress and was on good terms withher fellow servants, and had it not been for an accident she could havekept this situation. The young gentlemen had come home for their summerholidays; she had stepped aside to let Master Harry pass on the stairs. But he did not go by, and there was a strange smile on his face. 

"Look here, Esther, I'm awfully fond of you. You are the prettiest girlI've ever seen. Come out for a walk with me next Sunday. "

"Master Harry, I'm surprised at you; will you let me go by at once?"

There was no one near, the house was silent, and the boy stood on the stepabove her. He tried to throw his arm round her waist, but she shook himoff and went up to her room calm with indignation. A few days afterwardshe suddenly became aware that he was following her in the street. Sheturned sharply upon him. 

"Master Harry, I know that this is only a little foolishness on your part, but if you don't leave off I shall lose my situation, and I'm sure youdon't want to do me an injury. "

Master Harry seemed sorry, and he promised not to follow her in the streetagain. And never thinking that it was he who had written the letter shereceived a few days after, she asked Annie, the upper housemaid, to readit. It contained reference to meetings and unalterable affection, and itconcluded with a promise to marry her if she lost her situation throughhis fault. Esther listened like one stunned. A schoolboy's folly, thefirst silly sentimentality of a boy, a thing lighter than the lightestleaf that falls, had brought disaster upon her. 

If Annie had not seen the letter she might have been able to get the boyto listen to reason; but Annie had seen the letter, and Annie could not betrusted. The story would be sure to come out, and then she would lose hercharacter as well as her situation. It was a great pity. Her mistress hadpromised to have her taught cooking at South Kensington, and a cook'swages would secure her and her child against all ordinary accidents. Shewould never get such a chance again, and would remain a kitchen-maid tothe end of her days. And acting on the impulse of the moment she wentstraight to the drawing-room. Her mistress was alone, and Esther handedher the letter. "I thought you had better see this at once, ma'am. I didnot want you to think it was my fault. Of course the young gentleman meansno harm. "

"Has anyone seen this letter?"

"I showed it to Annie. I'm no scholar myself, and the writing wasdifficult. "

"You have no reason for supposing----How often did Master Harry speak toyou in this way?"

"Only twice, ma'am. "

"Of course it is only a little foolishness. I needn't say that he doesn'tmean what he says. "

"I told him, ma'am, that if he continued I should lose my situation. "

"I'm sorry to part with you, Esther, but I really think that the best waywill be for you to leave. I am much obliged to you for showing me thisletter. Master Harry, you see, says that he is going away to the countryfor a week. He left this morning. So I really think that a month's wageswill settle matters nicely. You are an excellent servant, and I shall beglad to recommend you. "

Then Esther heard her mistress mutter something about the danger ofgood-looking servants. And Esther was paid a month's wages, and left thatafternoon. 

XXI

It was the beginning of August, and London yawned in every street; thedust blew unslaked, and a little cloud curled and disappeared over thecrest of the hill at Hyde Park Corner; the streets and St. George's Placelooked out with blind, white eyes; and in the deserted Park the treestossed their foliage restlessly, as if they wearied and missed the fashionof their season. And all through Park Lane and Mayfair, caretakers andgaunt cats were the traces that the caste on which Esther depended hadleft of its departed presence. She was coming from the Alexandra Hotel, where she had heard a kitchen-maid was wanted. Mrs. Lewis had urged her towait until people began to come back to town. Good situations were rarelyobtainable in the summer months; it would be bad policy to take a bad one, even if it were only for a while. Besides, she had saved a little money, and, feeling that she required a rest, had determined to take this advice. But as luck would have it Jackie fell ill before she had been at Dulwich aweek. His illness made a big hole in her savings, and it had becomeevident that she would have to set to work and at once. 

She turned into the park. She was going north, to a registry office nearOxford Street, which Mrs. Lewis had recommended. Holborn Row was difficultto find, and she had to ask the way very often, but she suddenly knew thatshe was in the right street by the number of servant-girls going andcoming from the office, and in company with five others Esther ascended agloomy little staircase. The office was on the first floor. The doors wereopen, and they passed into a special odour of poverty, as it were, into anatmosphere of mean interests. 

Benches covered with red plush were on either side, and these wereoccupied by fifteen or twenty poorly-dressed women. A little old woman, very white and pale, stood near the window recounting her misfortunes tono one in particular. 

"I lived with her more than thirty years; I brought up all the children. Ientered her service as nurse, and when the children grew up I was giventhe management of everything. For the last fifteen years my mistress was aconfirmed invalid. She entrusted everything to me. Oftentimes she took myhand and said, 'You are a good creature, Holmes, you mustn't think ofleaving me; how should I get on without you?' But when she died they hadto part with me; they said they were very sorry, and wouldn't have thoughtof doing so, only they were afraid I was getting too old for the work. Idaresay I was wrong to stop so long in one situation. I shouldn't havedone so, but she always used to say, 'You mustn't leave us; we never shallbe able to get on without you. '"

At that moment the secretary, an alert young woman with a decisive voice, came through the folding doors. 

"I will not have all this talking, " she said. Her quick eyes fell on thelittle old woman, and she came forward a few steps. "What, you here again, Miss Holmes? I've told you that when I hear of anything that will suit youI'll write. "

"So you said, Miss, but my little savings are running short. I'm beingpressed for my rent. "

"I can't help that; when I hear of anything I'll write. But I can't haveyou coming here every third day wasting my time; now run along. " Andhaving made casual remarks about the absurdity of people of that agecoming after situations, she called three or four women to her desk, ofwhom Esther was one. She examined them critically, and seemed especiallysatisfied with Esther's appearance. 

"It will be difficult, " she said, "to find you the situation you wantbefore people begin to return to town. If you were only an inch or twotaller I could get you a dozen places as housemaid; tall servants are allthe fashion, and you are the right age--about five-and-twenty. "

Esther left a dozen stamps with her, and soon after she began to receiveletters containing the addresses of ladies who required servants. Theywere of all sorts, for the secretary seemed to exercise hardly anydiscrimination, and Esther was sent on long journeys from Brixton toNotting Hill to visit poor people who could hardly afford amaid-of-all-work. These useless journeys were very fatiguing. Sometimesshe was asked to call at a house in Bayswater, and thence she had to go toHigh Street, Kensington, or Earl's Court; a third address might be inChelsea. She could only guess which was the best chance, and while she washesitating the situation might be given away. Very often the ladies wereout, and she was asked to call later in the day. These casual hours shespent in the parks, mending Jackie's socks or hemming pockethandkerchiefs, so she was frequently delayed till evening; and in themildness of the summer twilight, with some fresh disappointment lyingheavy on her heart, she made her way from the Marble Arch round the barrenSerpentine into Piccadilly, with its stream of light beginning in thesunset. 

And standing at the kerb of Piccadilly Circus, waiting for a 'bus to takeher to Ludgate Hill Station, the girl grew conscious of the movingmultitude that filled the streets. The great restaurants rose up calm andviolet in the evening sky, the Café Monico, with its air of Frenchnewspapers and Italian wines; and before the grey façade of thefashionable Criterion hansoms stopped and dinner parties walked across thepavement. The fine weather had brought the women up earlier than usualfrom the suburbs. They came up the long road from Fulham, with whitedresses floating from their hips, and feather boas waving a few inchesfrom the pavement. But through this elegant disguise Esther could pick outthe servant-girls. Their stories were her story. They had been deserted, as she had been; and perhaps each had a child to support, only they hadnot been so lucky as she had been in finding situations. 

But now luck seemed to have deserted her. It was the middle of Septemberand she had not yet been able to find the situation she wanted; and it hadbecome more and more distressing to her to refuse sixteen pound a year. She had calculated it all out, and nothing less than eighteen pound was ofany use to her. With eighteen pound and a kind mistress who would give heran old dress occasionally she could do very well. But if she didn't findthese two pounds she did not know what she should do. She might drag onfor a time on sixteen pound, but such wages would drive her in the endinto the workhouse. If it were not for the child! But she would neverdesert her darling boy, who loved her so dearly, come what might. A suddenimagination let her see him playing in the little street, waiting for herto come home, and her love for him went to her head like madness. Shewondered at herself; it seemed almost unnatural to love anything as shedid this child. 

Then, in a shiver of fear, determined to save her 'bus fare, she made herway through Leicester Square. She was a good-looking girl, who hastenedher steps when addressed by a passer-by or crossed the roadway in sullenindignation, and who looked in contempt on the silks and satins whichturned into the Empire, and she seemed to lose heart utterly. She had beenwalking all day and had not tasted food since the morning, and theweakness of the flesh brought a sudden weakness of the spirit. She feltthat she could struggle no more, that the whole world was against her--shefelt that she must have food and drink and rest. All this London temptedher, and the cup was at her lips. A young man in evening clothes hadspoken to her. His voice was soft, the look in his eyes seemed kindly. 

Thinking of the circumstances ten minutes later it seemed to her that shehad intended to answer him. But she was now at Charing Cross. There was alightness, an emptiness in her head which she could not overcome, and thecrowd appeared to her like a blurred, noisy dream. And then the dizzinessleft her, and she realised the temptation she had escaped. Here, as inPiccadilly, she could pick out the servant girls; but here their servicewas yesterday's lodging-house--poor and dissipated girls, dressed in vagueclothes fixed with hazardous pins. Two young women strolled in front ofher. They hung on each other's arms, talking lazily. They had just comeout of an eating-house, and a happy digestion was in their eyes. The skirton the outside was a soiled mauve, and the bodice that went with it was asoiled chocolate. A broken yellow plume hung out of a battered hat. Theskirt on the inside was a dim green, and little was left of the cottonvelvet jacket but the cotton. A girl of sixteen walking sturdily, like alittle man, crossed the road, her left hand thrust deep into the pocket ofher red cashmere dress. She wore on her shoulders a strip of beadedmantle; her hair was plaited and tied with a red ribbon. Corpulent womenpassed, their eyes liquid with invitation; and the huge bar-loafer, theman of fifty, the hooked nose and the waxed moustache, stood at the doorof a restaurant, passing the women in review. 

A true London of the water's edge--a London of theatres, music-halls, wine-shops, public-houses--the walls painted various colours, nailed overwith huge gold lettering; the pale air woven with delicate wire, agossamer web underneath which the crowd moved like lazy flies, one halfwatching the perforated spire of St. Mary's, and all the City spiresbehind it now growing cold in the east, the other half seeing the spire ofSt. Martin's above the chimney-pots aloft in a sky of cream pink. Stalwartpolicemen urged along groups of slattern boys and girls; and after vulgarremonstrance these took the hint and disappeared down strange passages. Suddenly Esther came face to face with a woman whom she recognised asMargaret Gale. 

"What, is it you, Margaret?"

"Yes, it is me all right. What are you doing up here? Got tired ofservice? Come and have a drink, old gal. "

"No, thank you; I'm glad to have seen you, Margaret, but I've a train tocatch. "

"That won't do, " said Margaret, catching her by the arm; "we must have adrink and a talk over old times. "

Esther felt that if she did not have something she would faint before shereached Ludgate Hill, and Margaret led the way through the public-house, opening all the varnished doors, seeking a quiet corner. "What's thematter?" she said, startled at the pallor of Esther's face. 

"Only a little faintness; I've not had anything to eat all day. "

"Quick, quick, four of brandy and some water, " Margaret cried to thebarman, and a moment after she was holding the glass to her friend's lips. "Not had anything to eat all day, dear? Then we'll have a bite and a suptogether. I feel a bit peckish myself. Two sausages and two rolls andbutter, " she cried. Then the women had a long talk. Margaret told Estherthe story of her misfortune. 

The Barfields were all broken up. They had been very unlucky racing, andwhen the servants got the sack Margaret had come up to London. She hadbeen in several situations. Eventually, one of her masters had got herinto trouble, his wife had turned her out neck and crop, and what was sheto do? Then Esther told how Master Harry had lost her her situation. 

"And you left like that? Well I never! The better one behaves the worseone gets treated, and them that goes on with service find themselves inthe end without as much as will buy them a Sunday dinner. "

Margaret insisted on accompanying Esther, and they walked together as faras Wellington Street. "I can't go any further, " and pointing to whereLondon seemed to end in a piece of desolate sky, she said, "I live on theother side, in Stamford Street. You might come and see me. If you ever gettired of service you'll get decent rooms there. "

Bad weather followed fine, and under a streaming umbrella Esther went fromone address to another, her damp skirts clinging about her and her bootsclogged with mud. She looked upon the change in the weather asunfortunate, for in getting a situation so much depended on personalappearance and cheerfulness of manner; and it is difficult to seem a rightand tidy girl after two miles' walk through the rain. 

One lady told Esther that she liked tall servants, another said she neverengaged good-looking girls, and another place that would have suited herwas lost through unconsciously answering that she was chapel. The ladywould have nothing in her house but church. Then there were thedisappointments occasioned by the letters which she received from peoplewho she thought would have engaged her, saying they were sorry, but thatthey had seen some one whom they liked better. 

Another week passed and Esther had to pawn her clothes to get money forher train fare to London, and to keep the registry office supplied withstamps. Her prospects had begun to seem quite hopeless, and she lay awakethinking that she and Jackie must go back to the workhouse. They could notstop on at Mrs. Lewis's much longer. Mrs. Lewis had been very good tothem, but Esther owed her two weeks' money. What was to be done? She hadheard of charitable institutions, but she was an ignorant girl and did notknow how to make the necessary inquiries. Oh, the want of a littlemoney--of a very little money; the thought beat into her brain. For justenough to hold on till the people came back to town. 

One day Mrs. Lewis, who read the newspapers for her, came to her with anadvertisement which she said seemed to read like a very likely chance. Esther looked at the pence which remained out of the last dress that shehad pawned. 

"I'm afraid, " she said, "it will turn out like the others; I'm out of myluck. "

"Don't say that, " said Mrs. Lewis; "keep your courage up; I'll stick toyou as long as I can. "

The women had a good cry in each other's arms, and then Mrs. Lewis advisedEsther to take the situation, even if it were no more than sixteen. "A lotcan be done by constant saving, and if she gives yer 'er dresses and tenshillings for a Christmas-box, I don't see why you should not pullthrough. The baby shan't cost you more than five shillings a week till youget a situation as plain cook. Here is the address--Miss Rice, AvondaleRoad, West Kensington. "

XXII

Avondale Road was an obscure corner of the suburb--obscure, for it hadjust sprung into existence. The scaffolding that had built it now litteredan adjoining field, where in a few months it would rise about HorselyGardens, whose red gables and tiled upper walls will correspondunfailingly with those of Avondale Road. Nowhere in this neighbourhoodcould Esther detect signs of eighteen pounds a year. Scanning the Venetianblinds of the single drawing-room window, she said to herself, "Hot jointtoday, cold the next. " She noted the trim iron railings and the spareshrubs, and raising her eyes she saw the tiny gable windows of thecupboard-like rooms where the single servant kept in these houses slept. 

A few steps more brought her to 41, the corner house. The thin passage andthe meagre staircase confirmed Esther in the impression she had receivedfrom the aspect of the street; and she felt that the place was moresuitable to the gaunt woman with iron-grey hair who waited in the passage. This woman looked apprehensively at Esther, and when Esther said that shehad come after the place a painful change of expression passed over herface, and she said--

"You'll get it; I'm too old for anything but charing. How much are yougoing to ask?"

"I can't take less than sixteen. "

"Sixteen! I used to get that once; I'd be glad enough to get twelve now. You can't think of sixteen once you've turned forty, and I've lost myteeth, and they means a couple of pound off. "

Then the door opened, and a woman's voice called to the gaunt woman tocome in. She went in, and Esther breathed a prayer that she might not beengaged. A minute intervened, and the gaunt woman came out; there weretears in her eyes, and she whispered to Esther as she passed, "No good; Itold you so. I'm too old for anything but charing. " The abruptness of theinterview suggested a hard mistress, and Esther was surprised to findherself in the presence of a slim lady, about seven-and-thirty, whosesmall grey eyes seemed to express a kind and gentle nature. As she stoodspeaking to her, Esther saw a tall glass filled with chrysanthemums and alarge writing-table covered with books and papers. There was a bookcase, and in place of the usual folding-doors, a bead curtain hung between therooms. 

The room almost said that the occupant was a spinster and a writer, andEsther remembered that she had noticed even at the time Miss Rice'smanuscript, it was such a beautiful clear round hand, and it lay on thetable, ready to be continued the moment she should have settled with her. 

"I saw your advertisement in the paper, miss; I've come after thesituation. "

"You are used to service?"

"Yes, miss, I've had several situations in gentlemen's families, and haveexcellent characters from them all. " Then Esther related the story of hersituations, and Miss Rice put up her glasses and her grey eyes smiled. Sheseemed pleased with the somewhat rugged but pleasant-featured girl beforeher. 

"I live alone, " she said; "the place is an easy one, and if the wagessatisfy you, I think you will suit me very well. My servant, who has beenwith me some years, is leaving me to be married. "

"What are the wages, miss?"

"Fourteen pounds a year. "

"I'm afraid, miss, there would be no use my taking the place; I've so manycalls on my money that I could not manage on fourteen pounds. I'm verysorry, for I feel sure I should like to live with you, miss. "

But what was the good of taking the place? She could not possibly manageon fourteen, even if Miss Rice did give her a dress occasionally, and thatdidn't look likely. All her strength seemed to give way under hermisfortune, and it was with difficulty that she restrained her tears. 

"I think we should suit each other, " Miss Rice said reflectively. 

"I should like to have you for my servant if I could afford it. How muchwould you take?"

"Situated, as I am, miss, I could not take less than sixteen. I've beenused to eighteen. "

"Sixteen pounds is more than I can afford, but I'll think it over. Give meyour name and address. "

"Esther Waters, 13 Poplar Road, Dulwich. "

As Esther turned to go she became aware of the kindness of the eyes thatlooked at her. Miss Rice said--

"I'm afraid you're in trouble.... Sit down; tell me about it. "

"No, miss, what's the use?" But Miss Rice looked at her so kindly thatEsther could not restrain herself. "There's nothing for it, " she said, "but to go back to the workhouse. "

"But why should you go to the workhouse? I offer you fourteen pounds ayear and everything found. "

"You see, miss, I've a baby; we've been in the workhouse already; I had togo there the night I left my situation, to get him away from Mrs. Spires;she wanted to kill him; she'd have done it for five pounds--that's theprice. But, miss, my story is not one that can be told to a lady such asyou. "

"I think I'm old enough to listen to your story; sit down, and tell it tome. "

And all the while Miss Rice's eyes were filled with tenderness and pity. 

"A very sad story--just such a story as happens every day. But you havebeen punished, you have indeed. "

"Yes, miss, I think I have; and after all these years of striving it ishard to have to take him back to the workhouse. Not that I want to giveout that I was badly treated there, but it is the child I'm thinking of. He was then a little baby and it didn't matter; we was only there a fewmonths. There's no one that knows of it but me. But he's a growing boynow, he'll remember the workhouse, and it will be always a disgrace. "

"How old is he?"

"He was six last May, miss. It has been a hard job to bring him up. I nowpay six shillings a week for him, that's more than fourteen pounds a year, and you can't do much in the way of clothes on two pounds a year. And nowthat he's growing up he's costing more than ever; but Mrs. Lewis--that'sthe woman what has brought him up--is as fond of him as I am myself. Shedon't want to make nothing out of his keep, and that's how I've managed upto the present. But I see well enough that it can't be done; his expenseincreases, and the wages remains the same. It was my pride to bring him upon my earnings, and my hope to see him an honest man earning good money. But it wasn't to be, miss, it wasn't to be. We must be humble and go backto the workhouse. "

"I can see that it has been a hard fight. "

"It has indeed, miss; no one will ever know how hard. I shouldn't mind ifit wasn't going to end by going back to where it started.... They'll takehim from me; I shall never see him while he is there. I wish I was dead, miss, I can't bear my trouble no longer. "

"You shan't go back to the workhouse so long as I can help you. Esther, I'll give you the wages you ask for. It is more than I can afford. Eighteen pounds a year! But your child shall not be taken from you. Youshall not go to the workhouse. There aren't many such good women in theworld as you, Esther. "

XXIII

From the first Miss Rice was interested in her servant, and encouraged herconfidences. But it was some time before either was able to put aside hernatural reserve. They were not unlike--quiet, instinctive Englishwomen, strong, warm natures, under an appearance of formality and reserve. 

The instincts of the watch-dog soon began to develop in Esther, and sheextended her supervision over all the household expenses, likewise overher mistress's health. 

"Now, miss, I must 'ave you take your soup while it is 'ot. You'd betterput away your writing; you've been at it all the morning. You'll makeyourself ill, and then I shall have the nursing of you. " If Miss Rice weregoing out in the evening she would find herself stopped in the passage. "Now, miss, I really can't see you go out like that; you'll catch yourdeath of cold. You must put on your warm cloak. "

Miss Rice's friends were principally middle-aged ladies. Her sisters, large, stout women, used to come and see her, and there was afashionably-dressed young man whom her mistress seemed to like very much. Mr. Alden was his name, and Miss Rice told Esther that he, too, wrotenovels; they used to talk about each other's books for hours, and Estherfeared that Miss Rice was giving her heart away to one who did not carefor her. But perhaps she was satisfied to see Mr. Alden once a week andtalk for an hour with him about books. Esther didn't think she'd care, ifshe had a young man, to see him come and go like a shadow. But she hadn'ta young man, and did not want one. All she now wanted was to awake in themorning and know that her child was safe; her ambition was to make hermistress's life comfortable. And for more than a year she pursued her planof life unswervingly. She declined an offer of marriage, and was rarelypersuaded into a promise to walk out with any of her admirers. One ofthese was a stationer's foreman, and almost every day Esther went to thestationer's for the sermon paper on which her mistress wrote her novels, for blotting-paper, for stamps, to post letters--that shop seemed thecentre of their lives. 

Fred Parsons--that was his name--was a meagre little man aboutthirty-five. A high and prominent forehead rose above a small pointedface, and a scanty growth of blonde beard and moustache did not concealthe receding chin nor the red sealing-wax lips. His faded yellow hair wasbeginning to grow thin, and his threadbare frock-coat hung limp fromsloping shoulders. But these disadvantages were compensated by a clearbell-like voice, into which no trace of doubt ever seemed to come; and hismind was neatly packed with a few religious and political ideas. He hadbeen in business in the West End, but an uncontrollable desire to askevery customer who entered into conversation with him if he were sure thathe believed in the second coming of Christ had been the cause of severancebetween him and his employers. 

He had been at West Kensington a fortnight, had served Esther once withsermon paper, and had already begun to wonder what were her religiousbeliefs. But bearing in mind his recent dismissal, he refrained for thepresent. At the end of the week they were alone in the shop. Esther hadcome for a packet of note-paper. Fred was sorry she had not come forsermon paper; if she had it would have been easier to inquire her opinionsregarding the second coming. But the opportunity, such as it was, was notto be resisted. He said--

"Your mistress seems to use a great deal of paper; it was only a day ortwo ago that I served you with four quires. "

"That was for her books; what she now wants is note-paper. "

"So your mistress writes books!"

"Yes. "

"I hope they're good books--books that are helpful. " He paused to see thatno one was within earshot. "Books that bring sinners back to the Lord. "

"I don't know what she writes; I only know she writes books; I think I'veheard she writes novels. "

Fred did not approve of novels--Esther could see that--and she was sorry;for he seemed a nice, clear-spoken young man, and she would have liked totell him that her mistress was the last person who would write anythingthat could do harm to anyone. But her mistress was waiting for her paper, and she took leave of him hastily. The next time they met was in theevening. She was going to see if she could get some fresh eggs for hermistress's breakfast before the shops closed, and coming towards her, walking at a great pace, she saw one whom she thought she recognised, ameagre little man with long reddish hair curling under the brim of a largesoft black hat. He nodded, smiling pleasantly as he passed her. 

"Lor', " she thought, "I didn't know him; it's the stationer's foreman. "And the very next evening they met in the same street; she was out for alittle walk, he was hurrying to catch his train. They stopped to pass thetime of day, and three days after they met at the same time, and as nearlyas possible at the same place. 

"We're always meeting, " he said. 

"Yes, isn't it strange?... You come this way from business?" she said. 

"Yes; about eight o'clock is my time. "

It was the end of August; the stars caught fire slowly in the murky Londonsunset; and, vaguely conscious of a feeling of surprise at the pleasurethey took in each other's company, they wandered round a little bleaksquare in which a few shrubs had just been planted. They took up theconversation exactly at the point where it had been broken off. 

"I'm sorry, " Fred said, "that the paper isn't going to be put to betteruse. "

"You don't know my mistress, or you wouldn't say that. "

"Perhaps you don't know that novels are very often stories about the lovesof men for other men's wives. Such books can serve no good purpose. "

"I'm sure my mistress don't write about such things. How could she, poordear innocent lamb? It is easy to see you don't know her. "

In the course of their argument it transpired that Miss Rice went toneither church nor chapel. 

Fred was much shocked. 

"I hope, " he said, "you do not follow your mistress's example. "

Esther admitted she had for some time past neglected her religion. Fredwent so far as to suggest that she ought to leave her present situationand enter a truly religious family. 

"I owe her too much ever to think of leaving her. And it has nothing to dowith her if I haven't thought as much about the Lord as I ought to have. It's the first place I've been in where there was time for religion. "

This answer seemed to satisfy Fred. 

"Where used you to go?"

"My people--father and mother--belonged to the Brethren. "

"To the Close or the Open?"

"I don't remember; I was only a little child at the time. "

"I'm a Plymouth Brother. "

"Well, that is strange. "

"Remember that it is only through belief in our Lord, in the sacrifice ofthe Cross, that we can be saved. "

"Yes, I believe that. "

The avowal seemed to have brought them strangely near to each other, andon the following Sunday Fred took Esther to meeting, and introduced her asone who had strayed, but who had never ceased to be one of them. 

She had not been to meeting since she was a little child; and the bareroom and bare dogma, in such immediate accordance with her ownnature--were they not associated with memories of home, of father andmother, of all that had gone?--touched her with a human delight thatseemed to reach to the roots of her nature. It was Fred who preached; andhe spoke of the second coming of Christ, when the faithful would becarried away in clouds of glory, of the rapine and carnage to which theworld would be delivered up before final absorption in everlasting hell;and a sensation of dreadful awe passed over the listening faces; a younggirl who sat with closed eyes put out her hand to assure herself thatEsther was still there--that she had not been carried away in glory. 

As they walked home, Esther told Fred that she had not been so happy for along time. He pressed her hand, and thanked her with a look in whichappeared all his soul; she was his for ever and ever; nothing could whollydisassociate them; he had saved her soul. His exaltation moved her towonder. But her own innate faith, though incapable of these exaltations, had supported her during many a troublous year. Fred would want her tocome to meeting with him next Sunday, and she was going to Dulwich. Sooneror later he would find out that she had a child, then she would see him nomore. It were better that she should tell him than that he should hear itfrom others. But she felt she could not bear the humiliation, the shame;and she wished they had never met. That child came between her and everypossible happiness.... It were better to break off with Fred. But whatexcuse could she give? Everything went wrong with her. He might ask her tomarry him, then she would have to tell him. 

Towards the end of the week she heard some one tap at the window; it wasFred. He asked her why he had not seen her; she answered that she had nothad time. 

"Can you come out this evening?"

"Yes, if you like. "

She put on her hat, and they went out. Neither spoke, but their feet tookinstinctively the pavement that led to the little square where they hadwalked the first time they went out together. 

"I've been thinking of you a good deal, Esther, in the last few days. Iwant to ask you to marry me. "

Esther did not answer. 

"Will you?" he said. 

"I can't; I'm very sorry; don't ask me. "

"Why can't you?"

"If I told you I don't think you'd want to marry me. I suppose I'd bettertell you. I'm not the good woman you think me. I've got a child. There, you have it now, and you can take your hook when you like. "

It was her blunt, sullen nature that had spoken; she didn't care if heleft her on the spot--now he knew all and could do as he liked. At last, he said--

"But you've repented, Esther?"

"I should think I had, and been punished too, enough for a dozenchildren. "

"Ah, then it wasn't lately?"

"Lately! It's nearly eight year ago. "

"And all that time you've been a good woman?"

"Yes, I think I've been that. "

"Then if--"

"I don't want no ifs. If I am not good enough for you, you can goelsewhere and get better; I've had enough of reproaches. "

"I did not mean to reproach you; I know that a woman's path is moredifficult to walk in than ours. It may not be a woman's fault if shefalls, but it is always a man's. He can always fly from temptation. "

"Yet there isn't a man that can say he hasn't gone wrong. "

"No, not all, Esther. "

Esther looked him full in the face. 

"I understand what you mean, Esther, but I can honestly say that I neverhave. "

Esther did not like him any better for his purity, and was irritated bythe clear tones of his icy voice. 

"But that is no reason why I should be hard on those who have not been sofortunate. I didn't mean to reproach you just now, Esther; I only meant tosay that I wish you had told me this before I took you to meeting. "

"So you're ashamed of me, is that it? Well, you can keep your shame toyourself. "

"No, not that, Esther--"

"Then you'd like to see me humiliated before the others, as if I haven'thad enough of that already. "

"No, Esther, listen to me. Those who transgress the moral law may notkneel at the table for a time, until they have repented; but those whobelieve in the sacrifice of the Cross are acquitted, and I believe you dothat. "

"Yes. "

"A sinner that repenteth----I will speak about this at our next meeting;you will come with me there?"

"Next Sunday I'm going to Dulwich to see the child. "

"Can't you go after meeting?"

"No, I can't be out morning and afternoon both. "

"May I go with you?"

"To Dulwich!"

"You won't go until after meeting; I can meet you at the railway station. "

"If you like. "

As they walked home Esther told Fred the story of her betrayal. He wasinterested in the story, and was very sorry for her. 

"I love you, Esther; it is easy to forgive those we love. "

"You're very good; I never thought to find a man so good. " She looked upin his face; her hand was on the gate, and in that moment she felt thatshe almost loved him. 

XXIV

Mrs. Humphries, an elderly person, who looked after a bachelor'sestablishment two doors up, and generally slipped in about tea-time, soonbegan to speak of Fred as a very nice young man who would be likely tomake a woman happy. But Esther moved about the kitchen in her taciturnway, hardly answering. Suddenly she told Mrs. Humphries that she had beento Dulwich with him, and that it was wonderful how he and Jackie had takento one another. 

"You don't say so! Well, it is nice to find them religious folks less'ard-'earted than they gets the name of. "

Mrs. Humphries was of the opinion that henceforth Esther should giveherself out as Jackie's aunt. "None believes them stories, but they makeone seem more respectable like, and I am sure Mr. Parsons will appreciatethe intention. " Esther did not answer, but she thought of what Mrs. Humphries had said. Perhaps it would be better if Jackie were to leave offcalling her Mummie. Auntie! But no, she could not bear it. Fred must takeher as she was or not at all. They seemed to understand each other; he wasearning good money, thirty shillings a week, and she was now going on foreight-and-twenty; if she was ever going to be married it was time to thinkabout it. 

"I don't know how that dear soul will get on without me, " she said oneOctober morning as they jogged out of London by a slow train from St. Paul's. Fred was taking her into Kent to see his people. 

"How do you expect me to get on without you?"

Esther laughed. 

"Trust you to manage somehow. There ain't much fear of a man not lookingafter his little self. "

"But the old folk will want to know when. What shall I tell them?"

"This time next year; that'll be soon enough. Perhaps you'll get tired ofme before then. "

"Say next spring, Esther. "

The train stopped. 

"There's father waiting for us in the spring-cart. Father! He don't hearus. He's gone a bit deaf of late years. Father!"

"Ah, so here you are. Train late. "

"This is Esther, father. "

They were going to spend the day at the farm-house, and she was going tobe introduced to Fred's sisters and to his brother. But these did notconcern her much, her thoughts were set on Mrs. Parsons, for Fred hadspoken a great deal about his mother. When she had been told about Jackieshe was of course very sorry; but when she had heard the whole of Esther'sstory she had said, "We are all born into temptation, and if your Estherhas really repented and prayed to be forgiven, we must not say no to her. "Nevertheless Esther was not quite easy in her mind, and half regrettedthat she had consented to see Fred's people until he had made her hiswife. But it was too late to think of such things. There was thefarm-house. Fred had just pointed it out, and scenting his stable, the oldgrey ascended the hill at a trot, and Esther wondered what the farm-housewould be like. All the summer they had had a fine show of flowers, Fredsaid. Now only a few Michaelmas daisies withered in the garden, and theVirginia creeper covered one side of the house with a crimson mantle. Theold man said he would take the trap round to the stable, and Fred walkedup the red-bricked pavement and lifted the latch. As they passed throughthe kitchen Fred introduced Esther to his two sisters, Mary and Lily. Butthey were busy cooking. 

"Mother is in the parlour, " said Mary; "she is waiting for you. " By thewindow, in a wide wooden arm-chair, sat a large woman about sixty, dressedin black. She wore on either side of her long white face two corkscrewcurls, which gave her a somewhat ridiculous appearance. But she ceased tobe ridiculous or grotesque when she rose from her chair to greet her son. Her face beamed, and she held out her hands in a beautiful gesture ofwelcome. 

"Oh, how do you do, dear Fred? I am that glad to see you! How good of youto come all this way! Come and sit down here. "

"Mother, this is Esther. "

"How do you do, Esther? It was good of you to come. I am glad to see you. Let me get you a chair. Take off your things, dear; come and sit down. "

She insisted on relieving Esther of her hat and jacket, and, having laidthem on the sofa, she waddled across the room, drawing over two chairs. 

"Come and sit down; you'll tell me everything. I can't get about much now, but I like to have my children round me. Take this chair, Esther. " Thenturning to Fred, "Tell me, Fred, how you've been getting on. Are you stillliving at Hackney?"

"Yes, mother; but when we're married we're going to have a cottage atMortlake. Esther will like it better than Hackney. It is nearer thecountry. "

"Then you've not forgotten the country. Mortlake is on the river, I think. I hope you won't find it too damp. "

"No, mother, there are some nice cottages there. I think we shall findthat Mortlake suits us. There are many friends there; more than fifty meettogether every Sunday. And there's a lot of political work to be donethere. I know that you're against politics, but men can't stand asidenowadays. Times change, mother. "

"So long as we have God in our hearts, my dear boy, all that we do iswell. But you must want something after your journey. Fred, dear, knock atthat door. Your sister Clara's dressing there. Tell her to make haste. "

"All right, mother, " cried a voice from behind the partition whichseparated the rooms, and a moment after the door opened and a young womanabout thirty entered. She was better-looking than the other sisters, andthe fashion of her skirt, and the worldly manner with which she kissed herbrother and gave her hand to Esther, marked her off at once from the restof the family. She was forewoman in a large millinery establishment. Shespent Saturday afternoon and Sunday at the farm, but to-day she had gotaway earlier, and with the view to impressing Esther, she explained howthis had come about. 

Mrs. Parsons suggested a glass of currant wine, and Lily came in with atray and glasses. Clara said she was starving. Mary said she would have towait, and Lily whispered, "In about half-an-hour. "

After dinner the old man said that they must be getting on with their workin the orchard. Esther said she would be glad to help, but as she wasabout to follow the others Mrs. Parsons detained her. 

"You don't mind staying with me a few minutes, do you, dear? I shan't keepyou long. " She drew over a chair for Esther. "I shan't perhaps see youagain for some time. I am getting an old woman, and the Lord may bepleased to take me at any moment. I wanted to tell you, dear, that I putmy trust in you. You will make a good wife to Fred, I feel sure, and hewill make a good father to your child, and if God blesses you with otherchildren he'll treat your first no different than the others. He's told meso, and my Fred is a man of his word. You were led into sin, but you'verepented. We was all born into temptation, and we must trust to the Lordto lead us out lest we should dash our foot against a stone. "

"I was to blame; I don't say I wasn't, but----"

"We won't say no more about that. We're all sinners, the best of us. You're going to be my son's wife; you're therefore my daughter, and thishouse is your home whenever you please to come to see us. And I hope thatthat will be often. I like to have my children about me. I can't get aboutmuch now, so they must come to me. It is very sad not to be able to go tomeeting. I've not been to meeting since Christmas, but I can see themgoing there from the kitchen window, and how 'appy they look coming backfrom prayer. It is easy to see that they have been with God. TheSalvationists come this way sometimes. They stopped in the lane to sing. Icould not hear the words, but I could see by their faces that they waswith God... Now, I've told you all that was on my mind. I must not keepyou; Fred is waiting. "

Esther kissed the old woman, and went into the orchard, where she foundFred on a ladder shaking the branches. He came down when he saw Esther, and Harry, his brother, took his place. Esther and Fred filled one basket, then, yielding to a mutual inclination, they wandered about the orchard, stopping on the little plank bridge. They hardly spoke at all, wordsseemed unnecessary; each felt happiness to be in the other's presence. They heard the water trickling through the weeds, and as the light wanedthe sound of the falling apples grew more distinct. Then a breeze shiveredamong the tops of the apple-trees, and the sered leaves were blown fromthe branches. The voices of the gatherers were heard crying that theirbaskets were full. They crossed the plank bridge, joking the lovers, whostood aside to let them pass. 

When they entered the house they saw the old farmer, who had slipped inbefore them, sitting by his wife holding her hand, patting it in a curiousold-time way, and the attitude of the old couple was so pregnant withsignificance that it fixed itself on Esther's mind. It seemed to her thatshe had never seen anything so beautiful. So they had lived for fortyyears, faithful to each other, and she wondered if Fred forty years hencewould be sitting by her side holding her hand. 

The old man lighted a lantern and went round to the stable to get a trapout. Driving through the dark country, seeing village lights shining outof the distant solitudes, was a thrilling adventure. A peasant came like aghost out of the darkness; he stepped aside and called, "Good-night!"which the old farmer answered somewhat gruffly, while Fred answered in aringing, cheery tone. Never had Esther spent so long and happy a day. Everything had combined to produce a strange exaltation of the spirit inher; and she listened to Fred more tenderly than she had done before. 

The train rattled on through suburbs beginning far away in the country;rattled on through suburbs that thickened at every mile; rattled onthrough a brick entanglement; rattled over iron bridges, passed over deepstreets, over endless lines of lights. 

He bade her good-bye at the area gate, and she had promised him that theyshould be married in the spring. He had gone away with a light heart. Andshe had run upstairs to tell her dear mistress of the happy day which herkindness had allowed her to spend in the country. And Miss Rice had laidthe book she was reading on her knees, and had listened to Esther'spleasures as if they had been her own. 

XXV

But when the spring came Esther put Fred off till the autumn, pleading asan excuse that Miss Rice had not been very well lately, and that she didnot like to leave her. 

It was one of those long and pallid evenings at the end of July, when thesky seems as if it could not darken. The roadway was very still in itsdust and heat, and Esther, her print dress trailing, watched a poor horsestriving to pull a four-wheeler through the loose heavy gravel that hadjust been laid down. So absorbed was she in her pity for the poor animalthat 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 blackjacket a little too short for him. He walked with long, even strides, asmall cane in one hand, the other in his trousers pocket; a heavy goldchain 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 agentleman's valet. He did not notice Esther, but a sudden step takensideways as she lingered, her eyes fixed on the cab-horse, brought hernearly into collision with him. 

"Do look where you are going to, " he exclaimed, jumping back to avoid thebeer-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 seeyou again. "

"Are you really! Well, so much for that--your way and mine aren't thesame. I wish you good evening. "

"Stop a moment, Esther. "

"And my mistress waiting for her dinner. I've to go and get some morebeer. "

"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 liftthe jug down from the dresser, and a number of thoughts fled across hermind. That man would be waiting for her outside. What was she to do? Howunfortunate! If he continued to come after her he and Fred would be sureto meet. 

"What are you waiting for, I should like to know?" she cried, as she cameup the steps. 

"That's 'ardly civil, Esther, and after so many years too; one wouldthink--"

"I want none of your thinking; get out of my sight. Do you 'ear? I want notruck 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 passionateremembrance of the injustice that had been done her, she drew back fromhim, her eyes flashing. Perhaps it was some passing remembrance of thebreakage of the first beer-jug that prevented her from striking him withthe second. The spasm passed, and then her rage, instead of venting itselfin violent action, assumed the form of dogged silence. He followed her upthe street, and into the bar. She handed the jug across the counter, andwhile the barman filled it searched in her pocket for the money. She hadbrought none with her. William promptly produced sixpence. Esther answeredhim with a quick, angry glance, and addressing the barman, she said, "I'llpay 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 payyou for what I have had. "

Holding the sixpence in his short, thick, and wet fingers, the barmanlooked at William. William smiled, and said, "Well, they do run sulkysometimes. "

He caught at the leather strap and pulled the door open for her, and asshe passed out she became aware that William still admired her. It wasreally too bad, and she was conscious of injustice. Having destroyed herlife, this man had passed out of sight and knowledge, but only to reappearwhen 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 afortnight. You haven't changed, I can see that, " he said, watchingEsther's face, which did not alter until he spoke of how unhappy he hadbeen 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. Helooked 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'trefuse to come out with me some Sunday. I've a half a share in apublic-house, the 'King's Head, ' and have been backing winners all thisyear. I've plenty of money to treat you. I should like to make it up toyou. Perhaps you've 'ad rather a 'ard time. What 'ave yer been doing allthese years? I want to hear. "

"What 'ave I been doing? Trying to bring up your child! That's what I'vebeen doing. "

"There's a child, then, is there?" said William, taken aback. Before hecould recover himself Esther had slipped past him down the area into thehouse. For a moment he looked as if he were going to follow her; on secondthoughts he thought he had better not. He lingered a moment and thenwalked slowly away in the direction of the Metropolitan Railway. 

"I'm sorry to 'ave kept you waiting, miss, but I met with an accident andhad 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 couldhardly get through the stones they've been laying down in the PembrokeRoad; the poor little horse was pulling that 'ard that I thought he'd dropdown dead, and while I was looking I ran up against a passer-by, and beinga 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 thatsomething serious had happened to her servant, Miss Rice refrained andallowed the dinner to pass in silence. Half-an-hour later Esther came intothe study with her mistress's tea. She brought over the wicker table, andas she set it by her mistress's knees the shadows about the bookcase andthe light of the lamp upon the book and the pensive content on Miss Rice'sface impelled her to think of her own troubles, the hardship, the passion, the despair of her life compared with this tranquil existence. Never hadshe felt more certain that misfortune was inherent in her life. Sheremembered all the trouble she had had, she wondered how she had come outof it all alive; and now, just as things seemed like settling, everythingwas going to be upset again. Fred was away for a fortnight's holiday--shewas safe for eleven or twelve days. After that she did not know what mightnot happen. Her instinct told her that although he had passed over herfault 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 neverhave met William. He did not live in the neighbourhood; if he did theywould 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 thecask of beer had held out a day or two longer, or if it had run out a dayor two sooner, she might never have met William! But now she could notkeep 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 onlylisten. 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 betheirs. 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 forhim, brought him up? and she thought as little of his paternity as if hehad fallen from heaven into her arms. 

One evening as she was laying the table her grief took her unawares, andshe was obliged to dash aside the tears that had risen to her eyes. Theaction was so apparent that Miss Rice thought it would be an affectationto 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 caughther in the throat. 

"You had better tell me your trouble, Esther; even if I cannot help you itwill ease your heart to tell me about it. I hope nothing is the matterwith 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 issilly 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 bedone but to bear it. You asked me just now if it had anything to do withJackie. Well, it is no more than that his father has come back. "

"But surely, Esther, that's hardly a reason for sorrow; I should havethought that you would have been glad. "

"It is only natural that you should think so, miss; them what hasn't beenthrough 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 allthe 'ardship, and now, when the worst is over, he comes and wants me tomarry 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 lasttwo months or more I've been keeping company with Fred Parsons--that's thestationer's assistant; you've seen him in the shop, miss--and he and me isengaged 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 girlto keep up with 'er religion in some of the situations we have to put upwith, 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, understandingvery well, not to say indulgent for the failings of others, like yourself, miss. He knew all about Jackie from the first, and never said nothingabout it, but that I must have suffered cruel, which I have. He's beenwith me to see Jackie, and they both took to each other wonderful like; itcouldn't 'ave been more so if 'e'd been 'is own father. But now all that'sbroke up, for when Fred meets William it is as likely as not as he'llthink quite different. "

The evening died behind the red-brick suburb, and Miss Rice's strip ofgarden grew greener. She had finished her dinner, and she leaned backthinking of the story she had heard. She was one of those secluded maidenladies so common in England, whose experience of life is limited to a teaparty, and whose further knowledge of life is derived from theyellow-backed French novels which fill their bookcases. 

"How was it that you happened to meet William--I think you said his namewas William?"

"It was the day, miss, that I went to fetch the beer from thepublic-house. It was he that made me drop the jug; you remember, miss, Ihad to come back for another. I told you about it at the time. When I wentout 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; Itold them to put it on the slate, and that I'd pay for it to-morrow. Ididn't speak to him on leaving the bar, but he followed me to the gate. Hewanted to know what I'd been doing all the time. Then my temper got thebetter 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 placeyou were then in situation?"

"Young lady! No fear, she wasn't no young lady. Anyway, she was too goodor 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 himour child--our child, indeed! and after all these years I've been workingand he doing nothing. "

"Perhaps he might like to do something for him; perhaps that's what he'sthinking of. "

"No, miss, I know him better than that. That's his cunning; he thinkshe'll get me through the child. "

"In any case I don't see what you'll gain by refusing to speak to him; ifyou want to do something for the child, you can. You said he wasproprietor of a public-house. "

"I don't want his money; please God, we'll be able to do without it to theend. "

"If I were to die to-morrow, Esther, remember that you would be in exactlythe same position as you were when you entered my service. You rememberwhat that was? You have often told me there was only eighteen-pencebetween you and the workhouse; you owed Mrs. Lewis two weeks' money forthe support of the child. I daresay you've saved a little money sinceyou've been with me, but it cannot be more than a few pounds. I don'tthink that you ought to let this chance slip through your fingers, if notfor your own, for Jackie's sake. William, according to his own account, ismaking money. He may become a rich man; he has no children by his wife; hemight like to leave some of his money--in any case, he'd like to leavesomething--to Jackie. "

"He was always given to boasting about money. I don't believe all he saysabout money or anything else. "

"That may be, but he may have money, and you have no right to refuse toallow him to provide for Jackie. Supposing later on Jackie were toreproach 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 forhis 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 findout whether it is his intention to interfere in your life. I quite agreewith you that it is important that the two men should not meet; but itseems to me, by refusing to speak to William, by refusing to let him seeJackie, you are doing all you can to bring about the meeting that you wishto avoid. Is he much about here?"

"Yes, miss, he seems hardly ever out of the street, and it do look so badfor the 'ouse. I do feel that ashamed. Since I've been with you, miss, Idon'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 tothis at once. "

"Whatever you says, miss, always do seem right, some 'ow. What you says doseem 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 toallow 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 thedisadvantage 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 overwhat I've said; you're a sensible girl; think it out when you go to bedto-night. "

Next day, seeing William in the street, she went upstairs to ask MissRice's permission to go out. "Could you spare me, miss, for an hour orso?" 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 faraway. "

"No. I am expecting Mr. Alden. I'll let him in, and can make the teamyself. "

Esther ran up the area steps and walked quickly down the street, as if shewere going on an errand. William crossed the road and was soon alongsideof 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 carefor. "

Her tone was still stubborn, but he perceived that it contained a changeof 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 yourpromises. "

"Esther, hear me out; you're very unforgiving, but if you'd hear meout----"

"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'vebehaved badly to you, but it wasn't as much my fault as you think; I couldexplain a good lot of it. "

"I don't care about your explanations. If you've only gotexplanations----"

"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'vetreated 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 ofsituation 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 gotit me before. "

"There's no use nagging; just let's go where we can have a talk, and thenif you aren't satisfied you can go your way and I can go mine. You said Ididn't know that you wasn't married. I don't, but if you aren't, so muchthe better. If you are, you've only to say so and I'll take my hook. I'vedone quite enough harm, without coming between you and your husband. "

William spoke earnestly, and his words came so evidently from his heartthat 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 Iain't married, you are. "

William and Esther walked on in silence, listening to the day as it hushedin quiet suburban murmurs. The sky was almost colourless--a faded grey, that passed into an insignificant blue; and upon this almost neutral tintthe red suburb appeared in rigid outline, like a carving. At intervals thewind raised a cloud of dust in the roadway. Stopping before a piece ofwaste ground, William said--

"Let's go in there; we'll be able to talk easier. " Esther raised noobjection. 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 onlycame out with you because you said you had something particular to sayabout 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 carefor 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'vesaid before, what's done can't be undone. I treated you badly, I knowthat; and I've been badly treated myself--damned badly treated. You've 'ada '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 ofbitterness, more than I thought there was in me. "

William lay at length, his body resting on one arm. He held a long grassstalk between his small, discoloured teeth. The conversation had fallen. He looked at Esther; she sat straight up, her stiff cotton dress spreadover the rough grass; her cloth jacket was unbuttoned. He thought her anice-looking woman and he imagined her behind the bar of the "King'sHead. " His marriage had proved childless and in every way a failure; henow desired a wife such as he felt sure she would be, and his hearthankered sorely after his son. He tried to read Esther's quiet, subduedface. It was graver than usual, and betrayed none of the passion thatchoked in her. She must manage that the men should not meet. But howshould she rid herself of him? She noticed that he was looking at her, andto lead his thoughts away from herself she asked him where he had gonewith 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 wentforeign. "

"We first went to Boulogne, that's in France; but nearly everyone speaksEnglish there, and there was a nice billiard room handy, where all the bigbetting men came in of an evening. We went to the races. I backed threewinners on the first day--the second I didn't do so well. Then we went onto Paris. The race-meetings is very 'andy--I will say that forParis--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 theshops 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 thecookery done in oil, and nothing to do but seeing picture-galleries. I gotthat sick of it I could stand it no longer, and I said, 'I've 'ad enoughof this. I want to go home, where I can get a glass of Burton and a cutfrom 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 thepainters that we met out there. Nothing wrong, you know. That was after wehad 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 deadsick of her. It never did seem natural like. There was no 'omeliness init, and a marriage that ain't 'omely is no marriage for me. Her friendsweren't my friends; and as for my friends, she never left off insulting meabout them. If I was to ask a chap in she wouldn't sit in the same roomwith 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, 'Isuppose you are sorry you didn't marry a servant?' and I said, 'I supposeyou 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 eyeon her. ' For there was a young fellow hanging about in a manner I didn'tparticularly like. He was too anxious to be polite to me, he talked to meabout 'orses, and I could see he knew nothing about them. He even went sofar 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 upfrom Ascot by an earlier train than they expected me. I let myself in andran up to the drawing-room. They were there sitting side by side on thesofa. 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 eyeall the while on my wife. I could see by her face that there was no doubtabout it. Then I took him by the throat. 'I just give you two minutes toconfess the truth; I know it, but I want to hear it from you. Now, outwith it, or I'll strangle you. ' I gave him a squeeze just to show him thatI meant it. He turned up his eyes, and my wife cried, 'Murder!' I threwhim back from me and got between her and the door, locked it, and put thekey in my pocket. 'Now, ' I said, 'I'll drag the truth out of you both. ' Hedid look white, he shrivelled up by the chimney-piece, and she--well, shelooked as if she could have killed me, only there was nothing to kill mewith. 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, ' shesaid, '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 fellowand shame him before her. But she spoilt my little game there, and I couldsee by her eyes that she knew that she had. 'Now, Percy, ' she said, 'we'dbetter go. ' That put my blood up. I said, 'Go you shall, but not till Igive you leave, ' and without another word I took him by the collar and ledhim to the door; he came like a lamb, and I sent him off with as fine akick as he ever got in his life. He went rolling down, and didn't stoptill he got to the bottom. You should have seen her look at me; there wasmurder in her eyes. If she could she'd have killed me, but she couldn'tand calmed down a bit. 'Let me go; what do you want me for? You can get adivorce.... I'll pay the costs. '

"'I don't think I'd gratify you so much. So you'd like to marry him, wouldyou, my beauty?'

"'He's a gentleman, and I've had enough of you; if you want money youshall have it. '

"I laughed at her, and so it went on for an hour or more. Then shesuddenly calmed down. I knew something was up, only I didn't know what. Idon't know if I told you we was in lodgings--the usual sort, drawing-roomwith 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 wasa chest of drawers before the door; I thought she couldn't move it, andwent back into the sitting-room. But somehow she managed to move itwithout my hearing her, and before I could stop her she was down thestairs like lightning. I went after her, but she had too long a start ofme, and the last I heard was the street door go bang. "

The conversation paused. William took the stalk he was chewing from histeeth, and threw it aside. Esther had picked one, and with it she beatimpatiently among the grass. 

"But what has all this to do with me?" she said. "If this is all you havebrought me out to listen to----"

"That's a nice way to round on me. Wasn't it you what asked me to tell youthe story?"

"So you've deserted two women instead of one, that's about the long andshort of it. "

"Well, if that's what you think I'd better be off, " said William, and herose to his feet and stood looking at her. She sat quite still, not daringto raise her eyes; her heart was throbbing violently. Would he go away andnever come back? Should she answer him indifferently or say nothing? Shechose the latter course. Perhaps it was the wrong one, for her doggedsilence 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 coldnumbness 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 ofthousand in the bank. I put aside a thousand for working expenses, for Iintended to give up backing horses and go in for bookmaking instead. Ihave been at it ever since. A few ups and downs, but I can't complain. Iam worth to-day close on three thousand pounds. "

At the mention of so much money Esther raised her eyes. She looked atWilliam steadfastly. Her object was to rid herself of him, so that shemight marry another man; but at that moment a sensation of the love shehad 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'tsettled nothing yet. "

"You've been telling me about your wife. I don't see much what it's got todo with me. "

"I thought you was interested... That you wanted to see that I wasn't asmuch to blame as you thought. "

"I must be getting back, " she said; "anything else you have to say to meyou can tell me on the way home. "

"Well, it all amounts to this, Esther; if I get a divorce we might cometogether again. What do you think?"

"I think you'd much better make it up with her. I daresay she's very sorryfor what she's done. "

"That's all rot, Esther. She ain't sorry, and wouldn't live with me nomore than I with her. We could not get on; what's the use? You'd betterlet 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 meinterfering in your life. That's why you wants me to go back and live withmy 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 neverwanted 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 andslaved 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 goin. "

"What time shall I come for you?"

"About three--a little after. "

XXVI

William was waiting for her in the area; and while pinning on her hat shethought of what she should say, and how she should act. Should she tellhim that she wanted to marry Fred? Then the long black pin that was tohold her hat to her hair went through the straw with a little sharp sound, and she decided that when the time came she would know what to say. 

As he stepped aside to let her go up the area steps, she noticed howbeautifully dressed he was. He wore a pair of grey trousers, and in hisspick and span morning coat there was a bunch of carnations. 

They walked some half-dozen yards up the street in silence. 

"But why do you want to see the boy? You never thought of him all theseyears. "

"I'll tell you, Esther.... But it is nice to be walking out with youagain. If you'd only let bygones be bygones we might settle down togetheryet. What do you think?"

She did not answer, and he continued, "It do seem strange to be walkingout with you again, meeting you after all these years, and I'm never inyour neighbourhood. I just happened to have a bit of business with afriend who lives your way, and was coming along from his 'ouse, turningover in my mind what he had told me about Rising Sun for the Stewards'Cup, when I saw you coming along with the jug in your 'and. I said, 'That's the prettiest girl I've seen this many a day; that's the sort ofgirl I'd like to see behind the bar of the "King's Head. "' You alwayskeeps your figure--you know you ain't a bit changed; and when I caughtsight of those white teeth I said, 'Lor', why, it's Esther. '"

"I thought it was about the child you was going to speak to me. "

"So I am, but you came first in my estimation. The moment I looked intoyour eyes I felt it had been a mistake all along, and that you was theonly one I had cared about. "

"Then all about wanting to see the child was a pack of lies?"

"No, they weren't lies. I wanted both mother and child--if I could get'em, ye know. I'm telling you the unvarnished truth, Esther. I thought ofthe child as a way of getting you back; but little by little I began totake an interest in him, to wonder what he was like, and with thoughts ofthe boy came different thoughts of you, Esther, who is the mother of myboy. Then I wanted you both back; and I've thought of nothing else eversince. "

At that moment they reached the Metropolitan Railway, and William pressedforward to get the tickets. A subterraneous rumbling was heard, and theyran down the steps as fast as they could, and seeing them so near theticket-collector held the door open for them, and just as the train wasmoving from the platform William pushed Esther into a second-classcompartment. 

"We're in the wrong class, " she cried. 

"No, we ain't; get in, get in, " he shouted. And with the guard crying tohim to desist, he hopped in after her, saying, "You very nearly made memiss the train. What 'ud you've done if the train had taken you away andleft me behind?"

The remark was not altogether a happy one. 

"Then you travel second-class?" Esther said. 

"Yes, I always travel second-class now; Peggy never would, but secondseems to me quite good enough. I don't care about third, unless one iswith a lot of pals, and can keep the carriage to ourselves. That's the waywe manage it when we go down to Newmarket or Doncaster. "

They were alone in the compartment. William leaned forward and took herhand. 

"Try to forgive me, Esther. "

She drew her hand away; he got up, and sat down beside her, and put hisarm around her waist. 

"No, no. I'll have none of that. All that sort of thing is over betweenus. "

He looked at her inquisitively, not knowing how to act. 

"I know you've had a hard time, Esther. Tell me about it. What did you dowhen you left Woodview?" He unfortunately added, "Did you ever meet anyone since that you cared for?"

The question irritated her, and she said, "It don't matter to you who Imet or what I went through. "

The conversation paused. William spoke about the Barfields, and Esthercould not but listen to the tale of what had happened at Woodview duringthe last eight years. 

Woodview had been all her unhappiness and all her misfortune. She had gonethere when the sap of life was flowing fastest in her, and Woodview hadbecome the most precise and distinct vision she had gathered from life. She remembered that wholesome and ample country house, with its park andits down lands, and the valley farm, sheltered by the long lines of elms. She remembered the race-horses, their slight forms showing under the greyclothing, the round black eyes looking out through the eyelet holes in thehanging hoods, the odd little boys astride--a string of six or sevenpassing always before the kitchen windows, going through the paddock gateunder the bunched evergreens. She remembered the rejoicings when the horsewon at Goodwood, and the ball at the Shoreham Gardens. Woodview had meanttoo much in her life to be forgotten; its hillside and its people weredrawn out in sharp outline on her mind. Something in William's voicerecalled her from her reverie, and she heard him say--

"The poor Gaffer, 'e never got over it; it regular broke 'im up. I forgotto tell you, it was Ginger who was riding. It appears that he did all heknew; he lost start, he tried to get shut in, but it warn't no go, luckwas against them; the 'orse was full of running, and, of course, hecouldn't sit down and saw his blooming 'ead off, right in th' middle ofthe course, with Sir Thomas's (that's the 'andicapper) field-glasses onhim. He'd have been warned off the blooming 'eath, and he couldn't affordthat, even to save his own father. The 'orse won in a canter: they clappedeight stun on him for the Cambridgeshire. It broke the Gaffer's 'eart. Hehad to sell off his 'orses, and he died soon after the sale. He died ofconsumption. It generally takes them off earlier; but they say it is inthe family. Miss May----"

"Oh, tell me about her, " said Esther, who had been thinking all the whileof Mrs. Barfield and of Miss Mary. "Tell me, there's nothing the matterwith Miss Mary?"

"Yes, there is: she can't live no more in England; she has to go towinter, I think it is, in Algeria. "

At that moment the train screeched along the rails, and vibrating underthe force of the brakes, it passed out of the tunnel into Blackfriars. 

"We shall just be able to catch the ten minutes past four to Peckham, " shesaid, and they ran up the high steps. William strode along so fast thatEsther was obliged to cry out, "There's no use, William; train or notrain, I can't walk at that rate. "

There was just time for them to get their tickets at Ludgate Hill. Theywere in a carriage by themselves, and he proposed to draw up the windowsso that they might be able to talk more easily. He was interested in theill-luck that had attended certain horses, and Esther wanted to hear aboutMrs. Barfield. 

"You seem to be very fond of her; what did she do for you?"

"Everything--that was after you went away. She was kind. "

"I'm glad to hear that, " said William. 

"So they spends the summer at Woodview and goes to foreign parts for thewinter?"

"Yes, that's it. Most of the estate was sold; but Mrs. Barfield, theSaint--you remember we used to call her the Saint--well, she has herfortune, about five hundred a year, and they just manage to live there ina sort of hole-and-corner sort of way. They can't afford to keep a trap, and towards the end of October they go off and don't return till thebeginning of May. Woodview ain't what it was. You remember the stablesthey were putting up when Silver Braid won the two cups? Well, they arejust as when you last saw them--rafters and walls. "

"Racing don't seem to bring no luck to any one. It ain't my affair, but ifI was you I'd give it up and get to some honest work. "

"Racing has been a good friend to me. I don't know where I should bewithout it to-day. "

"So all the servants have left Woodview? I wonder what has become ofthem. "

"You remember my mother, the cook? She died a couple of years ago. "

"Mrs. Latch! Oh, I'm so sorry. "

"She was an old woman. You remember John Randal, the butler? He's in asituation in Cumberland Place, near the Marble Arch. He sometimes comesround and has a glass in the 'King's Head. ' Sarah Tucker--she's in asituation somewhere in town. I don't know what has become of MargaretGale. "

"I met her one day in the Strand. I'd had nothing to eat all day. I wasalmost fainting, and she took me into a public-house and gave me asausage. "

The train began to slacken speed, and William said, "This is Peckham. "

They handed up their tickets, and passed into the air of an irregularlittle street--low disjointed shops and houses, where the tramcars tinkledthrough a slacker tide of humanity than the Londoners were accustomed to. 

"This way, " said Esther. "This is the way to the Rye. "

"Then Jackie lives at the Rye?"

"Not far from the Rye. Do you know East Dulwich?"

"No, I never was here before. "

"Mrs. Lewis (that's the woman who looks after him) lives at East Dulwich, but it ain't very far. I always gets out here. I suppose you don't mind aquarter of an hour's walk. "

"Not when I'm with you, " William replied gallantly, and he followed herthrough the passers-by. 

The Rye opened up like a large park, beginning in the town and wending faraway into a country prospect. At the Peckham end there were a dozenhandsome trees, and under them a piece of artificial water where boys weresailing toy boats, and a poodle was swimming. Two old ladies in black cameout of a garden full of hollyhocks; they walked towards a seat and satdown in the autumn landscape. And as William and Esther pursued their waythe Rye seemed to grow longer and longer. It opened up into a vast expansefull of the last days of cricket; it was charming with slender trees and aJapanese pavilion quaintly placed on a little mound. An upland backgroundin gradations, interspaced with villas, terraces, and gardens, and steephillside, showing fields and hayricks, brought the Rye to a picturesqueand abrupt end. 

"But it ain't nearly so big as Chester race-course. A regular cockpit of aplace is the Chester course; and not every horse can get round it. "

Turning to the right and leaving the Rye behind them, they ascended along, monotonous, and very ugly road composed of artificial little houses, each set in a portion of very metallic garden. These continued all the wayto the top of a long hill, straggling into a piece of waste ground wherethere were some trees and a few rough cottages. A little boy came runningtowards them, stumbling over the cinder heaps and the tin canisters withwhich the place was strewn, and William felt that that child was his. 

"That child will break 'is blooming little neck if 'e don't take care, " heremarked tentatively. 

She hated him to see the child, and to assert her complete ownership sheclasped Jackie to her bosom without a word of explanation, and shequestioned the child on matters about which William knew nothing. 

William stood looking tenderly on his son, waiting for Esther to introducethem. Mother and child were both so glad in each other that they forgotthe fine gentleman standing by. Suddenly the boy looked towards hisfather, and she repented a little of her cruelty. 

"Jackie, " she said, "do you know who this gentleman is who has come to seeyou?"

"No, I don't. "

She did not care that Jackie should love his father, and yet she could nothelp feeling sorry for William. 

"I'm your father, " said William. 

"No, you ain't. I ain't got no father. "

"How do you know, Jackie?"

"Father died before I was born; mother told me. "

"But mother may be mistaken. "

"If my father hadn't died before I was born he'd 've been to see us beforethis. Come, mother, come to tea. Mrs. Lewis 'as got hot cakes, and they'llbe burnt if we stand talking. "

"Yes, dear, but what the gentleman says is quite true; he is your father. "

Jackie made no answer, and Esther said, "I told you your father was dead, but I was mistaken. "

"Won't you come and walk with me?" said William. 

"No, thank you; I like to walk with mother. "

"He's always like that with strangers, " said Esther; "it is shyness; buthe'll come and talk to you presently, if you leave him alone. "

Each cottage had a rough piece of garden, the yellow crowns of sunflowersshowed over the broken palings, and Mrs. Lewis's large face came into thewindowpane. A moment later she was at the front door welcoming hervisitors. The affection of her welcome was checked when she saw thatWilliam was with Esther, and she drew aside respectfully to let this finegentleman pass. When they were in the kitchen Esther said----

"This is Jackie's father. "

"What, never! I thought--but I'm sure we're very glad to see you. " Thennoticing the fine gold chain that hung across his waistcoat, the cut ofhis clothes, and the air of money which his whole bearing seemed torepresent, she became a little obsequious in her welcome. 

"I'm sure, sir, we're very glad to see you. Won't you sit down?" anddusting a chair with her apron, she handed it to him. Then turning toEsther, she said--

"Sit yourself down, dear; tea'll be ready in a moment. " She was one ofthose women who, although their apron-strings are a good yard in length, preserve a strange agility of movement and a pleasant vivacity of speech. "I 'ope, sir, we've brought 'im up to your satisfaction; we've done thebest we could. He's a dear boy. There's been a bit of jealousy between uson his account, but for all that we 'aven't spoilt him. I don't want topraise him, but he's as well behaved a boy as I knows of. Maybe a bitwilful, but there ain't much fault to find with him, and I ought to know, for it is I that 'ad the bringing up of him since he was a baby of twomonths old. Jackie, dear, why don't you go to your father?"

He stood by his mother's chair, twisting his slight legs in a manner thatwas peculiar to him. His dark hair fell in thick, heavy locks over hissmall face, and from under the shadow of his locks his great luminous eyesglanced furtively at his father. Mrs. Lewis told him to take his fingerout of his mouth, and thus encouraged he went towards William, stilltwisting his legs and looking curiously dejected. He did not speak forsome time, but he allowed William to put his arm round him and draw himagainst his knees. Then fixing his eyes on the toes of his shoes he saidsomewhat abruptly, but confidentially--

"Are you really my father? No humbug, you know, " he added, raising hiseyes, and for a moment looking William searchingly in the face. 

"I'm not humbugging, Jack. I'm your father right enough. Don't you likeme? But I think you said you didn't want to have a father?"

Jackie did not answer this question. After a moment's reflection, he said, "If you be father, why didn't you come to see us before?"

William glanced at Esther, who, in her turn, glanced at Mrs. Lewis. 

"I'm afraid that's rather a long story, Jackie. I was away in foreignparts. "

Jackie looked as if he would like to hear about "foreign parts, " andWilliam awaited the question that seemed to tremble on the child's lips. But, instead, he turned suddenly to Mrs. Lewis and said--

"The cakes aren't burnt, are they? I ran as fast as I could the moment Isaw them coming. "

The childish abruptness of the transition made them laugh, and anunpleasant moment passed away. Mrs. Lewis took the plate of cakes from thefender and poured out their tea. The door and window were open, and thedying light lent a tenderness to the tea table, to the quiet solicitude ofthe mother watching her son, knowing him in all his intimate habits; tothe eager curiosity of the father on the other side, leaning forwarddelighted at every look and word, thinking it all astonishing, wonderful. Jackie sat between the women. He seemed to understand that his chance ofeating as many tea-cakes as he pleased had come, and he ate with his eyesfixed on the plate, considering which piece he would have when he hadfinished the piece he had in his hand. Little was said--a few remarksabout the fine weather, and offers to put out another cup of tea. By theirsilence Mrs. Lewis began to understand that they had differences tosettle, and that she had better leave them. She took her shawl from thepeg, and pleaded that she had an appointment with a neighbour. But shewouldn't be more than half-an-hour; would they look after the house tillher return? And William watched her, thinking of what he would say whenshe was out of hearing. "That boy of ours is a dear little fellow; you'vebeen a good mother, I can see that. If I had only known. "

"There's no use talking no more about it; what's done is done. "

The cottage door was open, and in the still evening they could see theirchild swinging on the gate. The moment was tremulous with responsibility, and yet the words as they fell from their lips seemed accidental. 

At last he said--

"Esther, I can get a divorce. "

"You'd much better go back to your wife. Once married, always married, that's my way of thinking. "

"I'm sorry to hear you say it, Esther. Do you think a man should stop withhis wife who's been treated as I have been?"

Esther avoided a direct reply. Why should he care about the child? He hadnever done anything for him. William said that if he had known there was achild he would have left his wife long ago. He believed that he loved thechild just as much as she did, and didn't believe in marriage withoutchildren. 

"That would have been very wrong. "

"We ain't getting no for'arder by discussing them things, " he said, interrupting her. "We can't say good-bye after this evening and never seeone another again. "

"Why not? I'm nothing to you now; you've got a wife of your own; you've noclaim upon me; you can go your way and I can keep to mine. "

"There's that child. I must do something for him. "

"Well, you can do something for him without ruining me. "

"Ruining you, Esther?"

"Yes, ruining me. I ain't going to lose my character by keeping companywith a married man. You've done me harm enough already, and should beashamed to think of doing me any more. You can pay for the boy's schoolingif you like, you can pay for his keep too, but you mustn't think that indoing so you'll get hold of me again. "

"Do you mean it, Esther?"

"Followers ain't allowed where I am. You're a married man. I won't haveit. "

"But when I get my divorce?"

"When you get your divorce! I don't know how it'll be then. But here'sMrs. Lewis; she's a-scolding of Jackie for swinging on that 'ere gate. Naughty boy; he's been told twenty times not to swing on the gate. "

Esther complained that they had stayed too long, that he had made herlate, and treated his questions about Jackie with indifference. He mightwrite if he had anything important to say, but she could not keep companywith a married man. William seemed very downcast. Esther, too, wasunhappy, and she did not know why. She had succeeded as well as she hadexpected, but success had not brought that sense of satisfaction which shehad expected it would. Her idea had been to keep William out of the wayand hurry on her marriage with Fred. But this marriage, once so ardentlydesired, no longer gave her any pleasure. She had told Fred about thechild. He had forgiven her. But now she remembered that men were veryforgiving before marriage, but how did she know that he would not reproachher with her fault the first time they came to disagree about anything?Ah, it was all misfortune. She had no luck. She didn't want to marryanyone. 

That visit to Dulwich had thoroughly upset her. She ought to have kept outof William's way--that man seemed to have a power over her, and she hatedhim for it. What did he want to see the child for? The child was nothingto him. She had been a fool; now he'd be after the child; and through thisfever of trouble there raged an acute desire to know what Jackie thoughtof his father, what Mrs. Lewis thought of William. 

And the desire to know what was happening became intolerable. She went toher mistress to ask for leave to go out. Very little of her agitationbetrayed itself in her demeanour, but Miss Rice's sharp eyes had guessedthat her servant's life was at a crisis. She laid her book on her knee, asked a few kind, discreet questions, and after dinner Esther hurriedtowards the Underground. 

The door of the cottage was open, and as she crossed the little garden sheheard Mrs. Lewis say--

"Now you must be a good boy, and not go out in the garden and spoil yournew clothes. " And when Esther entered Mrs. Lewis was giving the finishingtouches to the necktie which she had just tied. "Now you'll go and sit onthat chair, like a good boy, and wait there till your father comes. "

"Oh, here's mummie, " cried the boy, and he darted out of Mrs. Lewis'shand. "Look at my new clothes, mummie; look at them!" And Esther saw herboy dressed in a suit of velveteen knickerbockers with brass buttons, anda sky-blue necktie. 

"His father--I mean Mr. Latch--came here on Thursday morning, and took himto----"

"Took me up to London----"

"And brought him back in those clothes. "

"We went to such a big shop in Oxford Street for them, and they took downmany suits before they could get one to fit. Father is that difficult toplease, and I thought we should go away without any clothes, and Icouldn't walk about London with father in these old things. Aren't theyshabby?" he added, kicking them contemptuously. It was a little grey suitthat Esther had made for him with her own hands. 

"Father had me measured for another suit, but it won't be ready for a fewdays. Father took me to the Zoological Gardens, and we saw the lions andtigers, and there are such a lot of monkeys. There is one----But whatmakes you look so cross, mummie dear? Don't you ever go out with father inLondon? London is such a beautiful place. And then we walked through thepark and saw a lot of boys sailing boats. Father asked me if I had a boat. I said you couldn't afford to buy me toys. He said that was hard lines onme, and on the way back to the station we stopped at a toy-shop and hebought me a boat. May I show you my boat?"

Jackie was too much occupied with thoughts of his boat to notice the gloomthat was gathering on his mother's face; Mrs. Lewis wished to call uponhim to desist, but before she could make up her mind what to do, he hadbrought the toy from the table and was forcing it into his mother's hands. "This is a cutter-rigged boat, because it has three sails and only onemast. Father told me it was. He'll be here in half-an-hour; we're going tosail the boat in the pond on the Rye, and if it gets across all righthe'll take me to the park where there's a big piece of water, twice, threetimes as big as the water on the Rye. Do you think, mummie, that I shallever be able to get my boat across such a piece of water as the--I'veforgotten the name. What do they call it, mummie?"

"Oh, I don't know; don't bother me with your boat. "

"Oh, mummie, what have I done that you won't look at my boat? Aren't youcoming with father to the Rye to see me sail it?"

"I don't want to go with you. You want me no more. I can't afford to giveyou boats.... Come, don't plague me any more with your toy, " she said, pushing it away, and then in a moment of convulsive passion she threw theboat across the room. It struck the opposite wall, its mast was broken, and the sails and cords made a tangled little heap. Jackie ran to his toy, he picked it up, and his face showed his grief. "I shan't be able to sailmy boat now; it won't sail, its mast and the sails is broke. Mummie, whatdid you break my boat for?" and the child burst into tears. At that momentWilliam entered. 

"What is the child crying for?" he asked, stopping abruptly on thethreshold. There was a slight tone of authority in his voice which angeredEsther still more. 

"What is it to you what he is crying for?" she said, turning quicklyround. "What has the child got to do with you that you should come downordering people about for? A nice sort of mean trick, and one that is justlike you. You beg and pray of me to let you see the child, and when I doyou come down here on the sly, and with the present of a suit of clothesand a toy boat you try to win his love away from his mother. "

"Esther, Esther, I never thought of getting his love from you. I meant noharm. Mrs. Lewis said that he was looking a trifle moped; we thought thata change would do him good, and so----"

"Ah! it was Mrs. Lewis that asked you to take him up to London. It is astrange thing what a little money will do. Ever since you set foot in thiscottage she has been curtseying to you, handing you chairs. I didn't muchlike it, but I didn't think that she would round on me in this way. " Thenturning suddenly on her old friend, she said, "Who told you to let himhave the child?... Is it he or I who pays you for his keep? Answer methat. How much did he give you--a new dress?"

"Oh, Esther, I am surprised at you: I didn't think it would come toaccusing me of being bribed, and after all these years. " Mrs. Lewis puther apron to her eyes, and Jackie stole over to his father. 

"It wasn't I who smashed the boat, it was mummie; she's in a passion. Idon't know why she smashed it. I didn't do nothing. "

William took the child on his knee. 

"She didn't mean to smash it. There's a good boy, don't cry no more. "

Jackie looked at his father. "Will you buy me another? The shops aren'topen to-day. " Then getting off his father's knee he picked up the toy, andcoming back he said, "Could we mend the boat somehow? Do you think wecould?"

"Jackie, dear, go away; leave your father alone. Go into the next room, "said Mrs. Lewis. 

"No, he can stop here; let him be, " said Esther. "I want to have no moreto say to him, he can look to his father for the future. " Esther turned onher heel and walked straight for the door. But dropping his boat with acry, the little fellow ran after her and clung to her skirt despairingly. "No, mummie dear, you mustn't go; never mind the boat; I love you betterthan the boat--I'll do without a boat. "

"Esther, Esther, this is all nonsense. Just listen. "

"No, I won't listen to you. But you shall listen to me. When I brought youhere last week you asked me in the train what I had been doing all theseyears. I didn't answer you, but I will now. I've been in the workhouse. "

"In the workhouse!"

"Yes, do that surprise you?"

Then jerking out her words, throwing them at him as if they werehalf-bricks, she told him the story of the last eight years--QueenCharlotte's hospital, Mrs. Rivers, Mrs. Spires, the night on theEmbankment, and the workhouse. 

"And when I came out of the workhouse I travelled London in search ofsixteen pounds a year wages, which was the least I could do with, and whenI didn't find them I sat here and ate dry bread. She'll tell you--she sawit all. I haven't said nothing about the shame and sneers I had to put upwith--you would understand nothing about that, --and there was more thanone situation I was thrown out of when they found I had a child. For theydidn't like loose women in their houses; I had them very words said aboutme. And while I was going through all that you was living in riches with alady in foreign parts; and now when she could put up with you no longer, and you're kicked out, you come to me and ask for your share of the child. Share of the child! What share is yours, I'd like to know?"

"Esther!"

"In your mean, underhand way you come here on the sly to see if you can'tsteal the love of the child from me. "

She could speak no more; her strength was giving way before the tumult ofher passion, and the silence that had come suddenly into the room was moreterrible than her violent words. William stood quaking, horrified, wishingthe earth would swallow him; Mrs. Lewis watched Esther's pale face, fearing that she would faint; Jackie, his grey eyes open round, held hisbroken boat still in his hand. The sense of the scene had hardly caught onhis childish brain; he was very frightened; his tears and sobs were awelcome intervention. Mrs. Lewis took him in her arms and tried to soothehim. William tried to speak; his lips moved, but no words came. 

Mrs. Lewis whispered, "You'll get no good out of her now, her temper's up;you'd better go. She don't know what she's a-saying of. "

"If one of us has to go, " said William, taking the hint, "there can't bemuch doubt which of us. " He stood at the door holding his hat, just as ifhe were going to put it on. Esther stood with her back turned to him. Atlast he said--

"Good-bye, Jackie. I suppose you don't want to see me again?"

For reply Jackie threw his boat away and clung to Mrs. Lewis forprotection. William's face showed that he was pained by Jackie's refusal. 

"Try to get your mother to forgive me; but you are right to love her best. She's been a good mother to you. " He put on his hat and went withoutanother word. No one spoke, and every moment the silence grew moreparalysing. Jackie examined his broken boat for a moment, and then he putit away, as if it had ceased to have any interest for him. There was nochance of going to the Rye that day; he might as well take off his velvetsuit; besides, his mother liked him better in his old clothes. When hereturned his mother was sorry for having broken his boat, and appreciatedthe cruelty. "You shall have another boat, my darling, " she said, leaningacross the table and looking at him affectionately; "and quite as good asthe one I broke. "

"Will you, mummie? One with three sails, cutter-rigged, like that?"

"Yes, dear, you shall have a boat with three sails. "

"When will you buy me the boat, mummie--to-morrow?"

"As soon as I can, Jackie. "

This promise appeared to satisfy him. Suddenly he looked--

"Is father coming back no more?"

"Do you want him back?"

Jackie hesitated; his mother pressed him for an answer. 

"Not if you don't, mummie. "

"But if he was to give you another boat, one with four sails?"

"They don't have four sails, not them with one mast. "

"If he was to give you a boat with two masts, would you take it?"

"I should try not to, I should try ever so hard. "

There were tears in Jackie's voice, and then, as if doubtful of his powerto resist temptation, he buried his face in his mother's bosom and sobbedbitterly. 

"You shall have another boat, my darling. "

"I don't want no boat at all! I love you better than a boat, mummie, indeed I do. "

"And what about those clothes? You'd sooner stop with me and wear thoseshabby clothes than go to him and wear a pretty velvet suit?"

"You can send back the velvet suit. "

"Can I? My darling, mummie will give you another velvet suit, " and sheembraced the child with all her strength, and covered him with kisses. 

"But why can't I wear that velvet suit, and why can't father come back?Why don't you like father? You shouldn't be cross with father because hegave me the boat. He didn't mean no harm. "

"I think you like your father. You like him better than me. "

"Not better than you, mummie. "

"You wouldn't like to have any other father except your own real father?"

"How could I have a father that wasn't my own real father?"

Esther did not press the point, and soon after Jackie began to talk aboutthe possibility of mending his boat; and feeling that somethingirrevocable had happened, Esther put on her hat and jacket, and Mrs. Lewisand Jackie accompanied her to the station. The women kissed each other onthe platform and were reconciled, but there was a vague sensation ofsadness in the leave-taking which they did not understand. And Esther satalone in a third-class carriage absorbed in consideration of the problemof her life. The life she had dreamed would never be hers--somehow sheseemed to know that she would never be Fred's wife. Everything seemed topoint to the inevitableness of this end. 

She had determined to see William no more, but he wrote asking how shewould like him to contribute towards the maintenance of the child, andthis could not be settled without personal interviews. Miss Rice and Mrs. Lewis seemed to take it for granted that she would marry William when heobtained his divorce. He was applying himself to the solution of thisdifficulty, and professed himself to be perfectly satisfied with thecourse that events were taking. And whenever she saw Jackie he inquiredafter his father; he hoped, too, that she had forgiven poor father, whohad never meant no harm at all. Day by day she saw more clearly that herinstinct was right in warning her not to let the child see William, thatshe had done wrong in allowing her feelings to be overruled by Miss Rice, who had, of course, advised her for the best. But it was clear to her nowthat Jackie never would take kindly to Fred as a stepfather; that he wouldnever forgive her if she divided him from his real father by marryinganother man. He would grow to dislike his stepfather more and more; andwhen he grew older he would keep away from the house on account of thepresence of his stepfather; it would end by his going to live with him. Hewould be led into a life of betting and drinking; she would lose her childif she married Fred. 

XXVII

It was one evening as she was putting things away in the kitchen beforegoing up to bed that she heard some one rap at the window. Could this beFred? Her heart was beating; she must let him in. The area was indarkness; she could see no one. 

"Who is there?" she cried. 

"It's only me. I had to see you to-night on----"

She drew an easier breath, and asked him to come in. 

William had expected a rougher reception. The tone in which Esther invitedhim in was almost genial, and there was no need of so many excuses; but hehad come prepared with excuses, and a few ran off his tongue before he wasaware. 

"Well, " said Esther, "it is rather late. I was just going up to bed; butyou can tell me what you've come about, if it won't take long. "

"It won't take long.... I've seen my solicitor this afternoon, and he saysthat I shall find it very difficult to get a divorce. "

"So you can't get your divorce?"

"Are you glad?"

"I don't know. "

"What do you mean? You must be either glad or sorry. "

"I said what I mean. I am not given to telling lies. " Esther set the largetin candlestick, on which a wick was spluttering, on the kitchen table, and William looked at her inquiringly. She was always a bit of a mysteryto him. And then he told her, speaking very quickly, how he had neglectedto secure proofs of his wife's infidelity at the time; and as she hadlived a circumspect although a guilty life ever since, the solicitorthought that it would be difficult to establish a case against her. 

"Perhaps she never was guilty, " said Esther, unable to resist thetemptation to irritate. 

"Not guilty! what do you mean? Haven't I told you how I found them the dayI came up from Ascot?... And didn't she own up to it? What more proof doyou want?"

"Anyway, it appears you haven't enough; what are you going to do? Waituntil you catch her out?"

"There is nothing else to do, unless----" William paused, and his eyeswandered from Esther's. 

"Unless what?"

"Well, you see my solicitors have been in communication with hersolicitors, and her solicitors say that if it were the other way round, that if I gave her reason to go against me for a divorce, she would beglad of the chance. That's all they said at first, but since then I'veseen my wife, and she says that if I'll give her cause to get a divorceshe'll not only go for it, but will pay all the legal expenses; it won'tcost us a penny. What do you think Esther?"

"I don't know that I understand. You don't mean----"

"You see, Esther, that to get a divorce--there's no one who can hear us, is there?"

"No, there's no one in the 'ouse except me and the missus, and she's inthe study reading. Go on. "

"It seems that one of the parties must go and live with another partybefore either can get a divorce. Do you understand?"

"You don't mean that you want me to go and live with you, and perhaps getleft a second time?"

"That's all rot, Esther, and you knows it. "

"If that's all you've got to say to me you'd better take your hook. "

"Do you see, there's the child to consider? And you know well enough, Esther, that you've nothing to fear; you knows as well as can be that Imean to run straight this time. So I did before. But let bygones bebygones, and I know you'd like the child to have a father; so if only forhis sake----"

"For his sake! I like that; as if I hadn't done enough for him. Haven't Iworked and slaved myself to death and gone about in rags? That's what thatchild has cost me. Tell me what he's cost you. Not a penny piece--a toyboat and a suit of velveteen knickerbockers, --and yet you come tellingme--I'd like to know what's expected of me. Is a woman never to think ofherself? Do I count for nothing? For the child's sake, indeed! Now, if itwas anyone else but you. Just tell me where do I come in? That's what Iwant to know. I've played the game long enough. Where do I come in? That'swhat I want to know. "

"There's no use flying in a passion, Esther. I know you've had a hardtime. I know it was all very unlucky from the very first. But there's nouse saying that you might get left a second time, for you know well enoughthat that ain't true. Say you won't do it; you're a free woman, you canact as you please. It would be unjust to ask you to give up anything morefor the child; I agree with you in all that. But don't fly in a rage withme because I came to tell you there was no other way out of thedifficulty. "

"You can go and live with another woman, and get a divorce that way. "

"Yes, I can do that; but I first thought I'd speak to you on the subject. For if I did go and live with another woman I couldn't very well deserther after getting a divorce. "

"You deserted me. "

"Why go back on that old story?"

"It ain't an old story, it's the story of my life, and I haven't come tothe end of it yet. "

"But you'll have got to the end of it if you'll do what I say. "

A moment later Esther said--

"I don't know what you want to get a divorce for at all. I daresay yourwife would take you back if you were to ask her. "

"She's no children, and never will have none, and marriage is a poorlook-out without children--all the worry and anxiety for nothing. What dowe marry for but children? There's no other happiness. I've triedeverything else--"

"But I haven't. "

"I know all that. I know you've had a damned hard time, Esther. I've had agood week at Doncaster, and have enough money to buy my partner out; weshall 'ave the 'ouse to ourselves, and, working together, I don't thinkwe'll 'ave much difficulty in building it up into a very nice property, all of which will in time go to the boy. I'm doing pretty well, I toldyou, in the betting line, but if you like I'll give it up. I'll never layor take the odds again. I can't say more, Esther, can I? Come, say yes, "he said, reaching his arm towards her. 

"Don't touch me, " she said surlily, and drew back a step with air ofresolution that made him doubt if he would be able to persuade her. 

"Now, Esther----" William did not finish. It seemed useless to argue withher, and he looked at the great red ash of the tallow candle. 

"You are the mother of my boy, so it is different; but to advise me to goand live with another woman! I shouldn't have thought it of a religiousgirl like you. "

"Religion! There's very little time for religion in the places I've had towork in. " Then, thinking of Fred, she added that she had returned toChrist, and hoped He would forgive her. William encouraged her to speak ofherself, remarking that, chapel or no chapel, she seemed just as severeand particular as ever. "If you won't, I can only say I am sorry; but thatshan't prevent me from paying you as much a week as you think necessaryfor Jack's keep and his schooling. I don't want the boy to cost youanything. I'd like to do a great deal more for the boy, but I can't domore unless you make him my child. "

"And I can only do that by going away to live with you?" The words broughtan instinctive look of desire into her eyes. 

"In six months we shall be man and wife.... Say yes. "

"I can't... I can't, don't ask me. "

"You're afraid to trust me, is that it?"

Esther did not answer. 

"I can make that all right: I'll settle £500 on you and the child. "

She looked up; the same look was in her eyes, only modified, softened bysome feeling of tenderness which had come into her heart. 

He put his arm round her; she was leaning against the table; he wassitting on the edge. 

"You know that I mean to act rightly by you. "

"Yes, I think you do. "

"Then say yes. "

"I can't--it is too late. "

"There's another chap?"

She nodded. 

"I thought as much. Do you care for him?"

She did not answer. 

He drew her closer to him; she did not resist; he could see that she wasweeping. He kissed her on her neck first, and then on her face; and hecontinued to ask her if she loved the other chap. At last she signifiedthat she did not. 

"Then say yes. " She murmured that she could not. "You can, you can, youcan. " He kissed her, all the while reiterating, "You can, you can, youcan, " until it became a sort of parrot cry. Several minutes elapsed, andthe candle began to splutter in its socket. She said--

"Let me go; let me light the gas. "

As she sought for the matches she caught sight of the clock. 

"I did not know it was so late. "

"Say yes before I go. "

"I can't. "

And it was impossible to extort a promise from her. "I'm too tired, " shesaid, "let me go. "

He took her in his arms and kissed her, and said, "My own little wife. "

As he went up the area steps she remembered that he had used the samewords before. She tried to think of Fred, but William's great squareshoulders had come between her and this meagre little man. She sighed, andfelt once again that her will was overborne by a force which she could notcontrol or understand. 

XXVIII

She went round the house bolting and locking the doors, seeing thateverything was made fast for the night. At the foot of the stairs painfulthoughts came upon her, and she drew her hand across her eyes; for she waswhelmed with a sense of sorrow, of purely mental misery, which she couldnot understand, and which she had not strength to grapple with. She was, however, conscious of the fact that life was proving too strong for her, that she could make nothing of it, and she thought that she did not caremuch what happened. She had fought with adverse fate, and had conquered ina way; she had won countless victories over herself, and now found herselfwithout the necessary strength for the last battle; she had not evenstrength for blame, and merely wondered why she had let William kiss her. She remembered how she had hated him, and now she hated him no longer. Sheought not to have spoken to him; above all, she ought not to have takenhim to see the child. But how could she help it?

She slept on the same landing as Miss Rice, and was moved by a suddenimpulse to go in and tell her the story of her trouble. But what good? Noone could help her. She liked Fred; they seemed to suit each other, andshe could have made him a good wife if she had not met William. Shethought of the cottage at Mortlake, and their lives in it; and she soughtto stimulate her liking for him with thoughts of the meeting-house; shethought even of the simple black dress she would wear, and that lifeseemed so natural to her that she did not understand why she hesitated.... If she were to marry William she would go to the "King's Head. "

She would stand behind the bar; she would serve the customers. She hadnever seen much life, and felt somehow that she would like to see a littlelife; there would not be much life in the cottage at Mortlake; nothing butthe prayer-meeting. She stopped thinking, surprised at her thoughts. Shehad never thought like that before; it seemed as if some other woman whomshe hardly knew was thinking for her. She seemed like one standing atcross-roads, unable to decide which road she would take. If she took theroad leading to the cottage and the prayer-meeting her life wouldhenceforth be secure. She could see her life from end to end, even to thetime when Fred would come and sit by her, and hold her hand as she hadseen his father and mother sitting side by side. If she took the road tothe public-house and the race-course she did not know what might nothappen. But William had promised to settle £500 on her and Jackie. Herlife would be secure either way. 

She must marry Fred; she had promised to marry him; she wished to be agood woman; he would give her the life she was most fitted for, the lifeshe had always desired; the life of her father and mother, the life of herchildhood. She would marry Fred, only--something at that moment seemed totake her by the throat. William had come between her and that life. If shehad not met him at Woodview long ago; if she had not met him in thePembroke Road that night she went to fetch the beer for her mistress'sdinner, how different everything would have been! ... If she had met himonly a few months later, when she was Fred's wife!

Wishing she might go to sleep, and awake the wife of one or the other, shefell asleep to dream of a husband possessed of the qualities of both, anda life that was neither all chapel nor all public-house. But soon the onebecame two, and Esther awoke in terror, believing she had married themboth. 

XXIX

If Fred had said, "Come away with me, " Esther would have obeyed theelemental romanticism which is so fixed a principle in woman's nature. Butwhen she called at the shop he only spoke of his holiday, of the longwalks he had taken, and the religious and political meetings he hadattended. Esther listened vaguely; and there was in her mind unconsciousregret that he was not a little different. Little irrelevant thoughts cameupon her. She would like him better if he wore coloured neckties and ashort jacket; she wished half of him away--his dowdiness, hissandy-coloured hair, the vague eyes, the black neckties, the long loosefrock-coat. But his voice was keen and ringing, and when listening herheart always went out to him, and she felt that she might fearlesslyentrust her life to him. But he did not seem wholly to understand her, andday by day, against her will, the thought gripped her more and moreclosely that she could not separate Jackie from his father. She would haveto tell Fred the whole truth, and he would not understand it; that sheknew. But it would have to be done, and she sent round to say she'd liketo see him when he left business. Would he step round about eight o'clock?

The clock had hardly struck eight when she heard a tap at the window. Sheopened the door and he came in, surprised by the silence with which shereceived him. 

"I hope nothing has happened. Is anything the matter?"

"Yes, a great deal's the matter. I'm afraid we shall never be married, Fred, that's what's the matter. "

"How's that, Esther? What can prevent us getting married?" She did notanswer, and then he said, "You've not ceased to care for me?"

"No, that's not it. "

"Jackie's father has come back?"

"You've hit it, that's what happened. "

"I'm sorry that man has come across you again. I thought you told me hewas married. But, Esther, don't keep me in suspense; what has he done?"

"Sit down; don't stand staring at me in that way, and I'll tell you thestory. "

Then in a strained voice, in which there was genuine suffering, Esthertold her story, laying special stress on the fact that she had done herbest to prevent him from seeing the child. 

"I don't see how you could have forbidden him access to the child. "

He often used words that Esther did not understand, but guessing hismeaning, she answered--

"That's just what the missus said; she argued me into taking him to seethe child. I knew once he'd seen Jackie there'd be no getting rid of him. I shall never get rid of him again. "

"He has no claim upon you. It is just like him, low blackguard fellow thathe is, to come after you, persecuting you. But don't you fear; you leavehim to me. I'll find a way of stopping his little game. "

Esther looked at his frail figure. 

"You can do nothing; no one can do nothing, " she said, and the tearstrembled in her handsome eyes. "He wants me to go away and live with him, so that his wife may be able to divorce him. "

"Wants you to go away and live with him! But surely, Esther, you donot----"

"Yes, he wants me to go and live with him, so that his wife can get adivorce, " Esther answered, for the suspense irritated her; "and how can Irefuse to go with him?"

"Esther, are you serious? You cannot... You told me that you did not lovehim, and after all----" He waited for Esther to speak. 

"Yes, " she said very quickly, "there is no way out of it that I can see. "

"Esther, that man has tempted you, and you have not prayed. "

She did not answer. 

"I don't want to hear more of this, " he said, catching up his hat. "Ishouldn't have believed it if I had not heard it from your lips; no, notif the whole world had told me. You are in love with this man, though youmay not know it, and you've invented this story as a pretext to throw meover. Good-bye, Esther. "

"Fred, dear, listen, hear me out. You'll not go away in that hasty way. You're the only friend I have. Let me explain. "

"Explain! how can such things be explained?"

"That's what I thought until all this happened to me. I have suffereddreadful in the last few days. I've wept bitter tears, and I thought ofall you said about the 'ome you was going to give me. " Her sincerity wasunmistakable, and Fred doubted her no longer. "I'm very fond of you, Fred, and if things had been different I think I might have made you a goodwife. But it wasn't to be. "

"Esther, I don't understand. You need never see this man again if youdon't wish it. "

"Nay, nay, things ain't so easily changed as all that. He's the father ofmy child, he's got money, and he'll leave his money to his child if he'smade Jackie's father in the eyes of the law. "

"That can be done without your going to live with him. "

"Not as he wants. I know what he wants; he wants a 'ome, and he won't beput off with less. "

"How men can be so wicked as----"

"No, you do him wrong. He ain't no more wicked than another; he's just oneof the ordinary sort--not much better or worse. If he'd been a real badlot it would have been better for us, for then he'd never have comebetween us. You're beginning to understand, Fred, ain't you? If I don't gowith him my boy'll lose everything. He wants a 'ome--a real 'ome withchildren, and if he can't get me he'll go after another woman. "

"And are you jealous?"

"No, Fred. But think if we was to marry. As like as not I should havechildren, and they'd be more in your sight than my boy. "

"Esther, I promise that----"

"Just so, Fred; even if you loved him like your own, you can't make surethat he'd love you. "

"Jackie and I----"

"Ah, yes; he'd have liked you well enough if he'd never seen his father. But he's that keen on his father, and it would be worse later on. He'dnever be contented in our 'ome. He'd be always after him, and then Ishould never see him, and he would be led away into betting and drink. "

"If his father is that sort of man, the best chance for Jackie would be tokeep him out of his way. If he gets divorced and marries another woman hewill forget all about Jackie. "

"Yes, that might be, " said Esther, and Fred pursued his advantage. But, interrupting him, Esther said--

"Anyway, Jackie would lose all his father's money; the public-housewould--"

"So you're going to live in a public-house, Esther?"

"A woman must be with her husband. "

"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 therisk. I suppose it is a part of the punishment for the first sin. We can'tdo wrong without being punished--at least women can't. But I thought I'dbeen punished enough. "

"The second sin is worse than the first. A married man, Esther--you who Ithought so religious. "

"Ah, religion is easy enough at times, but there is other times when itdon't seem to fit in with one's duty. I may be wrong, but it seems naturallike--he's the father of my child. "

"I'm afraid your mind is made up, Esther. Think twice before it's toolate. "

"Fred, I can't help myself--can't you see that? Don't make it harder forme 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 moreof 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'redoing 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 hereyes, and went upstairs to her mistress, who had rung for her. 

Miss Rice was in her easy-chair, reading. A long, slanting ray entered theroom; the bead curtain glittered, and so peaceful was the impression thatEsther could not but perceive the contrast between her own troublous lifeand 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 overthe closed volume. She wore two little colourless rings and a ruby ringwhich caught the light. 

"Yes, miss, I've told him all. He seemed a good deal cut up. I couldn'thelp crying myself, for I could have made him a good wife--I'm sure Icould; 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'reabout 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 wantJackie to be a fatherless boy, and to lose any money he might have a rightto. 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 itseems for the best. "

"What did he say to that?"

"Nothing much, miss, except that I might get left a second time--and, hewasn'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--leastwaysa 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 issacrificed. " And her thought went back for a moment to the novel she waswriting. It seemed to her pale and conventional compared with this roughpage torn out of life. She wondered if she could treat the subject. Shepassed in review the names of some writers who could do justice to it, andthen 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 yourservice, 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'mvery sorry to part with you. And I hope you'll remember if things do notturn out as well as you expect them to, that I shall always be glad to doanything in my power to help you. You'll always find a friend in me. Whenare you going?"

"As soon as my box is packed, miss, and I shall have about finished by thetime 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 thusencouraged 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'dlike to kiss you. "

Miss Rice did not answer, and before she was aware, Esther had taken herin her arms and kissed her. "You're not angry with me, miss; I couldn'thelp 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 ofher life coming upon her suddenly caused her to burst into tears. It wasone of those moments of effusion which take women unawares. But her newservant 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 forEsther's box. They brought it down together, and Miss Rice heard her begof him to be careful of the paint. The girl had been a good and faithfulservant to her; she was sorry to lose her. And Esther was equally sorrythat anyone but herself should have the looking after of that dear, kindsoul. But what could she do? She was going to be married. She did notdoubt that William was going to marry her; and the cab had hardly enteredthe Brompton Road when her thoughts were fully centred in the life thatawaited her. This sudden change of feeling surprised her, and she excusedherself with the recollection that she had striven hard for Fred, but asshe had failed to get him, it was only right that she should think of herhusband. Then quite involuntarily the thought sprang upon her that he wasa fine fellow, and she remembered the line of his stalwart figure as hewalked down the street. There would be a parlour behind the bar, in whichshe would sit. She would be mistress of the house. There would be aservant, a potboy, and perhaps a barmaid. 

The cab swerved round the Circus, and she wondered if she were capable ofconducting a business like the "King's Head. "

It was the end of a fine September evening, and the black, crookedperspectives of Soho seemed as if they were roofed with gold. A slightmist was rising, and at the end of every street the figures appeared anddisappeared mysteriously in blue shadow. She had never been in this partof London before; the adventure stimulated her imagination, and shewondered 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 goingto pull up. At last he stopped at the corner of Dean Street and OldCompton Street, nearly opposite a cab rank. The cabmen were inside, havinga glass; the usual vagrant was outside, looking after the horses. Heoffered to take down Esther's box, and when she asked him if he had seenMr. Latch he took her round to the private bar. The door was pushed open, and Esther saw William leaning over the counter wrapped in conversationwith 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. "Iexpected 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 JohnRandal, or Mr. Leopold, as they used to call him at Barfield. 

Mr. Leopold shook hands with Esther, and he muttered a "Glad to see youagain, " But it was the welcome of a man who regards a woman's presence asan intrusion, and Esther understood the quiet contempt with which helooked at William. "Can't keep away from them, " his face said for onebrief 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 comeround to-morrow night if you can; you'll find me here. I must be hereto-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 timeto reply he said, "You've brought me good luck. I won two 'undred andfifty pounds to-day, and the money will come in very 'andy, for JimStevens, that's my partner, has agreed to take half the money on accountand 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, andhe crossed the bar wiping the beer from his hands. 

"Let me introduce you to a very particular friend of mine, Jim, MissWaters. "

"Very 'appy, I'm sure, to make your acquaintance, " said Jim, and heextended 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 goodthing 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 yearsin bottle; or, being a lady, perhaps you'd like to try some of our bestunsweetened. "

Esther declined, but William said they could not leave without drinkingthe health of the house. 

"Irish or Scotch, ma'am? Mr. Latch drinks Scotch. "

Seeing that she could not avoid taking something, Esther decided that shewould try the unsweetened. The glasses were clinked across the counter, and William whispered, "This isn't what we sell to the public; this is ourown special tipple. You didn't notice, perhaps, but he took the bottlefrom the third row on the left. "

At that moment Esther's cabman came in and wanted to know if he was tohave 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 upperpart of the house, but he says he'll be ready to turn out at the end ofthe week. I'm living in lodgings near Shaftesbury Avenue, so we'd betterkeep the cab on. "

Esther looked disappointed, but said nothing. William said he'd stand thecabby a drink, and, winking at Esther, he whispered, "Third row on theleft, partner. "

XXX

The "King's Head" was an humble place in the old-fashioned style. Thehouse must have been built two hundred years, and the bar seemed as if ithad been dug out of the house. The floor was some inches lower than thestreet, and the ceiling was hardly more than a couple of feet above thehead of a tall man. Nor was it divided by numerous varnished partitions, according to the latest fashion. There were but three. The privateentrance was in Dean Street, where a few swells came over from the theatreand called for brandies-and-sodas. There was a little mahogany what-not onthe 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 barwas inconveniently crowded by a dozen people. The "King's Head" was not anup-to-date public-house. It had, however, one thing in its favour--it wasa free house, and William said they had only to go on supplying goodstuff, and trade would be sure to come back to them. For their formerpartner had done them much harm by systematic adulteration, and a littleway down the street a new establishment, with painted tiles and brasslamps, had been opened, and was attracting all the custom of theneighbourhood. She was more anxious than William to know what loss thebooks showed; she was jealous of the profits of his turf account, and whenhe laughed at her she said, "But you're never here in the daytime, you donot 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 fewglasses of bitter--there had been a rehearsal over the way--and that wasabout all. 

The bars were empty, and the public-house dozed through the heavy heat ofa summer afternoon. Esther sat behind the bar sewing, waiting for Jackieto come home from school. William was away at Newmarket. The clock struckfive and Jackie peeped through the doors, dived under the counter, and raninto 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 allfull of boats. Do you think that if all the favourites were to be beatenfor 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 theparlour 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. Letme take off your coat--give me your hat; now run along, and help Jane tomake the toast. "

Esther opened a glass door, curtained with red silk; it led from the barto the parlour, a tiny room, hardly larger than the private bar, holdingwith difficulty a small round table, three chairs, an arm-chair, acupboard. In the morning a dusty window let in a melancholy twilight, butearly in the afternoon it became necessary to light the gas. Esther took acloth from the cupboard, and laid the table for Jackie's tea. He came upthe kitchen stairs telling Jane how many marbles he had won, and at thatmoment voices were heard in the bar. 

It was William, tall and gaunt, buttoned up in a grey frock-coat, a pairof field glasses slung over his shoulders. He was with his clerk, TedBlamy, a feeble, wizen little man, dressed in a shabby tweed suit, coveredwith 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, threeyesterday, and two second favourites the day before. By God, no man canstand 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 beenlosing heavily, but she refrained from asking questions. 

"Now, Jackie, you keep your father company; tell him how you got on atschool. I'm going downstairs to look after his dinner. "

"Don't you mind about my dinner, Esther, don't you trouble; I was thinkingof dining at a restaurant. I'll be back at nine. "

"Then I'll see nothing of you. We've hardly spoken to one another thisweek; all the day you're away racing, and in the evening you're talking toyour 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'vehad a very bad week. The favourites has been winning, and I overlaid mybook against Wheatear; I'd heard that she was as safe as 'ouses. I'll meetsome pals down at the 'Cri'; it will cheer me up. "

Seeing how disappointed she was, he hesitated, and asked what there wasfor dinner. "A sole and a nice piece of steak; I'm sure you'll like it. I've a lot to talk to you about. Do stop, Bill, to please me. " She wasvery winning in her quiet, grave way, so he took her in his arms, kissedher, and said he would stop, that no one could cook a sole as she could, that it gave him an appetite to think of it. 

"And may I stop with father while you are cooking his dinner?" saidJackie. 

"Yes, you can do that; but you must go to bed when I bring it upstairs. Iwant to talk with father then. "

Jackie seemed quite satisfied with this arrangement, but when Esther cameupstairs with the sole, and was about to hand him over to Jane, he beggedlustily to be allowed to remain until father had finished his fish. "Itwon'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. Shesaid he must go to bed, and he knew from her tone that argument wasuseless. As a last consolation, she promised him that she would comeupstairs 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 stilla little jealous of his love for his father. 

"Come along, " Jackie cried to Jane, and he ran upstairs, chattering to herabout 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 shereturned, William was smoking his pipe. Her dinner had had its effect, hehad forgotten his losses, and was willing to tell her the news. He had abit of news for her. He had seen Ginger; Ginger had come up as cordial asyou 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 luckto-morrow, " she said. "The favourites can't go on winning. Tell me aboutGinger. "

"There isn't much to tell. We'd a little chat. He knew all about thelittle arrangement, the five hundred, you know, and laughed heartily. Peggy's married. I've forgotten the chap's name. "

"The one that you kicked downstairs?"

"No, not him; I can't think of it. No matter, Ginger remembered you; hewished us luck, took the address, and said he'd come in to-night to seeyou if he possibly could. I don't think he's been doing too well lately, if he had he'd been more stand-offish. I saw Jimmy White--you rememberJim, the little fellow we used to call the Demon, 'e that won theStewards' Cup on Silver Braid?... Didn't you and 'e 'ave a tussle togetherat the end of dinner--the first day you come down from town?"

"The second day it was. "

"You're right, it was the second day. The first day I met you in theavenue I was leaning over the railings having a smoke, and you come alongwith a heavy bundle and asked me the way. I wasn't in service at thattime. Good Lord, how time does slip by! It seems like yesterday.... Andafter all those years to meet you as you was going to the public for a jugof beer, and 'ere we are man and wife sitting side by side in our own'ouse. "

Esther had been in the "King's Head" now nearly a year. The first Mrs. Latch had got her divorce without much difficulty; and Esther had begun torealise that she had got a good husband long before they slipped round tothe nearest registry office and came back man and wife. 

Charles opened the door. "Mr. Randal is in the bar, sir, and would like tohave a word with you. "

"All right, " said William. "Tell him I'm coming into the bar presently. "Charles withdrew. "I'm afraid, " said William, lowering his voice, "thatthe old chap is in a bad way. He's been out of a place a long while, andwill find it 'ard to get back again. Once yer begin to age a bit, theywon't look at you. We're both well out of business. "

Mr. Randal sat in his favourite corner by the wall, smoking his clay. Hewore a large frock-coat, vague in shape, pathetically respectable. Theround hat was greasy round the edges, brown and dusty on top. The shirtwas clean but unstarched, and the thin throat was tied with an old blacksilk cravat. He looked himself, the old servant out of situation--the oldservant who would never be in situation again. 

"Been 'aving an 'ell of a time at Newmarket, " said William; "favouritesromping in one after the other. "

"I saw that the favourites had been winning. But I know of something, arank outsider, for the Leger. I got the letter this morning. I thought I'dcome round and tell yer. "

"Much obliged, old mate, but it don't do for me to listen to such tales;we bookmakers must pay no attention to information, no matter how correctit may be.... Much obliged all the same. What are you drinking?"

"I've not finished my glass yet. " He tossed off the last mouthful. 

"The same?" said William. 

"Yes, thank you. "

William drew two glasses of porter. "Here's luck. " The men nodded, drank, and then William turned to speak to a group at the other end of the bar. "One moment, " John said, touching William on the shoulder. "It is the besttip I ever had in my life. I 'aven't forgotten what I owe you, and if thiscomes off I'll be able to pay you all back. Lay the odds, twentysovereigns to one against--" Old John looked round to see that no one waswithin ear-shot, then he leant forward and whispered the horse's name inWilliam's ear. William laughed. "If you're so sure about it as all that, "he said, "I'd sooner lend you the quid to back the horse elsewhere. "

"Will you lend me a quid?"

"Lend you a quid and five first favourites romping in one afteranother!--you must take me for Baron Rothschild. You think because I've apublic-house I'm coining money; well, I ain't. It's cruel the business wedo here. You wouldn't believe it, and you know that better liquor can't begot in the neighbourhood. " Old John listened with the indifference of aman whose life is absorbed in one passion and who can interest himselfwith nothing else. Esther asked him after Mrs. Randal and his children, but conversation on the subject was always disagreeable to him, and hepassed it over with few words. As soon as Esther moved away he leantforward and whispered, "Lay me twelve pounds to ten shillings. I'll besure to pay you; there's a new restaurant going to open in Oxford Streetand I'm going to apply for the place of headwaiter. "

"Yes, but will you get it?" William answered brutally. He did not mean tobe unkind, but his nature was as hard and as plain as a kitchen-table. Thechin dropped into the unstarched collar and the old-fashioned necktie, andold John continued smoking unnoticed by any one. Esther looked at him. Shesaw he was down on his luck, and she remembered the tall, melancholy, pale-faced woman whom she had met weeping by the sea-shore the day thatSilver Braid had won the cup. She wondered what had happened to her, inwhat corner did she live, and where was the son that John Randal had notallowed to enter the Barfield establishment as page-boy, thinking he wouldbe able to make something better of him than a servant. 

The regular customers had begun to come in. Esther greeted them with nodsand smiles of recognition. She drew the beer two glasses at once in herhand, and picked up little zinc measures, two and four of whisky, andfilled them from a small tap. She usually knew the taste of her customers. When she made a mistake she muttered "stupid, " and Mr. Ketley was muchamused at her forgetting that he always drank out of the bottle; he wasone of the few who came to the "King's Head" who could afford sixpennywhisky. "I ought to have known by this time, " she said. "Well, mistakeswill occur in the best regulated families, " the little butterman replied. He was meagre and meek, with a sallow complexion and blond beard. His paleeyes were anxious, and his thin, bony hands restless. His general mannerwas oppressed, and he frequently raised his hat to wipe his forehead, which was high and bald. At his elbow stood Journeyman, Ketley's veryopposite. A tall, harsh, angular man, long features, a dingy complexion, and the air of a dismissed soldier. He held a glass of whisky-and-water ina hairy hand, and bit at the corner of a brown moustache. He wore athreadbare black frock-coat, and carried a newspaper under his arm. Ketleyand Journeyman held widely different views regarding the best means ofbacking horses. Ketley was preoccupied with dreams and omens; Journeyman, a clerk in the parish registry office, studied public form; he was guidedby it in all his speculations, and paid little heed to the various rumoursalways afloat regarding private trials. Public form he admitted did notalways come out right, but if a man had a headpiece and could remember allthe running, public form was good enough to follow. Racing with Journeymanwas a question of calculation, and great therefore was his contempt forthe weak and smiling Ketley, whom he went for on all occasions. But Ketleywas pluckier than his appearance indicated, and the duels between the twowere a constant source of amusement in the bar of the "King's Head. "

"Well, Herbert, the omen wasn't altogether up to the mark this time, " saidJourneyman, with a malicious twinkle in his small brown eyes. 

"No, it was one of them unfortunate accidents. "

"One of them unfortunate accidents, " repeated Journeyman, derisively;"what's accidents to do with them that 'as to do with the reading ofomens? I thought they rose above such trifles as weights, distances, badriding.... A stone or two should make no difference if the omen is right. "

Ketley was no way put out by the slight titter that Journeyman's retorthad produced in the group about the bar. He drank his whisky-and-waterdeliberately, like one, to use a racing expression, who had been over thecourse before. 

"I've 'eard that argument. I know all about it, but it don't alter me. Toomany strange things occur for me to think that everything can becalculated with a bit of lead-pencil in a greasy pocket-book. "

"What has the grease of my pocket-book to do with it?" replied Journeyman, looking round. The company smiled and nodded. "You says that signs andomens is above any calculation of weights. Never mind the pocket-book, greasy or not greasy; you says that these omens is more to be depended onthan the best stable information. "

"I thought that you placed no reliance on stable information, and that youwas guided by the weights that you calculated in that 'ere pocket-book. "

"What's my pocket-book to do with it? You want to see my pocket-book;well, here it is, and I'll bet two glasses of beer that it ain't greasierthan any other pocket-book in this bar. "

"I don't see meself what pocket-books, greasy or not greasy, has to dowith it, " said William. "Walter put a fair question to Herbert. The omendidn't come out right, and Walter wanted to know why it didn't come outright. "

"That was it, " said Journeyman. 

All eyes were now fixed on Ketley. "You want to know why the omen wasn'tright? I'll tell you--because it was no omen at all, that's why. The omensalways comes right; it is we who aren't always in the particular state ofmind that allows us to read the omens right. " Journeyman shrugged hisshoulders contemptuously. Ketley looked at him with the same expression ofplacid amusement. "You'd like me to explain; well, I will. The omen isalways right, but we aren't always in the state of mind for the reading ofthe omen. You think that ridiculous, Walter; but why should omens differfrom other things? Some days we can get through our accounts in 'alf thetime we can at other times, the mind being clearer. I asks all present ifthat is not so. "

Ketley had got hold of his audience, and Journeyman's remark about closingtime only provoked a momentary titter. Ketley looked long and steadily atJourneyman and then said, "Perhaps closing time won't do no more for yourcalculation of weights than for my omens.... I know them jokes, we've'eard them afore; but I'm not making jokes; I'm talking serious. " Thecompany nodded approval. "I was saying there was times when the mind isfresh like the morning. That's the time for them what 'as got the gift ofreading the omens. It is a sudden light that comes into the mind, and itpoints straight like a ray of sunlight, if there be nothing to stop it.... Now do you understand?" No one had understood, but all felt that they wereon the point of understanding. "The whole thing is in there being nothingto interrupt the light. "

"But you says yourself that yer can't always read them, " said Journeyman;"an accident will send you off on the wrong tack, so it all comes to thesame thing, omens or no omens. "

"A man will trip over a piece of wire laid across the street, but thatdon't prove he can't walk, do it, Walter?"

Walter was unable to say that it did not, and so Ketley scored anotherpoint over his opponent. "I made a mistake, I know I did, and if it willhelp you to understand I'll tell you how it was made. Three weeks ago Iwas in this 'ere bar 'aving what I usually takes. It was a bit early; noneof you fellows had come in. I don't think it was much after eight. Thegovernor was away in the north racin'--hadn't been 'ome for three or fourdays; the missus was beginning to look a bit lonely. " Ketley smiled andglanced at Esther, who had told Charles to serve some customers, and waslistening as intently as the rest. "I'd 'ad a nice bit of supper, and wasjust feeling that fresh and clear 'eaded as I was explaining to you justnow is required for the reading, thinking of nothing in perticler, whensuddenly the light came. I remembered a conversation I 'ad with a chapabout American corn. He wouldn't 'ear of the Government taxing corn to'elp the British farmer. Well, that conversation came back to me as clearas if the dawn had begun to break. I could positively see the bloody corn;I could pretty well 'ave counted it. I felt there was an omen aboutsomewhere, and all of a tremble I took up the paper; it was lying on thebar just where your hand is, Walter. But at that moment, just as I wasabout to cast my eye down the list of 'orses, a cab comes down the streetas 'ard as it could tear. There was but two or three of us in the bar, andwe rushed out--the shafts was broke, 'orse galloping and kicking, and thecabby 'olding on as 'ard as he could. But it was no good, it was bound togo, and over it went against the kerb. The cabby, poor chap, was prettywell shook to pieces; his leg was broke, and we'd to 'elp to take him tothe hosspital. Now I asks if it was no more than might be expected that Ishould have gone wrong about the omen. Next day, as luck would have it, Irolled up 'alf a pound of butter in a piece of paper on which 'CrossRoads' was written. "

"But if there had been no accident and you 'ad looked down the list of'orses, 'ow do yer know that yer would 'ave spotted the winner?"

"What, not Wheatear, and with all that American corn in my 'ead? Is itlikely I'd've missed it?"

No one answered, and Ketley drank his whisky in the midst of a mostthoughtful silence. At last one of the group said, and he seemed toexpress the general mind of the company--

"I don't know if omens be worth a-following of, but I'm blowed if 'orsesbe worth backing if the omens is again them. "

His neighbour answered, "And they do come wonderful true occasional. They'as 'appened to me, and I daresay to all 'ere present. " The companynodded. "You've noticed how them that knows nothing at all about'orses--the less they knows the better their luck--will look down the lotand spot the winner from pure fancy--the name that catches their eyes aslikely. "

"There's something in it, " said a corpulent butcher with huge, pursy, prominent eyes and a portentous stomach. "I always held with going tochurch, and I hold still more with going to church since I backed Vanityfor the Chester Cup. I was a-falling asleep over the sermon, when suddenlyI wakes up hearing, 'Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity. '"

Several similar stories were told, and then various systems for backinghorses were discussed. "You don't believe that no 'orses is pulled?" saidMr. Stack, the porter at Sutherland Mansions, Oxford Street, a large, bluff man, wearing a dark blue square-cut frock coat with brass buttons. Acurious-looking man, with red-stained skin, dark beady eyes, a scantygrowth of beard, and a loud, assuming voice. "You don't believe that no'orses is pulled?" he reiterated. 

"I didn't say that no 'orse was never pulled, " said Journeyman. He stoodwith his back leaning against the partition, his long legs stretched out. "If one was really in the know, then I don't say nothing about it; but whoof us is ever really in the know?"

"I'm not so sure about that, " said Mr. Stack. "There's a young man in mymansions that 'as a servant; this servant's cousin, a girl in the country, keeps company with one of the lads in the White House stable. If thatain't good enough, I don't know what is; good enough for my half-crown andanother pint of beer too, Mrs. Latch, as you'll be that kind. "

Esther drew the beer, and Old John, who had said nothing till now, suddenly joined in the conversation. He too had heard of something; hedidn't know if it was the same as Stack had heard of; he didn't expect itwas. It couldn't very well be, 'cause no one knew of this particularhorse, not a soul!--not 'alf-a-dozen people in the world. No, he wouldtell no one until his money and the stable money was all right. And hedidn't care for no half-crowns or dollars this time, if he couldn't get asovereign or two on the horse he'd let it alone. This time he'd be a manor a mouse. Every one was listening intently, but old John suddenlyassumed an air of mystery and refused to say another word. Theconversation worked back whither it had started, and again the best methodof backing horses was passionately discussed. Interrupting someone whosetheories seemed intolerably ludicrous, Journeyman said--

"Let's 'ear what's the governor's opinion; he ought to know what kind ofbacker gets the most out of him. "

Journeyman's proposal to submit the question to the governor met with verygeneral approval. Even the vagrant who had taken his tankard of porter tothe bench where he could drink and eat what fragments of food he hadcollected, came forward, interested to know what kind of backer got mostout of the bookmaker. 

"Well, " said William, "I haven't been making a book as long as some ofthem, but since you ask me what I think I tell you straight. I don't carea damn whether they backs according to their judgment, or their dreams, ortheir fancy. The cove that follows favourites, or the cove that backs ajockey's mount, the cove that makes an occasional bet when he hears of agood thing, the cove that bets regular, 'cording to a system--the cove, yer know, what doubles every time--or the cove that bets as the mood takeshim--them and all the other coves, too numerous to be mentioned, I'm gladto do business with. I cries out to one as 'eartily as to another: 'Theold firm, the old firm, don't forget the old firm.... What can I do foryou to-day, sir?' There's but one sort of cove I can't abide. "

"And he is--" said Journeyman. 

"He is Mr. George Buff. "

"Who's he? who's he?" asked several; and the vagrant caused some amusementby the question, "Do 'e bet on the course?"

"Yes, he do, " said William, "an' nowhere else. He's at every meeting asreg'lar as if he was a bookie himself. I 'ates to see his face.... I'd bea rich man if I'd all the money that man 'as 'ad out of me in the lastthree years. "

"What should you say was his system?" asked Mr. Stack. 

"I don't know no more than yerselves. "

This admission seemed a little chilling; for everyone had thought himselfmany steps nearer El Dorado. 

"But did you ever notice, " said Mr. Ketley, "that there was certain dayson which he bet?"

"No, I never noticed that. "

"Are they outsiders that he backs?" asked Stack. 

"No, only favourites. But what I can't make out is that there are timeswhen he won't touch them; and when he don't, nine times out of ten they'rebeaten. "

"Are the 'orses he backs what you'd call well in?" said Journeyman. 

"Not always. "

"Then it must be on information from the stable authorities?" said Stack. 

"I dun know, " said William; "have it that way if you like, but I'm gladthere ain't many about like him. I wish he'd take his custom elsewhere. Hegives me the solid hump, he do. "

"What sort of man should you say he was? 'as he been a servant, should yousay?" asked old John. 

"I can't tell you what he is. Always new suit of clothes and a hie-glass. Whenever I see that 'ere hie-glass and that brown beard my heart goes downin my boots. When he don't bet he takes no notice, walks past with a vaguelook on his face, as if he didn't see the people, and he don't care thatfor the 'orses. Knowing he don't mean no business, I cries to him, 'Thebest price, Mr. Buff; two to one on the field, ten to one bar two orthree. ' He just catches his hie-glass tighter in eye and looks at me, smiles, shakes his head, and goes on. He is a warm 'un; he is just aboutas 'ot as they make 'em. "

"What I can't make out, " said Journeyman, "is why he bets on the course. You say he don't know nothing about horses. Why don't he remain at 'omeand save the exes?"

"I've thought of all that, " said William, "and can't make no more out ofit than you can yerselves. All we know is that, divided up between five orsix of us, Buff costs not far short of six 'undred a year. "

At that moment a small blond man came into the bar. Esther knew him atonce. It was Ginger. He had hardly changed at all--a little sallower, alittle dryer, a trifle less like a gentleman. 

"Won't you step round, sir, to the private bar?" said William. "You'll bemore comfortable. "

"Hardly worth while. I was at the theatre, and I thought I'd come in andhave a look round.... I see that you haven't forgotten the old horses, " hesaid, catching sight of the prints of Silver Braid and Summer's Dean whichWilliam had hung on the wall. "That was a great day, wasn't it? Fifty toone chance, started at thirty; and you remember the Gaffer tried him towin with twenty pound more than he had to carry.... Hullo, John! very gladto see you again; growing strong and well, I hope?"

The old servant looked so shabby that Esther was not surprised that Gingerdid not shake hands with him. She wondered if he would remember her, andas the thought passed through her mind he extended his hand across thebar. 

"I 'ope I may have the honour of drinking a glass of wine with you, sir, "said William. Ginger raised no objection, and William told Esther to godown-stairs and fetch up a bottle of champagne. 

Ketley, Journeyman, Stack, and the others listened eagerly. To meet thecelebrated gentleman-rider was a great event in their lives. But theconversation was confined to the Barfield horses; it was carried on by themerest allusion, and Journeyman wearied of it. He said he must be gettinghome; the others nodded, finished their glasses, and bade Williamgood-night as they left. A couple of flower-girls with loose hair, shawls, and trays of flowers, suggestive of streetfaring, came in and ordered fourale. They spoke to the vagrant, who collected his match-boxes inpreparation for a last search for charity. William cut the wires of thechampagne, and at that moment Charles, who had gone through with theladder to turn out the street lamp, returned with a light overcoat on hisarm which he said a cove outside wanted to sell him for two-and-six. 

"Do you know him?" said William. 

"Yes, I knowed him. I had to put him out the other night--Bill Evans, thecove that wears the blue Melton. "

The swing doors were opened, and a man between thirty and forty came in. He was about the medium height; a dark olive skin, black curly hair, picturesque and disreputable, like a bird of prey in his blue Meltonjacket and billycock hat. 

"You'd better 'ave the coat, " he said; "you won't better it;" and cominginto the bar he planked down a penny as if it were a sovereign. "Glass ofporter; nice warm weather, good for the 'arvest. Just come up from thecountry--a bit dusty, ain't I?"

"Ain't you the chap, " said William, "what laid Mr. Ketley six 'alf-crownsto one against Cross Roads?"

Charles nodded, and William continued--

"I like your cheek coming into my bar. "

"No harm done, gov'nor; no one was about; wouldn't 'ave done it if theyhad. "

"That'll do, " said William. "... No, he don't want the coat. We likes toknow where our things comes from. "

Bill Evans finished his glass. "Good-night, guv'nor; no ill-feeling. "

The flower-girls laughed; one offered him a flower. "Take it for love, "she said. He was kind enough to do so, and the three went out together. 

"I don't like the looks of that chap, " said William, and he let go thechampagne cork. "Yer health, sir. " They raised their glasses, and theconversation turned on next week's racing. 

"I dun know about next week's events, " said old John, "but I've heard ofsomething for the Leger--an outsider will win. "

"Have you backed it?"

"I would if I had the money, but things have been going very unlucky withme lately. But I'd advise you, sir, to have a trifle on. It's the best tipI 'ave had in my life. "

"Really!" said Ginger, beginning to feel interested, "so I will, and soshall you. I'm damned if you shan't have your bit on. Come, what is it?William will lay the odds. What is it?"

"Briar Rose, the White House stable, sir. "

"Why, I thought that--"

"No such thing, sir; Briar Rose's the one. "

Ginger took up the paper. "Twenty-five to one Briar Rose taken. "

"You see, sir, it was taken. "

"Will you lay the price, William--twenty-five half-sovereigns to one?"

"Yes, I'll lay it. "

Ginger took a half-sovereign from his pocket and handed it to thebookmaker. 

"I never take money over this bar. You're good for a thin 'un, sir, "William said, with a smile, as he handed back the money. 

"But I don't know when I shall see you again, " said Ginger. "It will bevery inconvenient. There's no one in the bar. "

"None but the match-seller and them two flower-girls. I suppose they don'tmatter?"

Happiness flickered up through the old greyness of the face. Henceforthsomething to live for. Each morning bringing news of the horse, and thehours of the afternoon passing pleasantly, full of thoughts of the eveningpaper and the gossip of the bar. A bet on a race brings hope into liveswhich otherwise would be hopeless. 

XXXI

Never had a Derby excited greater interest. Four hot favourites, betweenwhich the public seemed unable to choose. Two to one taken and offeredagainst Fly-leaf, winner of the Two Thousand; four to one taken andoffered against Signet-ring, who, half-trained, had run Fly-leaf to ahead. Four to one against Necklace, the winner of the Middle Park Plateand the One Thousand. Seven to one against Dewberry, the brilliant winnerof the Newmarket stakes. The chances of these horses were argued everynight at the "King's Head. " Ketley's wife used to wear a string of yellowbeads when she was a girl, but she wasn't certain what had become of them. Ketley did not wear a signet-ring, and had never known anyone who did. Dewberries grew on the river banks, but they were not ripe yet. Fly-leaf, he could not make much of that--not being much of a reader. So what withone thing and another Ketley didn't believe much in this 'ere Derby. Journeyman caustically remarked that, omens or no omens, one horse wasbound to win. Why didn't Herbert look for an omen among the outsiders? OldJohn's experiences led him to think that the race lay between Fly-leaf andSignet-ring. He had a great faith in blood, and Signet-ring came of a morestaying stock than did Fly-leaf. "When they begin to climb out of the dipFly-leaf will have had about enough of it. " Stack nodded approval. He hadfive bob on Dewberry. He didn't know much about his staying powers, butall the stable is on him; "and when I know the stable-money is right Isays, 'That's good enough for me!'"

Ginger, who came in occasionally, was very sweet on Necklace, whom hedeclared to be the finest mare of the century. He was listened to withawed attention, and there was a death-like silence in the bar when hedescribed how she had won the One Thousand. He wouldn't have ridden herquite that way himself; but then what was a steeplechase rider's opinionworth regarding a flat race? The company demurred, and old John alluded toGinger's magnificent riding when he won the Liverpool on Foxcover, steadying the horse about sixty yards from home, and bringing him up witha rush in the last dozen strides, nailing Jim Sutton, who had perseveredall the way, on the very post by a head. Bill Evans, who happened to lookin that evening, said that he would not be surprised to see all the fourfavourites bowled out by an outsider. He had heard something that was goodenough for him. He didn't suppose the guv'nor would take him on the nod, but he had a nice watch which ought to be good for three ten. 

"Turn it up, old mate, " said William. 

"All right, guv'nor, I never presses my goods on them that don't want 'em. If there's any other gentleman who would like to look at this 'eretimepiece, or a pair of sleeve links, they're in for fifteen shillings. Here's the ticket. I'm a bit short of money, and have a fancy for acertain outsider. I'd like to have my bit on, and I'll dispose of theticket for--what do you say to a thin 'un, Mr. Ketley?"

"Did you 'ear me speak just now?" William answered angrily, "or shall Ihave to get over the counter?"

"I suppose, Mrs. Latch, you have seen a great deal of racing?" saidGinger. 

"No, sir. I've heard a great deal about racing, but I never saw a racerun. "

"How's that, shouldn't you care?"

"You see, my husband has his betting to attend to, and there's the houseto look after. "

"I never thought of it before, " said William. "You've never seen a racerun, no more you haven't. Would you care to come and see the Derby runnext week, Esther?"

"I think I should. "

At that moment the policeman stopped and looked in. All eyes went up tothe clock, and Esther said, "We shall lose our licence if----"

"If we don't get out, " said Ginger. 

William apologised. 

"The law is the law, sir, for rich and poor alike; should be sorry tohurry you, sir, but in these days very little will lose a man his house. Now, Herbert, finish your drink. No, Walter, can't serve any more liquorto-night.... Charles, close the private bar, let no one else in.... Now, gentlemen, gentlemen. "

Old John lit his pipe and led the way. William held the door for them. Afew minutes after the house was closed. 

A locking of drawers, fastening of doors, putting away glasses, makingthings generally tidy, an hour's work before bed-time, and then theylighted their candle in the little parlour and went upstairs. 

William flung off his coat. "I'm dead beat, " he said, "and all this tolose----" He didn't finish the sentence. Esther said--

"You've a heavy book on the Derby. Perhaps an outsider'll win. "

"I 'ope so.... But if you'd care to see the race, I think it can bemanaged. I shall be busy, but Journeyman or Ketley will look after you. "

"I don't know that I should care to walk about all day with Journeyman, nor Ketley neither. "

They were both tired, and with an occasional remark they undressed and gotinto bed. Esther laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes.... 

"I wonder if there's any one going who you'd care for?"

"I don't care a bit about it, Bill. " The conversation paused. At the endof a long silence William said--

"It do seem strange that you who has been mixed up in it so much shouldnever have seen a race. " Esther didn't answer. She was falling asleep, andWilliam's voice was beginning to sound vague in her ears. Suddenly shefelt him give her a great shove. "Wake up, old girl, I've got it. Why notask your old pal, Sarah Tucker, to go with us? I heard John say she's outof situation. It'll be a nice treat for her. "

"Ah.... I should like to see Sarah again. "

"You're half asleep. "

"No, I'm not; you said we might ask Sarah to come to the Derby with us. "

William regretted that he had not a nice trap to drive them down. To hireone would run into a deal of money, and he was afraid it might make himlate on the course. Besides, the road wasn't what it used to be; every onegoes by train now. They dropped off to sleep talking of how they shouldget Sarah's address. 

Three or four days passed, and one morning William jumped out of bed andsaid--

"I think it will be a fine day, Esther. " He took out his best suit ofclothes, and selected a handsome silk scarf for the occasion. Esther was aheavy sleeper, and she lay close to the wall, curled up. Taking no noticeof her, William went on dressing; then he said--

"Now then, Esther, get up. Teddy will be here presently to pack up myclothes. "

"Is it time to get up?"

"Yes, I should think it was. For God's sake, get up. "

She had a new dress for the Derby. It had been bought in Tottenham CourtRoad, and had only come home last night. A real summer dress! A lilacpattern on a white ground, the sleeves and throat and the white hattastefully trimmed with lilac and white lace; a nice sunshade to match. Atthat moment a knock came at the door. 

"All right, Teddy, wait a moment, my wife's not dressed yet. Do makehaste, Esther. "

Esther stepped into the skirt so as not to ruffle her hair, and she wasbuttoning the bodice when little Mr. Blamy entered. 

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but there isn't no time to lose if thegovernor don't want to lose his place on the 'ill. "

"Now then, Teddy, make haste, get the toggery out; don't stand theretalking. "

The little man spread the Gladstone bag upon the floor and took a suit ofchecks from the chest of drawers, each square of black and white nearly aslarge as a sixpence. 

"You'll wear the green tie, sir?" William nodded. The green tie was a yardof flowing sea-green silk. "I've got you a bunch of yellow flowers, sir;will you wear them now, or shall I put them in the bag?"

William glanced at the bouquet. "They look a bit loud, " he said; "I'llwait till we get on the course; put them in the bag. "

The card to be worn in the white hat--"William Latch, London, " in goldletters on a green ground--was laid on top. The boots with soles threeinches high went into the box on which William stood while he halloaed hisprices to the crowd. Then there were the two poles which supported a stripof white linen, on which was written in gold letters, "William Latch, 'TheKing's Head, ' London. Fair prices, prompt payment. "

It was a grey day, with shafts of sunlight coming through, and as the cabpassed over Waterloo Bridge, London, various embankments and St. Paul's onone side, wharves and warehouses on the other, appeared in grey curves andstraight silhouettes. The pavements were lined with young men--here andthere a girl's dress was a spot of colour in the grey morning. At thestation they met Journeyman and old John, but Sarah was nowhere to befound. William said--

"We shall be late; we shall have to go without her. "

Esther's face clouded. "We can't go without her; don't be so impatient. "At that moment a white muslin was seen in the distance, and Esther said, "I think that that's Sarah. "

"You can chatter in the train--you'll have a whole hour to talk about eachother's dress; get in, get in, " and William pressed them into athird-class carriage. They had not seen each other for so long a while, and there was so much to say that they did not know where to begin. Sarahwas the first to speak. 

"I was kind of you to think of me. So you've married, and to him afterall!" she added, lowering her voice. 

Esther laughed. "It do seem strange, don't it?"

"You'll tell me all about it, " she said. "I wonder we didn't run acrossone another before. "

They rolled out of the grey station into the light, and the plate-glassdrew the rays together till they burnt the face and hands. They spedalongside of the upper windows nearly on a level with the red and yellowchimney-pots; they passed open spaces filled with cranes, old iron, andstacks of railway sleepers, pictorial advertisements, sky signs, greatgasometers rising round and black in their iron cages over-topping ornearly the slender spires. A train steamed along a hundred-arched viaduct;and along a black embankment the other trains rushed by in a whirl ofwheels, bringing thousands of clerks up from the suburbs to their citytoil. 

The excursion jogged on, stopping for long intervals before strips ofsordid garden where shirts and pink petticoats were blowing. Littlestreets ascended the hillsides; no more trams, 'buses, too, haddisappeared, and afoot the folk hurried along the lonely pavements oftheir suburbs. At Clapham Junction betting men had crowded the platform;they all wore grey overcoats with race-glasses slung over their shoulders. And the train still rolled through the brick wilderness which old Johnsaid was all country forty years ago. 

The men puffed at their pipes, and old John's anecdotes about the dayswhen he and the Gaffer, in company with all the great racing men of theday, used to drive down by road, were listened to with admiration. Estherhad finished telling the circumstances in which she had met Margaret; andSarah questioned her about William and how her marriage had come about. The train had stopped outside of a little station, and the blue sky, withits light wispy clouds, became a topic of conversation. Old John did notlike the look of those clouds, and the women glanced at the waterproofswhich they carried on their arms. 

They passed bits of common with cows and a stray horse, also a littlerural cemetery; but London suddenly began again parish after parish, thesame blue roofs, the same tenement houses. The train had passed the firstcedar and the first tennis lawn. And knowing it to be a Derby excursionthe players paused in their play and looked up. Again the line wasblocked; the train stopped again and again. But it had left London behind, and the last stoppage was in front of a beautiful June landscape. A thickmeadow with a square weather-beaten church showing between the spreadingtrees; miles of green corn, with birds flying in the bright air, and lazyclouds going out, making way for the endless blue of a long summer's day. 

XXXII

It had been arranged that William should don his betting toggery at the"Spread Eagle Inn. " It stood at the cross-roads, only a little way fromthe station--a square house with a pillared porch. Even at this early hourthe London pilgrimage was filing by. Horses were drinking in the trough;their drivers were drinking in the bar; girls in light dresses sharedglasses of beer with young men. But the greater number of vehicles passedwithout stopping, anxious to get on the course. They went round the turnin long procession, a policeman on a strong horse occupied the middle ofthe road. The waggonettes and coaches had red-coated guards, and the airwas rent with the tooting of the long brass horns. Every kind of dingytrap went by, sometimes drawn by two, sometimes by only one horse--shayshalf a century old jingled along; there were even donkey-carts. Esther andSarah were astonished at the number of costers, but old John told themthat that was nothing to what it was fifty years ago. The year thatAndover won the block began seven or eight miles from Epsom. They wereoften half-an-hour without moving. Such chaffing and laughing, the costercracked his joke with the duke, but all that was done away with now. 

"Gracious!" said Esther, when William appeared in his betting toggery. "Ishouldn't have known you. "

He did seem very wonderful in his checks, green necktie, yellow flowers, and white hat with its gold inscription, "Mr. William Latch, London. "

"It's all right, " he said; "you never saw me before in these togs--fine, ain't they? But we're very late. Mr. North has offered to run me up to thecourse, but he's only two places. Teddy and me must be getting along--butyou needn't hurry. The races won't begin for hours yet. It's only about amile--a nice walk. These gentlemen will look after you. You know where tofind me, " he said, turning to John and Walter. "You'll look after my wifeand Miss Tucker, won't you?" and forthwith he and Teddy jumped into awaggonette and drove away. 

"Well, that's what I calls cheek, " said Sarah. "Going off by himself in awaggonette and leaving us to foot it. "

"He must look after his place on the 'ill or else he'll do no betting, "said Journeyman. "We've plenty of time; racing don't begin till afterone. "

Recollections of what the road had once been had loosened John's tongue, and he continued his reminiscences of the great days when Sir ThomasHayward had laid fifteen thousand to ten thousand three times over againstthe favourite. The third bet had been laid at this very spot, but the Dukewould not accept the third bet, saying that the horse was then beingbacked on the course at evens. So Sir Thomas had only lost thirty thousandpounds on the race. Journeyman was deeply interested in the anecdote; butSarah looked at the old man with a look that said, "Well, if I'm to passthe day with you two I never want to go to the Derby again.... Come on infront, " she whispered to Esther, "and let them talk about their racing bythemselves. " The way led through a field ablaze with buttercups; it passedby a fish-pond into which three drunkards were gazing. "Do you hear whatthey're saying about the fish?" said Sarah. 

"Don't pay no attention to them, " said Esther. "If you knew as much aboutdrunkards as I do, you'd want no telling to give them a wide berth.... Isn't the country lovely? Isn't the air soft and warm?"

"Oh, I don't want no more country. I'm that glad to get back to town. Iwouldn't take another situation out of London if I was offered twenty ayear. "

"But look, " said Esther, "at the trees. I've hardly been in the countrysince I left Woodview, unless you call Dulwich the country--that's whereJackie was at nurse. "

The Cockney pilgrimage passed into a pleasant lane overhung with chestnutand laburnum trees. The spring had been late, and the white blossoms stoodup like candles--the yellow dropped like tassels, and the streamingsunlight filled the leaves with tints of pale gold, and their lightshadows patterned the red earth of the pathway. But very soon thispleasant pathway debouched on a thirsting roadway where tired horsesharnessed to heavy vehicles toiled up a long hill leading to the Downs. The trees intercepted the view, and the blown dust whitened the foliageand the wayside grass, now in possession of hawker and vagrant. The crowdmade way for the traps; and the young men in blue and grey trousers, andtheir girls in white dresses, turned and watched the four horses bringingalong the tall drag crowned with London fashion. There the unwieldlyomnibus and the brake filled with fat girls in pink dresses and yellowhats, and there the spring cart drawn up under a hedge. The cottage gateswere crowded with folk come to see London going to the Derby. Outhouseshad been converted into refreshment bars, and from these came a smell ofbeer and oranges; further on there was a lamentable harmonium--a blind mansinging hymns to its accompaniment, and a one-legged man holding his hatfor alms; and not far away there stood an earnest-eyed woman offeringtracts, warning folk of their danger, beseeching them to retrace theirsteps. 

At last the trees ceased and they found themselves on the hilltop in aglare of sunlight, on a space of worn ground where donkeys were tethered. 

"Is this the Derby?" said Sarah. 

"I hope you're not disappointed?"

"No, dear; but where's all the people--the drags, the carriages?"

"We'll see them presently, " said old John, and he volunteered someexplanations. The white building was the Grand Stand. The winning-post wasa little further this way. 

"Where do they start?" said Sarah. 

"Over yonder, where you see that clump. They run through the furze rightup to Tattenham Corner. "

A vast crowd swarmed over the opposite hill, and beyond the crowd thewomen saw a piece of open downland dotted with bushes, and rising ingentle incline to a belt of trees which closed the horizon. "Where themtrees are, that's _Tattenham Corner_. " The words seemed to fill old Johnwith enthusiasm, and he described how the horses came round this side ofthe trees. "They comes right down that 'ere 'ill--there's the dip--andthey finishes opposite to where we is standing. Yonder, by Barnard'sRing. "

"What, all among the people?" said Sarah. 

"The police will get the people right back up the hill. "

"That's where we shall find William, " said Esther. 

"I'm getting a bit peckish; ain't you, dear? He's got theluncheon-basket.... But, lor', what a lot of people! Look at that. "

What had attracted Sarah's attention was a boy walking through the crowdon a pair of stilts fully eight feet high. He uttered short warning criesfrom time to time, held out his wide trousers and caught pennies in hisconical cap. Drags and carriages continued to arrive. The sweating horseswere unyoked, and grooms and helpers rolled the vehicles into positionalong the rails. Lackeys drew forth cases of wine and provisions, and theflutter of table-cloths had begun to attract vagrants, itinerantmusicians, fortune-tellers, begging children. All these plied their tradesround the fashion of grey frock-coats and silk sun-shades. Along the railsrough fellows lay asleep; the place looked like a vast dormitory; they laywith their hats over their faces, clay pipes sticking from under thebrims, their brown-red hands upon the grey grass. 

Suddenly old John pleaded an appointment; he was to meet a friend whowould give him the very latest news respecting a certain horse; andEsther, Sarah, and Journeyman wandered along the course in search ofWilliam. Along the rails strangely-dressed men stood on stools, satchelsand race-glasses slung over their shoulders, great bouquets in theirbutton-holes. Each stood between two poles on which was stretched a pieceof white-coloured linen, on which was inscribed their name in large goldletters. Sarah read some of these names out: "Jack Hooper, Marylebone. Allbets paid. " "Tom Wood's famous boxing rooms, Epsom. " "James Webster, Commission Agent, London. " And these betting men bawled the prices fromthe top of their high stools and shook their satchels, which were filledwith money, to attract custom. "What can I do for you to-day, sir?" theyshouted when they caught the eye of any respectably-dressed man. "On theDer-by, on the Der-by, I'll bet the Der-by.... To win or a place, to winor a place, to win or a place--seven to one bar two or three, seven to onebar two or three.... The old firm, the old firm, "--like so manychallenging cocks, each trying to outshrill the other. 

Under the hill-side in a quiet hollow had been pitched a large andcommodious tent. Journeyman mentioned that it was the West LondonGospel-tent. He thought the parson would have it pretty well all tohimself, and they stopped before a van filled with barrels of Watfordales. A barrel had been taken from the van and placed on a small table;glasses of beer were being served to a thirsty crowd; and all around werelittle canvas shelters, whence men shouted, "'Commodation, 'commodation. "

The sun had risen high, and what clouds remained floated away likefilaments of white cotton. The Grand Stand, dotted like a ceiling withflies, stood out distinct and harsh upon a burning plain of blue. Thelight beat fiercely upon the booths, the carriages, the vehicles, the"rings, " the various stands. The country around was lost in the haze anddazzle of the sunlight; but a square mile of downland fluttered with flagsand canvas, and the great mob swelled, and smoked, and drank, shied sticksat Aunt Sally, and rode wooden horses. And through this crush ofperspiring, shrieking humanity Journeyman, Esther, and Sarah sought vainlyfor William. The form of the ground was lost in the multitude and theycould only tell by the strain in their limbs whether they were walking upor down hill. Sarah declared herself to be done up, and it was withdifficulty that she was persuaded to persevere a little longer. At lastJourneyman caught sight of the bookmaker's square shoulders. 

"Well, so here you are. What can I do for you, ladies? Ten to one barthree or four. Will that suit you?"

"The luncheon-basket will suit us a deal better, " said Sarah. 

At that moment a chap came up jingling two half-crowns in his hand. "Whatprice the favourite?" "Two to one, " cried William. The two half-crownswere dropped into the satchel, and, thus encouraged, William called outlouder than ever, "The old firm, the old firm; don't forget the old firm. "There was a smile on his lips while he halloaed--a cheery, good-naturedsmile, which made him popular and brought him many a customer. 

"On the Der-by, on the Der-by, on the Der-by!" All kinds and conditions ofmen came to make bets with him; custom was brisk; he could not join thewomen, who were busy with the lunch-basket, but he and Teddy would bethankful for the biggest drink they could get them. "Ginger beer with adrop of whiskey in it, that's about it, Teddy?"

"Yes, guv'nor, that'll do for me.... We're getting pretty full onDewberry; might come down a point, I think. "

"All right, Teddy.... And if you'd cut us a couple each of strongsandwiches--you can manage a couple, Teddy?"

"I think I can, guv'nor. "

There was a nice piece of beef in the basket, and Esther cut several largesandwiches, buttering the bread thickly and adding plenty of mustard. Whenshe brought them over William bent down and whispered--

"My own duck of a wife, there's no one like her. "

Esther blushed and laughed with pleasure, and every trace of theresentment for the suffering he had occasioned her dropped out of herheart. For the first time he was really her husband; for the first timeshe felt that sense of unity in life which is marriage, and knewhenceforth he was the one thing that she had to live for. 

After luncheon Journeyman, who was making no way with Sarah, took hisleave, pleading that he had some friends to meet in Barnard's Ring. Theywere glad to be rid of him. Sarah had many a tale to tell; and whilelistening to the matrimonial engagements that had been broken off, Esthershifted her parasol from time to time to watch her tall, gaunt husband. Heshouted the odds, willing to bet against every horse, distributed ticketsto the various folk that crowded round him, each with his preference, hisprejudice, his belief in omens, in tips, or in the talent and luck of afavourite jockey. Sarah continued her cursive chatter regarding the placesshe had served in. She felt inclined for a snooze, but was afraid it wouldnot look well. While hesitating she ceased speaking, and both women fellasleep under the shade of their parasols. It was the shallow, glassy sleepof the open air, through which they divined easily the great blur that wasthe race-course. 

They could hear William's voice, and they heard a bell ring and shouts of"Here they come!" Then a lull came, and their perceptions grew a littledenser, and when they awoke the sky was the same burning blue, and themultitude moved to and fro like puppets. 

Sarah was in no better temper after than before her sleep. "It's all verywell for you, " she said. "You have your husband to look after.... I'llnever come to the Derby again without a young man... I'm tired of sittinghere, the grass is roasting. Come for a walk. "

They were two nice-looking English women of the lower classes, prettilydressed in light gowns with cheap sunshades in their cotton-gloved hands. Sarah looked at every young man with regretful eyes. In such moodsacquaintanceships are made; and she did not allow Esther to shake off BillEvans, who, just as if he had never been turned out of the bar of the"King's Head, " came up with his familiar, "Good morning, ma'am--lovelyweather for the races. " Sarah's sidelong glances at the blue Melton jacketand the billycock hat defined her feelings with sufficient explicitness, and it was not probable that any warning would have been heeded. Soon theywere engaged in animated conversation, and Esther was left to follow themif she liked. 

She walked by Sarah's side, quite ignored, until she was accosted by FredParsons. They were passing by the mission tent, and Fred was calling uponthe folk to leave the ways of Satan for those of Christ. Bill Evans wasabout to answer some brutal insult; but seeing that "the Christian" knewEsther he checked himself in time. Esther stopped to speak to Fred, andBill seized the opportunity to slip away with Sarah. 

"I didn't expect to meet you here, Esther. "

"I'm here with my husband. He said a little pleasure----"

"This is not innocent pleasure, Esther; this is drunkenness anddebauchery. I hope you'll never come again, unless you come with us, " hesaid, pointing to some girls dressed as bookmakers, with Salvation andPerdition written on the satchels hung round their shoulders. They soughtto persuade the passers-by to come into the tent. "We shall be very gladto see you, " they said, and they distributed mock racing cards on whichwas inscribed news regarding certain imaginary racing. "The ParadisePlate, for all comers, " "The Salvation Stakes, an Eternity of Happinessadded. "

Fred repeated his request. "I hope the next time you come here it will bewith us; you'll strive to collect some of Christ's lost sheep. "

"And my husband making a book yonder?"

An awkward silence intervened, and then he said--

"Won't you come in; service is going on?"

Esther followed him. In the tent there were some benches, and on aplatform a grey-bearded man with an anxious face spoke of sinners andredemption. Suddenly a harmonium began to play a hymn, and, standing sideby side, Esther and Fred sang together. Prayer was so inherent in her thatshe felt no sense of incongruity, and had she been questioned she wouldhave answered that it did not matter where we are, or what we are doing, we can always have God in our hearts. 

Fred followed her out. 

"You have not forgotten your religion, I hope?"

"No, I never could forget that. "

"Then why do I find you in such company? You don't come here like us tofind sinners. "

"I haven't forgotten God, but I must do my duty to my husband. It would belike setting myself up against my husband's business, and you don't thinkI ought to do that? A wife that brings discord into the family is not agood wife, so I've often heard. "

"You always thought more of your husband than of Christ, Esther. "

"Each one must follow Christ as best he can! It would be wrong of me toset myself against my husband. "

"So he married you?" Fred answered bitterly. 

"Yes. You thought he'd desert me a second time; but he's been the best ofhusbands. "

"I place little reliance on those who are not with Christ. His love foryou is not of the Spirit. Let us not speak of him. I loved you verydeeply, Esther. I would have brought you to Christ.... But perhaps you'llcome to see us sometimes. "

"I do not forget Christ. He's always with me, and I believe you did carefor me. I was sorry to break it off, you know I was. It was not my fault. "

"Esther, it was I who loved you. "

"You mustn't talk like that. I'm a married woman. "

"I mean no harm, Esther. I was only thinking of the past. "

"You must forget all that... Good-bye; I'm glad to have seen you, and thatwe said a prayer together. "

Fred didn't answer, and Esther moved away, wondering where she should findSarah. 

XXXIII

The crowd shouted. She looked where the others looked, but saw only theburning blue with the white stand marked upon it. It was crowded like thedeck of a sinking vessel, and Esther wondered at the excitement, the causeof which was hidden from her. She wandered to the edge of the crowd untilshe came to a chalk road where horses and mules were tethered. A littlehigher up she entered the crowd again, and came suddenly upon a switchbackrailway. Full of laughing and screaming girls, it bumped over a middlehill, and then rose slowly till it reached the last summit. It was shotback again into the midst of its fictitious perils, and this mock voyagingwas accomplished to the sound of music from a puppet orchestra. Bells anddrums, a fife and a triangle, cymbals clashed mechanically, and a littlesoldier beat the time. Further on, under a striped awning, were the woodenhorses. They were arranged so well that they rocked to and fro, imitatingas nearly as possible the action of real horses. Esther watched theriders. A blue skirt looked like a riding habit, and a girl in salmon pinkleaned back in her saddle just as if she had been taught how to ride. Agirl in a grey jacket encouraged a girl in white who rode a grey horse. But before Esther could make out for certain that the man in the blueMelton jacket was Bill Evans he had passed out of sight, and she had towait until his horse came round the second time. At that moment she caughtsight of the red poppies in Sarah's hat. 

The horses began to slacken speed. They went slower and slower, thenstopped altogether. The riders began to dismount and Esther pressedthrough the bystanders, fearing she would not be able to overtake herfriends. 

"Oh, here you are, " said Sarah. "I thought I never should find you again. How hot it is!"

"Were you on in that ride? Let's have another, all three of us. Thesethree horses. "

Round and round they went, their steeds bobbing nobly up and down to thesound of fifes, drums and cymbals. They passed the winning-post manytimes; they had to pass it five times, and the horse that stopped nearestit won the prize. A long-drawn-out murmur, continuous as the sea, swelledup from the course--a murmur which at last passed into words: "Here theycome; blue wins, the favourite's beat. " Esther paid little attention tothese cries; she did not understand them; they reached her indistinctlyand soon died away, absorbed in the strident music that accompanied thecircling horses. These had now begun to slacken speed.... They went slowerand slower. Sarah and Bill, who rode side by side, seemed like winning, but at the last moment they glided by the winning-post. Esther's steedstopped in time, and she was told to choose a china mug from a great heap. 

"You've all the luck to-day, " said Bill. "Hayfield, who was backed all thewinter, broke down a month ago.... 2 to 1 against Fly-leaf, 4 to 1 againstSignet-ring, 4 to 1 against Dewberry, 10 to 1 against Vanguard, the winnerat 50 to 1 offered. Your husband must have won a little fortune. Never wasthere such a day for the bookies. "

Esther said she was very glad, and was undecided which mug she shouldchoose. At last she saw one on which "Jack" was written in gold letters. They then visited the peep-shows, and especially liked St. James's Parkwith the Horse Guards out on parade; the Spanish bull-fight did not stirthem, and Sarah couldn't find a single young man to her taste in the Houseof Commons. Among the performing birds they liked best a canary thatclimbed a ladder. Bill was attracted by the American strength-testers, andhe gave an exhibition of his muscle, to Sarah's very great admiration. They all had some shies at cocoa-nuts, and passed by J. Bilton's greatbowling saloon without visiting it. Once more the air was rent with thecries of "Here they come! Here they come!" Even the 'commodation men lefttheir canvas shelters and pressed forward inquiring which had won. Amoment after a score of pigeons floated and flew through the blue air andthen departed in different directions, some making straight for London, others for the blue mysterious evening that had risen about the Downs--thesun-baked Downs strewn with waste paper and covered by tipsy men andwomen, a screaming and disordered animality. 

"Well, so you've come back at last, " said William. "The favourite wasbeaten. I suppose you know that a rank outsider won. But what about thisgentleman?"

"Met these 'ere ladies on the 'ill an' been showing them over the course. No offence, I hope, guv'nor?"

William did not answer, and Bill took leave of Sarah in a manner that toldEsther that they had arranged to meet again. 

"Where did you pick up that bloke?"

"He came up and spoke to us, and Esther stopped to speak to the parson. "

"To the parson. What do you mean?"

The circumstance was explained, and William asked them what they thoughtof the racing. 

"We didn't see no racing, " said Sarah; "we was on the 'ill on the wooden'orses. Esther's 'orse won. She got a mug; show the mug, Esther. "

"So you saw no Derby after all?" said William. 

"Saw no racin'!" said his neighbour; "ain't she won the cup?"

The joke was lost on the women, who only perceived that they were beinglaughed at. 

"Come up here, Esther, " said William; "stand on my box. The 'orses arejust going up the course for the preliminary canter. And you, Sarah, takeTeddy's place. Teddy, get down, and let the lady up. "

"Yes, guv'nor. Come up 'ere, ma'am. "

"And is those the 'orses?" said Sarah. "They do seem small. "

The ringmen roared. "Not up to those on the 'ill, ma'am, " said one. "Notsuch beautiful goers, " said another. 

There were two or three false starts, and then, looking through amultitude of hats, Esther saw five or six thin greyhound-looking horses. They passed like shadows, flitted by; and she was sorry for the poorchestnut that trotted in among the crowd. 

This was the last race. Once more the favourite had been beaten; therewere no bets to pay, and the bookmakers began to prepare for departure. Itwas the poor little clerks who were charged with the luggage. Teddy didnot seem as if he would ever reach the top of the hill. With Esther andSarah on either arm, William struggled with the crowd. It was hard to getthrough the block of carriages. Everywhere horses waited with theirharness on, and Sarah was afraid of being bitten or kicked. A youngaristocrat cursed them from the box-seat, and the groom blew a blast asthe drag rolled away. It was like the instinct of departure which takes avast herd at a certain moment. The great landscape, half country, halfsuburb, glinted beneath the rays of a setting sun; and through the whitedust, and the drought of the warm roads, the brakes and carriages andevery crazy vehicle rolled towards London; orange-sellers, tract-sellers, thieves, vagrants, gipsies, made for their various quarters--roadsideinns, outhouses, hayricks, hedges, or the railway station. Down the longhill the vast crowd made its way, humble pedestrians and carriage folk, all together, as far as the cross-roads. At the "Spread Eagle" there wouldbe stoppage for a parting drink, there the bookmakers would change theirclothes, and there division would happen in the crowd--half for therailway station, half for the London road. It was there that thetraditional sports of the road began. A drag, with a band of exquisitesarmed with pea-shooters, peppering on costers who were getting angry, andthreatening to drive over the leaders. A brake with two poles erected, andhanging on a string quite a line of miniature chamber-pots. A horse, withhis fore-legs clothed in a pair of lady's drawers. Naturally unconsciousof the garment, the horse stepped along so absurdly that Esther and Sarahthought they'd choke with laughter. 

At the station William halloaed to old John, whom he caught sight of onthe platform. He had backed the winner--forty to one about Sultan. It wasKetley who had persuaded him to risk half a sovereign on the horse. Ketleywas at the Derby; he had met him on the course, and Ketley had told him awonderful story about a packet of Turkish Delight. The omen had come rightthis time, and Journeyman took a back seat. 

"Say what you like, " said William, "it is damned strange; and if anyonedid find the way of reading them omens there would be an end of usbookmakers. " He was only half in earnest, but he regretted he had not metKetley. If he had only had a fiver on the horse--200 to 5!

They met Ketley at Waterloo, and every one wanted to hear from his ownlips the story of the packet of Turkish Delight. So William proposed theyshould all come up to the "King's Head" for a drink. The omnibus took themas far as Piccadilly Circus; and there the weight of his satchel temptedWilliam to invite them to dinner, regardless of expense. 

"Which is the best dinner here?" he asked the commissionaire. 

"The East Room is reckoned the best, sir. "

The fashion of the shaded candles and the little tables, and the beauty ofan open evening bodice and the black and white elegance of the young menat dinner, took the servants by surprise, and made them feel that theywere out of place in such surroundings. Old John looked like picking up anapkin and asking at the nearest table if anything was wanted. Ketleyproposed the grill room, but William, who had had a glass more than wasgood for him, declared that he didn't care a damn--that he could buy upthe whole blooming show. The head-waiter suggested a private room; it wasabruptly declined, and William took up the menu. "Bisque Soup, what'sthat? You ought to know, John. " John shook his head. "Ris de veau! Thatreminds me of when----" William stopped and looked round to see if hisformer wife was in the room. Finally, the head-waiter was cautioned tosend them up the best dinner in the place. Allusion was made to the dustand heat. Journeyman suggested a sluice, and they inquired their way tothe lavatories. Esther and Sarah were away longer than the men, and stooddismayed at the top of the room till William called for them. The otherguests seemed a little terrified, and the head-waiter, to reassure them, mentioned that it was Derby Day. 

William had ordered champagne, but it had not proved to any one's tasteexcept, perhaps, to Sarah, whom it rendered unduly hilarious; nor did thedelicate food afford much satisfaction; the servants played with it, andleft it on their plates; and it was not until William ordered up thesaddle of mutton and carved it himself that the dinner began to take holdof the company. Esther and Sarah enjoyed the ices, and the men stuck tothe cheese, a fine Stilton, which was much appreciated. Coffee no onecared for, and the little glasses of brandy only served to augment thegeneral tipsiness. William hiccupped out an order for a bottle of Jamiesoneight-year-old; but pipes were not allowed, and cigars were voted tedious, so they adjourned to the bar, where they were free to get as drunk as theypleased. William said, "Now let's 'ear the blo----the bloody omen that putye on to Sultan--that blood--packet of Turkish Delight. "

"Most extra--most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life, so yer'ere?" said Ketley, staring at William and trying to see him distinctly. 

William nodded. "How was it? We want to 'ear all about it. Do hold yertongue, Sarah. I beg pardon, Ketley is go--going to tell us about thebloody omen. Thought you'd like to he--ar, old girl. "

Allusion was made to a little girl coming home from school, and a piece ofpaper on the pavement. But Ketley could not concentrate his thoughts onthe main lines of the story, and it was lost in various dissertations. Butthe company was none the less pleased with it, and willingly declared thatbookmaking was only a game for mugs. Get on a winner at forty to one, andyou could make as much in one bet as a poor devil of a bookie could in sixmonths, fagging from race-course to race-course. They drank, argued, andquarrelled, until Esther noticed that Sarah was looking very pale. OldJohn was quite helpless; Journeyman, who seemed to know what he was doing, very kindly promised to look after him. 

Ketley assured the commissionaire that he was not drunk; and when they gotoutside Sarah felt obliged to step aside; she came back, saying that shefelt a little better. 

They stood on the pavement's edge, a little puzzled by the brilliancy ofthe moonlight. And the three men who followed out of the bar-room wereagreed regarding the worthlessness of life. One said, "I don't think muchof it; all I live for is beer and women. " The phrase caught on William'sear, and he said, "Quite right, old mate, " and he held out his hand toBill Evans. "Beer and women, it always comes round to that in the end, butwe mustn't let them hear us say it. " The men shook hands, and Billpromised to see Sarah safely home. Esther tried to interpose, but Williamcould not be made to understand, and Sarah and Bill drove away together ina hansom. Sarah dozed off immediately on his shoulder, and it wasdifficult to awaken her when the cab stopped before a house whoserespectability took Bill by surprise. 

XXXIV

Things went well enough as long as her savings lasted. When her money wasgone Bill returned to the race-course in the hope of doing a bit ofwelshing. Soon after he was "wanted" by the police; they escaped toBelgium, and it devolved on Sarah to support him. The hue and cry over, they came back to London. 

She had been sitting up for him; he had come home exasperated anddisappointed. A row soon began; and she thought that he would strike her. But he refrained, for fear, perhaps, of the other lodgers. He took herinstead by the arm, dragged her down the broken staircase, and pushed herinto the court. She heard the retreating footsteps, and saw a cat slinkthrough a grating, and she wished that she too could escape from the lightinto the dark. 

A few belated women still lingered in the Strand, and the city stood uplike a prison, hard and stark in the cold, penetrating light of morning. She sat upon a pillar's base, her eyes turned towards the cabmen'sshelter. The horses munched in their nose-bags, and the pigeons came downfrom their roosts. She was dressed in an old black dress, her hands layupon her knees, and the pose expressed so perfectly the despair andwretchedness in her soul that a young man in evening clothes, who hadlooked sharply at her as he passed, turned and came back to her, and heasked her if he could assist her. She answered, "Thank you, sir. " Heslipped a shilling into her hand. She was too broken-hearted to look up inhis face, and he walked away wondering what was her story. The disorderedred hair, the thin, freckled face, were expressive, and so too was themovement of her body when she got up and walked, not knowing and notcaring where she was going. There was sensation of the river in herthoughts; the river drew her, and she indistinctly remembered that shewould find relief there if she chose to accept that relief. The water wasblue beneath the sunrise, and it seemed to offer to end her life'strouble. She could not go on living. She could not bear with her life anylonger, and yet she knew that she would not drown herself that morning. There was not enough will in her to drown herself. She was merely halfdead with grief. He had turned her out, he had said that he never wantedto see her again, but that was because he had been unlucky. She ought tohave gone to bed and not waited up for him; he didn't know what he wasdoing; so long as he didn't care for another woman there was hope that hemight come back to her. The spare trees rustled their leaves in the brightdawn air, and she sat down on a bench and watched the lamps going out, andthe river changing from blue to brown. Hours passed, and the same thoughtscame and went, until with sheer weariness of thinking she fell asleep. 

She was awakened by the policeman, and she once more continued her walk. The omnibuses had begun; women were coming from market with baskets ontheir arms; and she wondered if their lovers and husbands were unfaithfulto them, if they would be received with blows or knocks when theyreturned. Her slightest mistakes had often, it seemed, merited a blow; andGod knows she had striven to pick out the piece of bacon that she thoughthe would like, and it was not her fault that she couldn't get any moneynowhere. Why was he cruel to her? He never would find another woman tocare for him more than she did.... Esther had a good husband, Esther hadalways been lucky. Two hours more to wait, and she felt so tired, sotired. The milk-women were calling their ware--those lusty short-skirtedwomen that bring an air of country into the meanest alley. She sat down ona doorstep and looked on the empty Haymarket, vaguely conscious of the lowvice which still lingered there though the morning was advancing. Sheturned up Shaftesbury Avenue, and from the beginning of Dean Street shewatched to see if the shutters were yet down. She thought they were, andthen saw that she was mistaken. There was nothing to do but to wait, andon the steps of the Royalty Theatre she waited. The sun was shining, andshe watched the cab horses, until the potboy came through and begancleaning the street lamp. She didn't care to ask him any questions;dressed as she was, he might answer her rudely. She wanted to see Estherfirst. Esther would pity and help her. So she did not go directly to the"King's Head, " but went up the street a little way and came back. Theboy's back was turned to her; she peeped through the doors. There was noone in the bar, she must go back to the steps of the theatre. A number ofchildren were playing there, and they did not make way for her to sitdown. She was too weary to argue the point, and walked up and down thestreet. When she looked through the doors a second time Esther was in thebar. 

"Is that you, Sarah?"

"Yes, it is me. "

"Then come in.... How is it that we've not seen you all this time? What'sthe matter?"

"I've been out all night. Bill put me out of doors this morning, and I'vebeen walking about ever since. "

"Bill put you out of doors? I don't understand. "

"You know Bill Evans, the man we met on the race-course, the day we wentto the Derby.... It began there. He took me home after your dinner at the'Criterion. '... It has been going on ever since. "

"Good Lord! ... Tell me about it. "

Leaning against the partition that separated the bars, Sarah told how shehad left her home and gone to live with him. 

"We got on pretty well at first, but the police was after him, and we madeoff to Belgium. There we was very hard up, and I had to go out on thestreets. "

"He made you do that?"

"He couldn't starve, could he?"

The women looked at each other, and then Sarah continued her story. Shetold how they had come to London, penniless. "I think he wants to turnhonest, " she said, "but luck's been dead against him.... It's thatdifficult for one like him, and he's been in work, but he can't stick toit; and now I don't know what he's doing--no good, I fancy. Last night Igot anxious and couldn't sleep, so I sat up. It was about two when he camein. We had a row and he dragged me downstairs and he put me out. He saidhe never wanted to see my ugly face again. I don't think I'm as bad asthat; I've led a hard life, and am not what I used to be, but it was hewho made me what I am. Oh, it don't matter now, it can't be helped, it isall over with me. I don't care what becomes of me, only I thought I'd liketo come and tell you. We was always friends. "

"You mustn't give way like that, old girl. You must keep yer pecker up. You're dead beat.... You've been walking about all night, no wonder. Youmust come and have some breakfast with us. "

"I should like a cup of tea, Esther. I never touches spirits now. I gotover that. "

"Come into the parlour. You'll be better when you've had breakfast. We'llsee what we can do for you. "

"Oh, Esther, not a word of what I've been telling you to your husband. Idon't want to get Bill into trouble. He'd kill me. Promise me not tomention a word of it. I oughtn't to have told you. I was so tired that Ididn't know what I was saying. "

There was plenty to eat--fried fish, a nice piece of steak, tea andcoffee. "You seem to live pretty well, " said Sarah, "It must be nice tohave a servant of one's own. I suppose you're doing pretty well here. "

"Yes, pretty well, if it wasn't for William's health. "

"What's the matter? Ain't he well?"

"He's been very poorly lately. It's very trying work going about fromrace-course to race-course, standing in the mud and wet all day long.... He caught a bad cold last winter and was laid up with inflammation of thelungs, and I don't think he ever quite got over it. "

"Don't he go no more to race meetings?"

"He hasn't been to a race meeting since the beginning of the winter. Itwas one of them nasty steeplechase meetings that laid him up. "

"Do 'e drink?"

"He's never drunk, but he takes too much. Spirits don't suit him. Hethought he could do what he liked, great strong-built fellow that he is, but he's found out his mistake. "

"He does his betting in London now, I suppose?"

"Yes, " said Esther, hesitating--"when he has any to do. I want him to giveit up; but trade is bad in this neighbourhood, leastways, with us, and hedon't think we could do without it. "

"It's very hard to keep it dark; some one's sure to crab it and bring thepolice down on you. "

Esther did not answer; the conversation paused, and William entered. "Halloa! is that you, Sarah? We didn't know what had become of you allthis time. " He noticed that she looked like one in trouble, and was verypoorly dressed. She noticed that his cheeks were thinner than they used tobe, and that his broad chest had sunk, and that there seemed to bestrangely little space between it and his back. Then in brief phrases, interrupting each other frequently, the women told the story. Williamsaid--

"I knew he was a bad lot. I never liked to see him inside my bar. "

"I thought, " said Esther, "that Sarah might remain here for a time. "

"I can't have that fellow coming round my place. "

"There's no fear of his coming after me. He don't want to see my ugly faceagain. Well, let him try to find some one who will do for him all I havedone. "

"Until she gets a situation, " said Esther. "I think that'll be the best, for you to stop here until you get a situation. "

"And what about a character?"

"You needn't say much about what you've been doing this last twelvemonths; if many questions are asked, you can say you've been stopping withus. But you mustn't see that brute again. If he ever comes into that 'erebar, I'll give him a piece of my mind. I'd give him more than a piece ofmy mind if I was the man I was a twelvemonth ago. " William coughed, andEsther looked at him anxiously. 

XXXV

Lacking a parlour on the ground floor for the use of special customers, William had arranged a room upstairs where they could smoke and drink. There were tables in front of the windows and chairs against the walls, and in the middle of the room a bagatelle board. 

When William left off going to race-courses he had intended to refrainfrom taking money across the bar and to do all his betting business inthis room. 

He thought that it would be safer. But as his customers multiplied hefound that he could not ask them all upstairs; it attracted more attentionthan to take the money quietly across the bar. Nevertheless the roomupstairs had proved a success. A man spent more money if he had a roomwhere he could sit quietly among his friends than he would seated on ahigh stool in a public bar, jostled and pushed about; so it had come to beconsidered a sort of club room; and a large part of the neighbourhood camethere to read the papers, to hear and discuss the news. And speciallyuseful it had proved to Journeyman and Stack. Neither was now inemployment; they were now professional backers; and from daylight to darkthey wandered from public-house to public-house, from tobacconist tobarber's shop, in the search of tips, on the quest of stable informationregarding the health of the horses and their trials. But the room upstairsat the "King's Head" was the centre of their operations. Stack was theindefatigable tipster, Journeyman was the scientific student of publicform. His memory was prodigious, and it enabled him to note an advantagein the weights which would escape an ordinary observer. He often pickedout horses which, if they did not actually win, nearly always stood at ashort price in the betting before the race. 

The "King's Head" was crowded during the dinner-hour. Barbers and theirassistants, cabmen, scene-shifters, if there was an afternoon performanceat the theatre, servants out of situation and servants escaped from theirservice for an hour, petty shopkeepers, the many who grow weary of thescant livelihood that work brings them, came there. Eleven o'clock! Inanother hour the bar and the room upstairs would be crowded. At presentthe room was empty, and Journeyman had taken advantage of the quiet timeto do a bit of work at his handicap. All the racing of the last threeyears lay within his mind's range; he recalled at will every triflingselling race; hardly ever was he obliged to refer to the Racing Calendar. Wanderer had beaten Brick at ten pounds. Snow Queen had beaten Shoemakerat four pounds, and Shoemaker had beaten Wanderer at seven pounds. Theproblem was further complicated by the suspicion that Brick could get adistance of ground better than Snow Queen. Journeyman was undecided. Hestroked his short brown moustache with his thin, hairy hand, and gnawedthe end of his pen. In this moment of barren reflection Stack came intothe room. 

"Still at yer 'andicap, I see, " said Stack. "How does it work out?"

"Pretty well, " said Journeyman. "But I don't think it will be one of mybest; there is some pretty hard nuts to crack. "

"Which are they?" said Stack. Journeyman brightened up, and he proceededto lay before Stack's intelligence what he termed a "knotty point incollateral running. "

Stack listened with attention, and thus encouraged, Journeyman proceededto point out certain distributions of weight which he said seemed to himdifficult to beat. 

"Anyone what knows the running would say there wasn't a pin to choosebetween them at the weights. If this was the real 'andicap, I'd bet drinksall around that fifteen of these twenty would accept. And that's more thananyone will be able to say for Courtney's 'andicap. The weights will beout to-morrow; we shall see. "

"What do you say to 'alf a pint, " said Stack, "and we'll go steadilythrough your 'andicap? You've nothing to do for the next 'alf-hour. "

Journeyman's dingy face lit up. When the potboy appeared in answer to thebell he was told to bring up two half-pints, and Journeyman read out theweights. Every now and then he stopped to explain his reasons for whatmight seem to be superficial, an unmerited severity, or an undue leniency. It was not usual for Journeyman to meet with so sympathetic a listener; hehad often been made to feel that his handicapping was unnecessary, and henow noticed, and with much pleasure, that Stack's attention seemed toincrease rather than to diminish as he approached the end. When he hadfinished Stack said, "I see you've given six-seven to Ben Jonson. Tell mewhy you did that?"

"He was a good 'orse once; he's broken down and aged; he can't be trained, so six-seven seems just the kind of weight to throw him in at. Youcouldn't give him less, however old and broken down he may be. He was agood horse when he won the Great Ebor Grand Cup. "

"Do you think if they brought him to the post as fit and well as he wasthe day he won the Ebor that he'd win?"

"What, fit and well as he was when he won the Great Ebor, and withsix-seven on his back? He'd walk away with it. "

"You don't think any of the three-year-olds would have a chance with him?A Derby winner with seven stone on his back might beat him. "

"Yes, but nothing short of that. Even then old Ben would make a race ofit. A nailing good horse once. A little brown horse about fifteen two, ascompact as a leg of Welsh mutton.... But there's no use in thinking ofhim. They've been trying for years to train him. Didn't they used to getthe flesh off him in a Turkish bath? That was Fulton's notion. He used tosay that it didn't matter 'ow you got the flesh off so long as you got itoff. Every pound of flesh off the lungs is so much wind, he used to say. But the Turkish bath trained horses came to the post limp as old rags. Ifa 'orse 'asn't the legs you can't train him. Every pound of flesh yer takeoff must put a pound 'o 'ealth on. They'll do no good with old Ben, unlessthey've found out a way of growing on him a pair of new forelegs. The oldones won't do for my money. "

"But do you think that Courtney will take the same view of hiscapabilities as you do--do you think he'll let him off as easily as youhave?"

"He can't give him much more.... The 'orse is bound to get in at sevenstone, rather under than over. "

"I'm glad to 'ear yer say so, for I know you've a headpiece, and 'as allthe running in there. " Stack tapped his forehead. "Now, I'd like to askyou if there's any three-year-olds that would be likely to interfere withhim?"

"Derby and Leger winners will get from eight stone to eight stone ten, andthree-year-olds ain't no good over the Cesarewitch course with more thaneight on their backs. "

The conversation paused. Surprised at Stack's silence, Journeyman said--

"Is there anything up? Have you heard anything particular about old Ben?"

Stack bent forward. "Yes, I've heard something, and I'm making inquiries. "

"How did you hear it?"

Stack drew his chair a little closer. "I've been up at Chalk Farm, the'Yarborough Arms'; you know, where the 'buses stop. Bob Barrett does adeal of business up there. He pays the landlord's rent for the use of thebar--Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays is his days. Charley Grove betsthere Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, but it is Bob that does thebiggest part of the business. They say he's taken as much as twenty poundsin a morning. You know Bob, a great big man, eighteen stun if he's anounce. He's a warm 'un, can put it on thick. "

"I know him; he do tell fine stories about the girls; he has the pick ofthe neighbourhood, wears a low hat, no higher than that, with a big brim. I know him. I've heard that he 'as moved up that way. Used at one time tokeep a tobacconist's shop in Great Portland Street. "

"That's him, " said Stack. "I thought you'd heard of him. "

"There ain't many about that I've not heard of. Not that I likes the manmuch. There was a girl I knew--she wouldn't hear his name mentioned. Buthe lays fair prices, and does, I believe, a big trade. "

"'As a nice 'ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife as pretty a woman asyou could wish to lay eyes on. I've seen her with him at Kempton. "

"You was up there this morning?"

"Yes. "

"It wasn't Bob Barrett that gave you the tip?"

"Not likely. " The men laughed, and then Stack said--

"You know Bill Evans? You've seen him here, always wore a blue Meltonjacket and billycock hat; a dark, stout, good-looking fellow; generallyhad something to sell, or pawn-tickets that he would part with for atrifle. "

"Yes, I know the fellow. We met him down at Epsom one Derby Day. SarahTucker, a friend of the missis, was dead gone on him. "

"Yes, she went to live with him. There was a row, and now, I believe, they're together again; they was seen out walking. They're friends, anyhow. Bill has been away all the summer, tramping. A bad lot, but one ofthem sort often hears of a good thing. "

"So it was from Bill Evans that you heard it. "

"Yes, it was from Bill. He has just come up from Eastbourne, where he 'asbeen about on the Downs a great deal. I don't know if it was the horses hewas after, but in the course of his proceedings he heard from a shepherdthat Ben Jonson was doing seven hours' walking exercise a day. This seemedto have fetched Bill a bit. Seven hours a day walking exercise do seem abit odd, and being at the same time after one of the servants in thetraining stable--as pretty a bit of goods as he ever set eyes on, so Billsays--he thought he'd make an inquiry or two about all this walkingexercise. One of the lads in the stable is after the girl, too, so Billfound out very soon all he wanted to know. As you says, the 'orse is dickyon 'is forelegs, that is the reason of all the walking exercise. "

"And they thinks they can bring him fit to the post and win theCesarewitch with him by walking him all day?"

"I don't say they don't gallop him at all; they do gallop him, but not asmuch as if his legs was all right. "

"That won't do. I don't believe in a 'orse winning the Cesarewitch thatain't got four sound legs, and old Ben ain't got more than two. "

"He's had a long rest, and they say he is sounder than ever he was sincehe won the Great Ebor. They don't say he'd stand no galloping, but theydon't want to gallop him more than's absolutely necessary on account ofthe suspensory ligament; it ain't the back sinew, but the suspensoryligament. Their theory is this, that it don't so much matter aboutbringing him quite fit to the post, for he's sure to stay the course; he'ddo that three times over. What they say is this, that if he gets in withseven stone, and we brings him well and three parts trained, there ain'tno 'orse in England that can stand up before him. They've got another inthe race, Laurel Leaf, to make the running for him; it can't be too strongfor old Ben. You say to yourself that he may get let off with six-seven. If he do there'll be tons of money on him. He'll be backed at the post atfive to one. Before the weights come out they'll lay a hundred to one onthe field in any of the big clubs. I wouldn't mind putting a quid on himif you'll join me. "

"Better wait until the weights come out, " said Journeyman, "for if ithappened to come to Courtney's ears that old Ben could be trained he'dclap seven-ten on him without a moment's hesitation. "

"You think so?" said Stack. 

"I do, " said Journeyman. 

"But you agree with me that if he got let off with anything less thanseven stone, and be brought fit, or thereabouts, to the post, that therace is a moral certainty for him?"

"A thousand to a brass farthing. "

"Mind, not a word. "

"Is it likely?"

The conversation paused a moment, and Journeyman said, "You've not seen my'andicap for the Cambridgeshire. I wonder what you'd think of that?" Stacksaid he would be glad to see it another time, and suggested that they godownstairs. 

"I'm afraid the police is in, " said Stack, when he opened the door. 

"Then we'd better stop where we are; I don't want to be took to thestation. "

They listened for some moments, holding the door ajar. 

"It ain't the police, " said Stack, "but a row about some bet. Latch hadbetter be careful. "

The cause of the uproar was a tall young English workman, whose beard waspale gold, and whose teeth were white. He wore a rough handkerchief tiedround his handsome throat. His eyes were glassy with drink, and hiscomrades strove to quieten him. 

"Leave me alone, " he exclaimed; "the bet was ten half-crowns to one. Iwon't stand being welshed. "

William's face flushed up. "Welshed!" he said. "No one speaks in this barof welshing. " He would have sprung over the counter, but Esther held himback. 

"I know what I'm talking about; you let me alone, " said the young workman, and he struggled out of the hands of his friends. "The bet was tenhalf-crowns to one. "

"Don't mind what he says, guv'nor. "

"Don't mind what I says!" For a moment it seemed as if the friends wereabout to come to blows, but the young man's perceptions suddenly clouded, and he said, "In this blo-ody bar last Monday... Horse backed inTattersall's at twelve to one taken and offered. "

"He don't know what he's talking about; but no one must accuse me ofwelshing in this 'ere bar. "

"No offence, guv'nor; mistakes will occur. "

William could not help laughing, and he sent Teddy upstairs for Monday'spaper. He pointed out that eight to one was being asked for about thehorse on Monday afternoon at Tattersall's. The stage door-keeper and ascene-shifter had just come over from the theatre, and had managed toforce their way into the jug and bottle entrance. Esther and Charles hadbeen selling beer and spirits as fast as they could draw it, but thedisputed bet had caused the company to forget their glasses. 

"Just one more drink, " said the young man. "Take the ten half-crowns outin drinks, guv'nor, that's good enough. What do you say, guv'nor?"

"What, ten half-crowns?" William answered angrily. "Haven't I shown youthat the 'orse was backed at Tattersall's the day you made the bet ateight to one?"

"Ten to one, guv'nor. "

"I've not time to go on talking.... You're interfering with my business. You must get out of my bar. "

"Who'll put me out?"

"Charles, go and fetch a policeman. "

At the word "policeman" the young man seemed to recover his wits somewhat, and he answered, "You'll bring in no bloody policeman. Fetch a policeman!and what about your blooming betting--what will become of it?" Williamlooked round to see if there was any in the bar whom he could not trust. He knew everyone present, and believed he could trust them all. There wasbut one thing to do, and that was to put on a bold face and trust to luck. "Now out you go, " he said, springing over the counter, "and never you setyour face inside my bar again. " Charles followed the guv'nor over thecounter like lightning, and the drunkard was forced into the street. "Hedon't mean no 'arm, " said one of the friends; "he'll come round to-morrowand apologise for what he's said. "

"I don't want his apology, " said William. "No one shall call me a welsherin my bar.... Take your friend away, and never let me see him in my baragain. "

Suddenly William turned very pale. He was seized with a fit of coughing, and this great strong man leaned over the counter very weak indeed. Estherled him into the parlour, leaving Charles to attend to the customers. Hishand trembled like a leaf, and she sat by his side holding it. Mr. Blamycame in to ask if he should lay one of the young gentlemen from thetutor's thirty shillings to ten against the favourite. Esther said thatWilliam could attend to no more customers that day. Mr. Blamy returned tenminutes after to say that there was quite a number of people in the bar;should he refuse to take their money?

"Do you know them all?" said William. 

"I think so, guv'nor. "

"Be careful to bet with no one you don't know; but I'm so bad I can hardlyspeak. "

"Much better send them away, " said Esther. 

"Then they'll go somewhere else. "

"It won't matter; they'll come back to where they're sure of their money. "

"I'm not so sure of that, " William answered, feebly. "I think it will beall right, Teddy; you'll be very careful. "

"Yes, guv'nor, I'll keep down the price. "

XXXVI

One afternoon Fred Parsons came into the bar of the "King's Head. " He worethe cap and jersey of the Salvation Army; he was now Captain Parsons. Thebars were empty. It was a time when business was slackest. The morning'sbetting was over; the crowd had dispersed, and would not collect againuntil the _Evening Standard_ had come in. William had gone for a walk. Esther and the potboy were alone in the house. The potman was at work inthe backyard, Esther was sewing in the parlour. Hearing steps, she wentinto the bar. Fred looked at her abashed, he was a little perplexed. Hesaid--

"Is your husband in? I should like to speak to him. "

"No, my husband is out. I don't expect him back for an hour or so. Can Igive him any message?"

She was on the point of asking him how he was. But there was something soharsh and formal in his tone and manner that she refrained. But the ideain her mind must have expressed itself in her face, for suddenly hismanner softened. He drew a deep breath, and passed his hand across hisforehead. Then, putting aside the involuntary thought, he said--

"Perhaps it will come through you as well as any other way. I had intendedto speak to him, but I can explain the matter better to you.... It isabout the betting that is being carried on here. We mean to put a stop toit. That's what I came to tell him. It must be put a stop to. Noright-minded person--it cannot be allowed to go on. "

Esther said nothing; not a change of expression came upon her grave face. Fred was agitated. The words stuck in his throat, and his hands wererestless. Esther raised her calm eyes, and looked at him. His eyes werepale, restless eyes. 

"I've come to warn you, " he said, "that the law will be set in motion.... It is very painful for me, but something must be done. The wholeneighbourhood is devoured by it. " Esther did not answer, and he said, "Whydon't you answer, Esther?"

"What is there for me to answer? You tell me that you are going to get upa prosecution against us. I can't prevent you. I'll tell my husband whatyou say. "

"This is a very serious matter, Esther. " He had come into command of hisvoice, and he spoke with earnest determination. "If we get a convictionagainst you for keeping a betting-house, you will not only be heavilyfined, but you will also lose your licence. All we ask is that the bettingshall cease. No, " he said, interrupting, "don't deny anything; it is quiteuseless, we know everything. The whole neighbourhood is demoralized bythis betting; nothing is thought of but tips; the day's racing--that isall they think about--the evening papers, and the latest information. Youdo not know what harm you're doing. Every day we hear of some newmisfortune--a home broken up, the mother in the workhouse, the daughter onthe streets, the father in prison, and all on account of this betting. Oh, Esther, it is horrible; think of the harm you're doing. "

Fred Parsons' high, round forehead, his weak eyes, his whole face, wasexpressive of fear and hatred of the evil which a falsetto voice denouncedwith much energy. 

Suddenly he seemed to grow nervous and perplexed. Esther was looking athim, and he said, "You don't answer, Esther?"

"What would you have me answer?"

"You used to be a good, religious woman. Do you remember how we used tospeak when we used to go for walks together, when you were in service inthe Avondale road? I remember you agreeing with me that much good could bedone by those who were determined to do it. You seem to have changed verymuch since those days. "

For a moment Esther seemed affected by these remembrances. Then she saidin a low, musical voice--

"No, I've not changed, Fred, but things has turned out different. Onedoesn't do the good that one would like to in the world; one has to do thegood that comes to one to do. I've my husband and my boy to look to. Them's my good. At least, that's how I sees things. "

Fred looked at Esther, and his eyes expressed all the admiration and lovethat he felt for her character. "One owes a great deal, " he said, "tothose who are near to one, but not everything; even for their sakes oneshould not do wrong to others, and you must see that you are doing a greatwrong to your fellow-creatures by keeping on this betting. Public-housesare bad enough, but when it comes to gambling as well as drink, there'snothing for us to do but to put the law in motion. Look you, Esther, thereisn't a shop-boy earning eighteen shillings a week that hasn't been roundhere to put his half-crown on some horse. This house is the immoral centreof the neighbourhood. No one's money is refused. The boy that pawned hisfather's watch to back a horse went to the 'King's Head' to put his moneyon. His father forgave him again and again. Then the boy stole from thelodgers. There was an old woman of seventy-five who got nine shillings aweek for looking after some offices; he had half-a-crown off her. Then thefather told the magistrate that he could do nothing with him since he hadtaken to betting on horse-races. The boy is fourteen. Is it not shocking?It cannot be allowed to go on. We have determined to put a stop to it. That's what I came to tell your husband. "

"Are you sure, " said Esther, and she bit her lips while she spoke, "thatit is entirely for the neighbourhood that you want to get up theprosecution?"

"You don't think there's any other reason, Esther? You surely don't thinkthat I'm doing this because--because he took you away from me?"

Esther didn't answer. And then Fred said, and there was pain and pathos inhis voice, "I am sorry you think this of me; I'm not getting up theprosecution. I couldn't prevent the law being put in motion against youeven if I wanted to.... I only know that it is going to be put in motion, so for the sake of old times I would save you from harm if I could. I cameround to tell you if you did not put a stop to the betting you'd get intotrouble. I have no right to do what I have done, but I'd do anything tosave you and yours from harm. "

"I am sorry for what I said. It was very good of you. "

"We have not any proofs as yet; we know, of course, all about the betting, but we must have sworn testimony before the law can be set in motion, soyou'll be quite safe if you can persuade your husband to give it up. "Esther did not answer. "It is entirely on account of the friendship I feelfor you that made me come to warn you of the danger. You don't bear me anyill-will, Esther, I hope?"

"No, Fred, I don't. I think I understand. " The conversation paused again. "I suppose we have said everything. " Esther turned her face from him. Fredlooked at her, and though her eyes were averted from him she could seethat he loved her. In another moment he was gone. In her plain andignorant way she thought on the romance of destiny. For if she had marriedFred her life would have been quite different. She would have led the lifethat she wished to lead, but she had married William and--well, she mustdo the best she could. If Fred, or Fred's friends, got the police toprosecute them for betting, they would, as he said, not only have to pay aheavy fine, but would probably lose their licence. Then what would theydo? William had not health to go about from race-course to race-course ashe used to. He had lost a lot of money in the last six months; Jack was atschool--they must think of Jack. The thought of their danger lay on herheart all that evening. But she had had no opportunity of speaking toWilliam alone, she had to wait until they were in their room. Then, as sheuntied the strings of her petticoats, she said--

"I had a visit from Fred Parsons this afternoon. "

"That's the fellow you were engaged to marry. Is he after you still?"

"No, he came to speak to me about the betting. "

"About the betting--what is it to do with him?"

"He says that if it isn't stopped that we shall be prosecuted. "

"So he came here to tell you that, did he? I wish I had been in the bar. "

"I'm glad you wasn't. What good could you have done? To have a row andmake things worse!"

William lit his pipe and unlaced his boots. Esther slipped on hernight-dress and got into a large brass bedstead, without curtains. On thechest of drawers Esther had placed the books her mother had given her, andWilliam had hung some sporting prints on the walls. He took hisnight-shirt from the pillow and put it on without removing his pipe fromhis mouth. He always finished his pipe in bed. 

"It is revenge, " he said, pulling the bed-clothes up to his chin, "becauseI got you away from him. "

"I don't think it is that; I did think so at first, and I said so. "

"What did he say?"

"He said he was sorry I thought so badly of him; that he came to warn usof our danger. If he had wanted to do us an injury he wouldn't have saidnothing about it. Don't you think so?"

"It seems reasonable. Then what do you think they're doing it for?"

"He says that keeping a betting-house is corruption in the neighbourhood. "

"You think he thinks that?"

"I know he do; and there is many like him. I come of them that thinks likethat, so I know. Betting and drink is what my folk, the Brethren, holds asmost evil. "

"But you've forgot all about them Brethren?"

"No, one never forgets what one's brought up in. "

"But what do you think now?"

"I've never said nothing about it. I don't believe in a wife interferingwith her husband; and business was that bad, and your 'ealth 'asn't beenthe same since them colds you caught standing about in them betting rings, so I don't see how you could help it. But now that business is beginningto come back to us, it might be as well to give up the betting. "

"It is the betting that brings the business; we shouldn't take five poundsa week was it not for the betting. What's the difference between bettingon the course and betting in the bar? No one says nothing against it onthe course; the police is there, and they goes after the welshers andpersecutes them. Then the betting that's done at Tattersall's and theAlbert Club, what is the difference? The Stock Exchange, too, wherethousands and thousands is betted every day. It is the old story--one lawfor the rich and another for the poor. Why shouldn't the poor man 'ave his'alf-crown's worth of excitement? The rich man can have his thousandpounds' worth whenever he pleases. The same with the public'ouses--there's a lot of hypocritical folk that is for docking the poorman of his beer, but there's no one that's for interfering with them thatdrink champagne in the clubs. It's all bloody rot, and it makes me sickwhen I think of it. Them hypocritical folk. Betting! Isn't everythingbetting? How can they put down betting? Hasn't it been going on since theworld began? Rot, says I! They can just ruin a poor devil like me, andthat's about all. We are ruined, and the rich goes scot-free. Hypocritical, mealy-mouthed lot. 'Let's say our prayers and sandthe sugar'; that's about it. I hate them that is always prating outreligion. When I hears too much religion going about I says now's the timeto look into their accounts. "

William leaned out of bed to light his pipe from the candle on thenight-table. 

"There's good people in the world, people that never thinks but of doinggood, and do not live for pleasure. "

"'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, ' Esther. Their only pleasureis a bet. When they've one on they've something to look forward to;whether they win or lose they 'as their money's worth. You know what I sayis true; you've seen them, how they look forward to the evening paper tosee how the 'oss is going on in betting. Man can't live without hope. Itis their only hope, and I says no one has a right to take it from them. "

"What about their poor wives? Very little good their betting is to them. It's all very well to talk like that, William, but you know, and you can'tsay you don't, that a great deal of mischief comes of betting; you knowthat once they think of it and nothing else, they neglect their work. There's Stack, he's lost his place as porter; there's Journeyman, too, he's out of work. "

"And a good thing for them; they've done a great deal better since theychucked it. "

"For the time, maybe; but who says it will go on? Look at old John; he'sgoing about in rags; and his poor wife, she was in here the other night, aterrible life she's 'ad of it. You says that no 'arm comes of it. Whatabout that boy that was 'ad up the other day, and said that it was allthrough betting? He began by pawning his father's watch. It was here thathe made the first bet. You won't tell me that it is right to bet with bitsof boys like that. "

"The horse he backed with me won. "

"So much the worse.... The boy'll never do another honest day's work aslong as he lives.... When they win, they 'as a drink for luck; when theyloses, they 'as a drink to cheer them up. "

"I'm afraid, Esther, you ought to have married the other chap. He'd havegiven you the life that you'd have been happy in. This public-'ouse ain'tsuited to you. "

Esther turned round and her eyes met her husband's. There was a strangeremoteness in his look, and they seemed very far from each other. 

"I was brought up to think so differently, " she said, her thoughts goingback to her early years in the little southern seaside home. "I supposethis betting and drinking will always seem to me sinful and wicked. Ishould 'ave liked quite a different kind of life, but we don't choose ourlives, we just makes the best of them. You was the father of my child, andit all dates from that. "

"I suppose it do. "

William lay on his back, and blew the smoke swiftly from his mouth. 

"If you smoke much more we shan't be able to breathe in this room. "

"I won't smoke no more. Shall I blow the candle out?"

"Yes, if you like. "

When the room was in darkness, just before they settled their faces on thepillow for sleep, William said--

"It was good of that fellow to come and warn us. I must be very carefulfor the future with whom I bet. "

XXXVII

On Sunday, as soon as dinner was over, Esther had intended to go to EastDulwich to see Mrs. Lewis. But as she closed the door behind her, she sawSarah coming up the street. 

"Ah, I see you're going out. "

"It don't matter; won't you come in, if it's only for a minute?"

"No, thank you, I won't keep you. But which way are you going? We might goa little way together. "

They walked down Waterloo Place and along Pall Mall. In Trafalgar Squarethere was a demonstration, and Sarah lingered in the crowd so long thatwhen they arrived at Charing Cross, Esther found that she could not get toLudgate Hill in time to catch her train, so they went into the EmbankmentGardens. It had been raining, and the women wiped the seats with theirhandkerchiefs before sitting down. There was no fashion to interest them, and the band sounded foolish in the void of the grey London Sunday. Sarah's chatter was equally irrelevant, and Esther wondered how Sarahcould talk so much about nothing, and regretted her visit to East Dulwichmore and more. Suddenly Bill's name came into the conversation. 

"But I thought you didn't see him any more; you promised us you wouldn't. "

"I couldn't help it.... It was quite an accident. One day, coming backfrom church with Annie--that's the new housemaid--he came up and spoke tous. "

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'How are ye?... Who'd thought of meeting you!'"

"And what did you say?"

"I said I didn't want to have nothing to do with him. Annie walked on, andthen he said he was very sorry, that it was bad luck that drove him toit. "

"And you believed him?"

"I daresay it is very foolish of me. But one can't help oneself. Did youever really care for a man?"

And without waiting for an answer, Sarah continued her babbling chatter. She had asked him not to come after her; she thought he was sorry for whathe had done. She mentioned incidentally that he had been away in thecountry and had come back with very particular information regarding acertain horse for the Cesarewitch. If the horse won he'd be all right. 

At last Esther's patience was tired out. 

"It must be getting late, " she said, looking towards where the sun wassetting. The river rippled, and the edges of the warehouses hadperceptibly softened; a wind, too, had come up with the tide, and thewomen shivered as they passed under the arch of Waterloo Bridge. Theyascended a flight of high steps and walked through a passage into theStrand. 

"I was miserable enough with him; we used to have hardly anything to eat;but I'm more miserable away from him. Esther, I know you'll laugh at me, but I'm that heart-broken... I can't live without him... I'd do anythingfor him. "

"He isn't worth it. "

"That don't make no difference. You don't know what love is; a woman whohasn't loved a man who don't love her, don't. We used to live near here. Do you mind coming up Drury Lane? I should like to show you the house. "

"I'm afraid it will be out of our way. "

"No, it won't. Round by the church and up Newcastle Street.... Look, there's a shop we used to go to sometimes. I've eaten many a good sausageand onions in there, and that's a pub where we often used to go for adrink. "

The courts and alleys had vomited their population into the Lane. Fatgirls clad in shawls sat around the slum opening nursing their babies. Oldwomen crouched in decrepit doorways, fumbling their aprons; skipping ropeswhirled in the roadway. A little higher up a vendor of cheap ices had setup his store and was rapidly absorbing all the pennies of theneighborhood. Esther and Sarah turned into a dilapidated court, where ahag argued the price of trotters with a family leaning one over the otherout of a second-floor window. This was the block in which Sarah had lived. A space had been cleared by the builder, and the other side was shut in bythe great wall of the old theatre. 

"That's where we used to live, " said Sarah, pointing up to the thirdfloor. "I fancy our house will soon come down. When I see the old place itall comes back to me. I remember pawning a dress over the way in the lane;they would only lend me a shilling on it. And you see that shop--theshutters is up, it being Sunday; it is a sort of butcher's, cheap meat, livers and lights, trotters, and such-like. I bought a bullock's heartthere, and stewed it down with some potatoes; we did enjoy it, I can tellyou. "

Sarah talked so eagerly of herself that Esther had not the heart tointerrupt her. They made their way out into Catherine Street, and then toEndell Street, and then going round to St. Giles' Church, they plungedinto the labyrinth of Soho. 

"I'm afraid I'm tiring you. I don't see what interest all this can be toyou. "

"We've known each other a long time. "

Sarah looked at her, and then, unable to resist the temptation, shecontinued her narrative--Bill had said this, she had said that. Sherattled on, until they came to the corner of Old Compton Street. Esther, who was a little tired of her, held out her hand. "I suppose you must begetting back; would you like a drop of something?"

"It is going on for seven o'clock; but since you're that kind I think I'dlike a glass of beer. "

"Do you listen much to the betting talk here of an evening?" Sarah asked, as she was leaving. 

"I don't pay much attention, but I can't help hearing a good deal. "

"Do they talk much about Ben Jonson for the Cesarewitch?"

"They do, indeed; he's all the go. "

Sarah's face brightened perceptibly, and Esther said--

"Have you backed him?'

"Only a trifle; half-a-crown that a friend put me on. Do they say he'llwin?"

"They say that if he don't break down he'll win by 'alf a mile; it alldepends on his leg. "

"Is he coming on in the betting?"

"Yes, I believe they're now taking 12 to 1 about him. But I'll askWilliam, if you like. "

"No, no, I only wanted to know if you'd heard anything new. "

XXXVIII

During the next fortnight Sarah came several times to the "King's Head. "She came in about nine in the evening, and stayed for half-an-hour ormore. The ostensible object of her visit was to see Esther, but shedeclined to come into the private bar, where they would have chattedcomfortably, and remained in the public bar listening to the men'sconversation, listening and nodding while old John explained the horse'sstaying power to her. On the following evening all her interest was inKetley. She wanted to know if anything had happened that might beconsidered as an omen. She said she had dreamed about the race, but herdream was only a lot of foolish rubbish without head or tail. Ketleyargued earnestly against this view of a serious subject, and in the hopeof convincing her of her error offered to walk as far as Oxford Streetwith her and put her into her 'bus. But on the following evening all herinterest was centered in Mr. Journeyman, who declared that he could provethat according to the weight it seemed to him to look more and more like acertainty. He had let the horse in at six stone ten pounds, the officialhandicapper had only given him six stone seven pounds. 

"They is a-sending of him along this week, and if the leg don't go it is ahundred pound to a brass farthing on the old horse. "

"How many times will they gallop him?" Sarah asked. 

"He goes a mile and a 'arf every day now.... The day after to-morrowthey'll try him, just to see that he hasn't lost his turn of speed, and ifhe don't break down in the trial you can take it from me that it will beall right. "

"When will you know the result of the trial?"

"I expect a letter on Friday morning, " said Stack. "If you come in in theevening I'll let you know about it. "

"Thank you very much, Mr. Stack. I must be getting home now. "

"I'm going your way, Miss Tucker.... If you like, we'll go together, andI'll tell you, " he whispered, "all about the 'orse. "

When they had left the bar the conversation turned on racing as anoccupation for women. 

"Fancy my wife making a book on the course. I bet she'd overlay it andthen turn round and back the favourite at a shorter price than she'd beenlaying. "

"I don't know that we should be any foolisher than you, " said Esther;"don't you never go and overlay your book? What about Syntax and the 'orseyou told me about last week?"

William had been heavily hit last week through overlaying his book againsta horse he didn't believe in, and the whole bar joined in the laughagainst him. 

"I don't say nothing about bookmaking, " said Journeyman; "but there's agreat many women nowadays who is mighty sharp at spotting a 'orse that thehandicapper had let in pretty easy. "

"This one, " said Ketley, jerking his thumb in the direction that Stack andSarah had gone, "seems to 'ave got hold of something. "

"We must ask Stack when he comes back, " and Journeyman winked at William. 

"Women do get that excited over trifles, " old John remarked, sarcastically. "She ain't got above 'alf-a-crown on the 'orse, if that. She don't care about the 'orse or the race--no woman ever did; it's allabout some sweetheart that's been piling it on. "

"I wonder if you're right, " said Esther, reflectively. "I never knew herbefore to take such an interest in a horse-race. "

On the day of the race Sarah came into the private bar about threeo'clock. The news was not yet in. 

"Wouldn't you like to step into the parlour; you'll be more comfortable?"said Esther. 

"No thank you, dear; it is not worth while. I thought I'd like to knowwhich won, that's all. "

"Have you much on?"

"No, five shillings altogether.... But a friend of mine stands to win agood bit. I see you've got a new dress, dear. When did you get it?"

"I've had the stuff by me some time. I only had it made up last month. Doyou like it?"

Sarah answered that she thought it very pretty. But Esther could see thatshe was thinking of something quite different. 

"The race is over now. It's run at half-past two. "

"Yes, but they're never quite punctual; there may be a delay at the post. "

"I see you know all about it. "

"One never hears of anything else. "

Esther asked Sarah when her people came back to town, and was surprised atthe change of expression that the question brought to her friend's face. 

"They're expected back to-morrow, " she said. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing; something to say, that's all. "

The conversation paused, and the two women looked at each other. At thatmoment a voice coming rapidly towards them was heard calling, "Win-ner, win-ner!"

"I'll send out for the paper, " said Esther. 

"No, no... Suppose he shouldn't have won?"

"Well, it won't make any difference. "

"Oh, Esther, no; some one will come in and tell us. The race can't be overyet; it is a long race, and takes some time to run. "

By this time the boy was far away, and fainter and fainter the terribleword, "Win-ner, win-ner, win-ner. "

"It's too late now, " said Sarah; "some one'll come in presently and tellus about it.... I daresay it ain't the paper at all. Them boys cries outanything that will sell. "

"Win-ner, win-ner. " The voice was coming towards them. 

"If he has won, Bill and I is to marry.... Somehow I feel as if hehasn't. "

"Win-ner. "

"We shall soon know. " Esther took a halfpenny from the till. 

"Don't you think we'd better wait? It can't be printed in the papers, notthe true account, and if it was wrong--" Esther didn't answer; she gaveCharles the halfpenny; he went out, and in a few minutes came back withthe paper in his hand. "Tornado first, Ben Jonson second, Woodcraftthird, " he read out. "That's a good thing for the guv'nor. There was veryfew what backed Tornado.... He's only lost some place-money. "

"So he was only second, " said Sarah, turning deadly pale. "They said hewas certain to win. "

"I hope you've not lost much, " said Esther. "It wasn't with William thatyou backed him. "

"No, it wasn't with William. I only had a few shillings on. It don'tmatter. Let me have a drink. "

"What will you have?"

"Some whisky. "

Sarah drank it neat. Esther looked at her doubtfully. 

The bars would be empty for the next two hours; Esther wished to utilizethis time; she had some shopping to do, and asked Sarah to come with her. But Sarah complained of being tired, and said she would see her when shecame back. 

Esther went out a little perplexed. She was detained longer than sheexpected, and when she returned Sarah was staggering about in thebar-room, asking Charles for one more drink. 

"All bloody rot; who says I'm drunk? I ain't... Look at me. The 'orse didnot win, did he? I say he did; papers all so much bloody rot. "

"Oh, Sarah, what is this?"

"Who's this? Leave go, I say. "

"Mr. Stack, won't you ask her to come upstairs?... Don't encourage her. "

"Upstairs? I'm a free woman. I don't want to go upstairs. I'm a freewoman; tell me, " she said, balancing herself with difficulty and staringat Esther with dull, fishy eyes, "tell me if I'm not a free woman? What doI want upstairs for?"

"Oh, Sarah, come upstairs and lie down. Don't go out. "

"I'm going home. Hands off, hands off!" she said, slapping Esther's handsfrom her arm. 

"'For every one was drunk last night, And drunk the night before;And if we don't get drunk to-night, We don't get drunk no more. 

(Chorus. )

"'Now you will have a drink with me, And I will drink with you;For we're the very rowdiest lotOf the rowdy Irish crew. '

"That's what we used to sing in the Lane, yer know; should 'ave seen thecoster gals with their feathers, dancing and clinking their pewters. Rippin Day, Bank 'oliday, Epping, under the trees--'ow they did romp, them gals!

"'We all was roaring drunk last night, And drunk the night before;And if we don't get drunk to-night, We won't get drunk no more. '

"Girls and boys, you know, all together. "

"Sarah, listen to me. "

"Listen! Come and have a drink, old gal, just another drink. " Shestaggered up to the counter. "One more, just for luck; do yer 'ear?"Before Charles could stop her she had seized the whisky that had just beenserved. "That's my whisky, " exclaimed Journeyman. He made a rapidmovement, but was too late. Sarah had drained the glass and stood vacantlylooking into space. Journeyman seemed so disconcerted at the loss of hiswhisky that every one laughed. 

A few moments after Sarah staggered forward and fell insensible into hisarms. He and Esther carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed in thespare room. 

"She'll be precious bad to-morrow, " said Journeyman. 

"I don't know how you could have gone on helping her, " Esther said toCharles when she got inside the bar; and she seemed so pained that out ofdeference to her feelings the subject was dropped out of the conversation. Esther felt that something shocking had happened. Sarah had deliberatelygot drunk. She would not have done that unless she had some great troubleon her mind. William, too, was of this opinion. Something serious musthave happened. As they went up to their room Esther said--

"It is all the fault of this betting. The neighbourhood is completelyruined. They're losing their 'omes and their furniture, and you'll bearthe blame of it. "

"It do make me so wild to hear you talkin' that way, Esther. People willbet, you can't stop them. I lays fair prices, and they're sure of theirmoney. Yet you says they're losin' their furniture, and that I shall haveto bear the blame. "

When they got to the top of the stairs she said--

"I must go and see how Sarah is. "

"Where am I? What's happened?... Take that candle out of my eyes.... Oh, my head is that painful. " She fell back on the pillow, and Esther thoughtshe had gone to sleep again. But she opened her eyes. "Where am I?... That's you, Esther?"

"Yes. Can't you remember?"

"No, I can't. I remember that the 'orse didn't win, but don't remembernothing after.... I got drunk, didn't I? It feels like it. "

"The 'orse didn't win, and then you took too much. It's very foolish ofyou to give way. "

"Give way! Drunk, what matter? I'm done for. "

"Did you lose much?"

"It wasn't what I lost, it was what I took. I gave Bill the plate topledge; it's all gone, and master and missis coming back tomorrow. Don'ttalk about it. I got drunk so that I shouldn't think of it. "

"Oh, Sarah, I didn't think it was as bad as that. You must tell me allabout it. "

"I don't want to think about it. They'll come soon enough to take me away. Besides, I cannot remember nothing now. My mouth's that awful--Give me adrink. Never mind the glass, give me the water-bottle. "

She drank ravenously, and seemed to recover a little. Esther pressed herto tell her about the pledged plate. "You know that I'm your friend. You'dbetter tell me. I want to help you out of this scrape. "

"No one can help me now, I'm done for. Let them come and take me. I'll gowith them. I shan't say nothing. "

"How much is it in for? Don't cry like that, " Esther said, and she tookout her handkerchief and wiped Sarah's eyes. "How much is it in for?Perhaps I can get my husband to lend me the money to get it out. "

"It's no use trying to help me.... Esther, I can't talk about it now; Ishall go mad if I do. "

"Tell me how much you got on it. "

"Thirty pounds. "

It took a long time to undress her. Every now and then she made an effort, and another article of clothing was got off. When Esther returned to herroom William was asleep, and Esther took him by the shoulder. 

"It is more serious than I thought, " she shouted. "I want to tell youabout it. "

"What about it?" he said, opening his eyes. 

"She has pledged the plate for thirty pounds to back that 'orse. "

"What 'orse?"

"Ben Jonson. "

"He broke down at the bushes. If he hadn't I should have been broke up. The whole neighbourhood was on him. So she pledged the plate to back him. She didn't do that to back him herself. Some one must have put her up toit. "

"Yes, it was Bill Evans. "

"Ah, that blackguard put her up to it. I thought she'd left him for good. She promised us that she'd never speak to him again. "

"You see, she was that fond of him that she couldn't help herself. There'smany that can't. "

"How much did they get on the plate?"

"Thirty pounds. "

William blew a long whistle. Then, starting up in the bed, he said, "Shecan't stop here. If it comes out that it was through betting, it won't dothis house any good. We're already suspected. There's that old sweetheartof yours, the Salvation cove, on the lookout for evidence of betting beingcarried on. "

"She'll go away in the morning. But I thought that you might lend her themoney to get the plate out. "

"What! thirty pounds?"

"It's a deal of money, I know; but I thought that you might be able tomanage it. You've been lucky over this race. "

"Yes, but think of all I've lost this summer. This is the first bit ofluck I've had for a long while. "

"I thought you might be able to manage it. "

Esther stood by the bedside, her knee leaned against the edge. She seemedto him at that moment as the best woman in the world, and he said--

"Thirty pounds is no more to me than two-pence-halfpenny if you wish it, Esther. "

"I haven't been an extravagant wife, have I?" she said, getting into bedand taking him in her arms. "I never asked you for money before. She's myfriend--she's yours too--we've known her all our lives. We can't see hergo to prison, can we, Bill, without raising a finger to save her?"

She had never called him Bill before, and the familiar abbreviationtouched him, and he said--

"I owe everything to you, Esther; everything that's mine is yours. But, "he said, drawing away so that he might see her better, "what do you say ifI ask something of you?"

"What are you going to ask me?"

"I want you to say that you won't bother me no more about the betting. Youwas brought up to think it wicked. I know all that, but you see we can'tdo without it. "

"Do you think not?"

"Don't the thirty pounds you're asking for Sarah come out of betting?"

"I suppose it do. "

"Most certainly it do. "

"I can't help feeling, Bill, that we shan't always be so lucky as we havebeen. "

"You mean that you think that one of these days we shall have the policedown upon us?"

"Don't you sometimes think that we can't always go on without beingcaught? Every day I hear of the police being down on some betting club orother. "

"They've been down on a great number lately, but what can I do? We alwayscome back to that. I haven't the health to work round from race-course torace-course as I used to. But I've got an idea, Esther. I've been thinkingover things a great deal lately, and--give me my pipe--there, it's just byyou. Now, hold the candle, like a good girl. "

William pulled at his pipe until it was fully lighted. He threw himself onhis back, and then he said--

"I've been thinking things over. The betting 'as brought us a nice bit oftrade here. If we can work up the business a bit more we might, let's sayin a year from now, be able to get as much for the 'ouse as we gave.... What do you think of buying a business in the country, a 'ouse doing asteady trade? I've had enough of London, the climate don't suit me as itused to. I fancy I should be much better in the country, somewhere on theSouth Coast. Bournemouth way, what do you think?"

Before Esther could reply William was taken with a fit of coughing, andhis great broad frame was shaken as if it were so much paper. 

"I'm sure, " said Esther, when he had recovered himself a little, "that agood deal of your trouble comes from that pipe. It's never out of yourmouth.... I feel like choking myself. "

"I daresay I smoke too much.... I'm not the man I was. I can feel it plainenough. Put my pipe down and blow out the candle.... I didn't ask you howSarah was. "

"Very bad. She was half dazed and didn't tell me much. "

"She didn't tell you where she had pledged the plate?"

"No, I will ask her about that to-morrow morning. " Leaning forward sheblew out the candle. The wick smouldered red for a moment, and they fellasleep happy in each other's love, seeming to find new bonds of union inpity for their friend's misfortune. 

XXXIX

"Sarah, you must make an effort and try to dress yourself. "

"Oh, I do feel that bad, I wish I was dead!"

"You must not give way like that; let me help you put on your stockings. "

Sarah looked at Esther. "You're very good to me, but I can manage. " Whenshe had drawn on her stockings her strength was exhausted, and she fellback on the pillow. 

Esther waited a few minutes. "Here're your petticoats. Just tie them roundyou; I'll lend you a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers. "

William was having breakfast in the parlour. "Well, feeling a bit poorly?"he said to Sarah. "What'll you have? There's a nice bit of fried fish. Notfeeling up to it?"

"Oh, no! I couldn't touch anything. " She let herself drop on the sofa. 

"A cup of tea'll do you good, " said Esther. "You must have a cup of tea, and a bit of toast just to nibble. William, pour her out a cup of tea. "

When she had drunk the tea she said she felt a little better. 

"Now, " said William, "let's 'ear all about it. Esther has told you, nodoubt, that we intend to do all we can to help you. "

"You can't help me.... I'm done for, " she replied dolefully. 

"I don't know about that, " said William. "You gave that brute Bill Evansthe plate to pawn, so far as I know. "

"There isn't much more to tell. He said the horse was sure to win. He wasat thirty to one at that time. A thousand to thirty. Bill said with thatmoney we could buy a public-house in the country. He wanted to settledown, he wanted to get out of--I don't want to say nothing against him. Hesaid if I would only give him this chance of leading a respectable life, we was to be married immediately after. "

"He told you all that, did he? He said he'd give you a 'ome of your own, Iknow. A regular rotter; that man is about as bad as they make 'em. And youbelieved it all?"

"It wasn't so much what I believed as what I couldn't help myself. He hadgot that influence over me that my will wasn't my own. I don't know how itis--I suppose men have stronger natures than women. I 'ardly knew what Iwas doing; it was like sleep-walking. He looked at me and said, 'You'dbetter do it. ' I did it, and I suppose I'll have to go to prison for it. What I says is just the truth, but no one believes tales like that. Howlong do you think they'll give me?"

"I hope we shall be able to get you out of this scrape. You got thirtypounds on the plate. Esther has told you that I'm ready to lend you themoney to get it out. "

"Will you do this? You're good friends indeed.... But I shall never beable to pay you back such a lot of money. "

"We won't say nothing about paying back; all we want you to do is to saythat you'll never see that fellow again. "

A change of expression came over Sarah's face, and William said, "You'resurely not still hankering after him?"

"No, indeed I'm not. But whenever I meets him he somehow gets his way withme. It's terrible to love a man as I love him. I know he don't really carefor me--I know he is all you say, and yet I can't help myself. It isbetter to be honest with you. "

William looked puzzled. At the end of a long silence he said, "If it'slike that I don't see that we can do anything. "

"Have patience, William. Sarah don't know what she's saying. She'llpromise not to see him again. "

"You're very kind to me. I know I'm very foolish. I promised before not tosee him, and I couldn't keep my promise. "

"You can stop with us until you get a situation in the country, " saidEsther, "where you'll be out of his way. "

"I might do that. "

"I don't like to part with my money, " said William, "if it is to do no oneany good. " Esther looked at him, and he added, "It is just as Estherwishes, of course; I'm not giving you the money, it is she. "

"It is both of us, " said Esther; "you'll do what I said, Sarah?"

"Oh, yes, anything you say, Esther, " and she flung herself into herfriend's arms and wept bitterly. 

"Now we want to know where you pawned the plate, " said William. 

"A long way from here. Bill said he knew a place where it would be quitesafe. I was to say that my mistress left it to me; he said that would besufficient.... It was in the Mile End Road. "

"You'd know the shop again?" said William. 

"But she's got the ticket, " said Esther. 

"No, I ain't got the ticket; Bill has it. "

"Then I'm afraid the game's up. "

"Do be quiet, " said Esther, angrily. "If you want to get out of lendingthe money say so and have done with it. "

"That's not true, Esther. If you want another thirty to pay him to give upthe ticket, you can have it. "

Esther thanked her husband with one quick look. "I'm sorry, " she said, "mytemper is that hasty. But you know where he lives, " she said, turning tothe wretched woman who sat on the sofa pale and trembling. 

"Yes, I know where he lives--13 Milward Square, Mile End Road. "

"Then we've no time to lose; we must go after him at once. "

"No, William dear; you must not; you'd only lose your temper, and he mightdo you an injury. "

"An injury! I'd soon show him which was the best man of the two. "

"I'll not hear of it, Sarah. He mustn't go with you. "

"Come, Esther, don't be foolish. Let me go. "

He had taken his hat from the peg. Esther got between him and the door. 

"I forbid it, " she said; "I will not let you go--perhaps to have a fight, and with that cough. "

William was coughing. He had turned pale, and he said, leaning against thetable, "Give me something to drink, a little milk. "

Esther poured some into a cup. He sipped it slowly. "I'll go upstairs, "she said, "for my hat and jacket. You've got your betting to attend to. "William smiled. "Sarah, mind, he's not to go with you. "

"You forget what you said last night about the betting. "

"Never mind what I said last night about the betting; what I say now isthat you're not to leave the bar. Come upstairs, Sarah, and dressyourself, and let's be off. "

Stack and Journeyman were waiting to speak to him. They had lost heavilyover old Ben and didn't know how they'd pull through; and the wholeneighbourhood was in the same plight; the bar was filled with gloomyfaces. 

And as William scanned their disconcerted faces--clerks, hair-dressers, waiters from the innumerable eating houses--he could not help thinkingthat perhaps more than one of them had taken money that did not belong tothem to back Ben Jonson. The unexpected disaster had upset all theirplans, and even the wary ones who had a little reserve fund could not helpbacking outsiders, hoping by the longer odds to retrieve yesterday'slosses. At two the bar was empty, and William waited for Esther and Sarahto return from Mile End. It seemed to him that they were a long time away. But Mile End is not close to Soho; and when they returned, between fourand five, he saw at once that they had been unsuccessful. He lifted up theflap in the counter and all three went into the parlour. 

"He left Milward Square yesterday, " Esther said. "Then we went to anotheraddress, and then to another; we went to all the places Sarah had been towith him, but no tidings anywhere. "

Sarah burst into tears. "There's no more hope, " she said. "I'm done for;they'll come and take me away. How much do you think I'll get? They won'tgive me ten years, will they?"

"I can see nothing else for you to do, " said Esther, "but to go straightback to your people and tell them the whole story, and throw yourself ontheir mercy. "

"Do you mean that she should say that she pawned the plate to get money toback a horse?"

"Of course I do. "

"It will make the police more keen than ever on the betting houses. "

"That can't be helped. "

"She'd better not be took here, " said William; "it will do a great deal ofharm.... It don't make no difference to her where she's took, do it?"

Esther did not answer. 

"I'll go away. I don't want to get no one into trouble, " Sarah said, andshe got up from the sofa. 

At that moment Charles opened the door, and said, "You're wanted in thebar, sir. "

William went out quickly. He returned a moment after. There was a scaredlook on his face. "They're here, " he said. He was followed by twopolicemen. Sarah uttered a little cry. 

"Your name is Sarah Tucker?" said the first policeman. 

"Yes. "

"You're charged with robbery by Mr. Sheldon, 34, Cumberland Place. "

"Shall I be taken through the streets?"

"If you like to pay for it, you can go in a cab, " the police-officerreplied. 

"I'll go with you, dear, " Esther said. William plucked her by the sleeve. "It will do no good. Why should you go?"

XL

The magistrate of course sent the case for trial, and the thirty poundswhich William had promised to give to Esther went to pay for the defence. There seemed at first some hope that the prosecution would not be able toprove its case, but fresh evidence connecting Sarah with the abstractionof the plate was forthcoming, and in the end it was thought advisable thatthe plea of not guilty should be withdrawn. The efforts of counsel weretherefore directed towards a mitigation of sentence. Counsel called Estherand William for the purpose of proving the excellent character that theprisoner had hitherto borne; counsel spoke of the evil influence intowhich the prisoner had fallen, and urged that she had no intention ofactually stealing the plate. Tempted by promises, she had been persuadedto pledge the plate in order to back a horse which she had been told wascertain to win. If that horse had won, the plate would have been redeemedand returned to its proper place in the owner's house, and the prisonerwould have been able to marry. Possibly the marriage on which the prisonerhad set her heart would have turned out more unfortunate for the prisonerthan the present proceedings. Counsel had not words strong enough tostigmatise the character of a man who, having induced a girl to imperilher liberty for his own vile ends, was cowardly enough to abandon her inthe hour of her deepest distress. Counsel drew attention to the trustingnature of the prisoner, who had not only pledged her employer's plate athis base instigation, but had likewise been foolish enough to confide thepawn-ticket to his keeping. Such was the prisoner's story, and hesubmitted that it bore on the face of it the stamp of truth. A very sadstory, but one full of simple, foolish, trusting humanity, and, havingregard to the excellent character the prisoner had borne, counsel hopedthat his lordship would see his way to dealing leniently with her. 

His Lordship, whose gallantries had been prolonged over half a century, and whose betting transactions were matters of public comment, pursed uphis ancient lips and fixed his dead glassy eyes on the prisoner. He saidhe regretted that he could not take the same view of the prisoner'scharacter as learned counsel had done. The police had made every effort toapprehend the man Evans who, according to the prisoner's story, was theprincipal culprit. But the efforts of the police had been unavailing; theyhad, however, found traces of the man Evans, who undoubtedly did exist, and need not be considered to be a near relative of our friend Mrs. Harris. And the little joke provoked some amusement in the court; learnedcounsel settled their robes becomingly and leant forward to listen. Theywere in for a humorous speech, and the prisoner would get off with a lightsentence. But the grim smile waxed duller, and it was clear that lordshipwas determined to make the law a terror to evil-doers. Lordship drewattention to the fact that during the course of their investigations thepolice had discovered that the prisoner had been living for someconsiderable time with the man Evans, during which time several robberieshad been effected. There was no evidence, it was true, to connect theprisoner with these robberies. The prisoner had left the man Evans and hadobtained a situation in the house of her present employers. When thecharacters she had received from her former employers were being examinedshe had accounted for the year she had spent with the man Evans by sayingthat she had been staying with the Latches, the publicans who had givenevidence in her favour. It had also come to the knowledge of the policethat the man Evans used to frequent the "King's Head, " that was the houseowned by the Latches; it was probable that she had made there theacquaintance of the man Evans. The prisoner had referred her employers tothe Latches, who had lent their sanction to the falsehood regarding theyear she was supposed to have spent with them, but which she had reallyspent in cohabitation with a notorious thief. Here lordship indulged insevere remarks against those who enabled not wholly irreproachablecharacters to obtain situations by false pretences, a very common habit, and one attended with great danger to society, one which society would dowell to take precautions to defend itself against. 

The plate, his Lordship remarked, was said to have been pawned, but therewas nothing to show that it had been pawned, the prisoner's explanationbeing that she had given the pawn-ticket to the man Evans. She could nottell where she had pawned the plate, her tale being that she and the manEvans had gone down to Whitechapel together and pawned it in the Mile EndRoad. But she did not know the number of the pawnbroker's, nor could shegive any indications as to its whereabouts--beyond the mere fact that itwas in the Mile End Road she could say nothing. All the pawnbrokers in theMile End Road had been searched, but no plate answering to the descriptionfurnished by the prosecution could be found. 

Learned counsel had endeavoured to show that it had been in a measureunpremeditated, that it was the result of a passing but irresistibletemptation. Learned counsel had endeavoured to introduce some element ofromance into the case; he had described the theft as the outcome of theprisoner's desire of marriage, but lordship could not find such purity ofmotive in the prisoner's crime. There was nothing to show that there wasany thought of marriage in the prisoner's mind; the crime was the result, not of any desire of marriage, but rather the result of vicious passion, concubinage. Regarding the plea that the crime was unpremeditated, it wasonly necessary to point out that it had been committed for a distinctpurpose and had been carried out in conjunction with an accomplishedthief. 

"There is now only one more point which I wish to refer to, and that isthe plea that the prisoner did not intend to steal the plate, but only toobtain money upon it to enable her and the partner in her guilt to back ahorse for a race which they believed to be--" his Lordship was about tosay a certainty for him; he stopped himself, however, in time--"to be, tobe, which they believed him to be capable of winning. The race in questionis, I think, called the Cesarewitch, and the name of the horse (lordshiphad lost three hundred on Ben Jonson), if my memory serves me right (herelordship fumbled amid papers), yes, the name is, as I thought, Ben Jonson. Now, the learned counsel for the defence suggested that, if the horse hadwon, the plate would have been redeemed and restored to its proper placein the pantry cupboards. This, I venture to point out, is a merehypothesis. The money might have been again used for the purpose ofgambling. I confess that I do not see why we should condone the prisoner'soffence because it was committed for the sake of obtaining money forgambling purposes. Indeed, it seems to me a reason for dealing heavilywith the offence. The vice among the poorer classes is largely on theincrease, and it seems to me that it is the duty of all in authority tocondemn rather than to condone the evil, and to use every effort to stampit out. For my part I fail to perceive any romantic element in the vice ofgambling. It springs from the desire to obtain wealth without work, inother words, without payment; work, whether in the past or the present, isthe natural payment for wealth, and any wealth that is obtained withoutwork is in a measure a fraud committed upon the community. Poverty, despair, idleness, and every other vice spring from gambling as naturally, and in the same profusion, as weeds from barren land. Drink, too, isgambling's firmest ally. "

At this moment a certain dryness in his Lordship's throat reminded him ofthe pint of excellent claret that lordship always drank with his lunch, and the thought enabled lordship to roll out some excellent invectiveagainst the evils of beer and spirits. And lordship's losses on the horsewhose name he could hardly recall helped to a forcible illustration of thetheory that drink and gambling mutually uphold and enforce each other. When the news that Ben Jonson had broken down at the bushes came in, lordship had drunk a magnum of champagne, and memory of this champagneinspired a telling description of the sinking feeling consequent on theloss of a wager, and the natural inclination of a man to turn to drink tocounteract it. Drink and gambling are growing social evils; in a greatmeasure they are circumstantial, and only require absolute legislation tostamp them out almost entirely. This was not the first case of the kindthat had come before him; it was one of many, but it was a typical case, presenting all the familiar features of the vice of which he had thereforespoken at unusual length. Such cases were on the increase, and if theycontinued to increase, the powers of the law would have to bestrengthened. But even as the law stood at present, betting-houses, public-houses in which betting was carried on, were illegal, and it wasthe duty of the police to leave no means untried to unearth the offendersand bring them to justice. Lordship then glanced at the trembling woman inthe dock. He condemned her to eighteen months' hard labour, and gatheringup the papers on the desk, dismissed her for ever from his mind. 

The court adjourned for lunch, and Esther and William edged their way outof the crowd of lawyers and their clerks. Neither spoke for some time. William was much exercised by his Lordship's remarks on bettingpublic-houses, and his advice that the police should increase theirvigilance and leave no means untried to uproot that which was the curseand the ruin of the lower classes. It was the old story, one law for therich, another for the poor. William did not seek to probe the question anyfurther, this examination seemed to him to have exhausted it; and heremembered, after all that the hypocritical judge had said, how difficultit would be to escape detection. When he was caught he would be fined ahundred pounds, and probably lose his licence. What would he do then? Hedid not confide his fears to Esther. She had promised to say no more aboutthe betting; but she had not changed her opinion. She was one of thosestubborn ones who would rather die than admit they were wrong. Then hewondered what she thought of his Lordship's speech. Esther was thinking ofthe thin gruel Sarah would have to eat, the plank bed on which she wouldhave to sleep, and the miserable future that awaited her when she shouldbe released from gaol. 

It was a bright winter's day; the City folk were walking rapidly, tightlybuttoned up in top-coats, and in a windy sky a flock of pigeons floated onstraightened wings above the telegraph wires. Fleet Street was full ofjournalists going to luncheon-bars and various eating-houses. Their hurryand animation were remarkable, and Esther noticed how laggard wasWilliam's walk by comparison, how his clothes hung loose about him, andthat the sharp air was at work on his lungs, making him cough. She askedhim to button himself up more closely. 

"Is not that old John's wife?" Esther said. 

"Yes, that's her, " said William. "She'd have seen us if that cove hadn'tgiven her the shilling.... Lord, I didn't think they was as badly off asthat. Did you ever see such rags? and that thick leg wrapped up in thatawful stocking. "

The morning had been full of sadness, and Mrs. Randal's wandering rags hadseemed to Esther like a foreboding. She grew frightened, as the cattle doin the fields when the sky darkens and the storm draws near. She suddenlyremembered Mrs. Barfield, and she heard her telling her of the unhappinessthat she had seen come from betting. Where was Mrs. Barfield? Should sheever see her again? Mr. Barfield was dead, Miss May was forced to liveabroad for the sake of her health; all that time of long ago was over anddone with. Some words that Mrs. Barfield had said came back to her; shehad never quite understood them, but she had never quite forgotten them;they seemed to chime through her life. "My girl, " Mrs. Barfield had said, "I am more than twenty years older than you, and I assure you that timehas passed like a little dream; life is nothing. We must think of whatcomes after. "

"Cheer up, old girl; eighteen months is a long while, but it ain't alifetime. She'll get through it all right; and when she comes out we'lltry to see what we can do for her. "

William's voice startled Esther from the depth of her dream; she looked athim vaguely, and he saw that she had been thinking of something differentfrom what he had suspected. "I thought it was on account of Sarah that youwas looking so sad. "

"No, " she said, "I was not thinking of Sarah. "

Then, taking it for granted that she was thinking of the wickedness ofbetting, his face darkened. It was aggravating to have a wife who wasalways troubling about things that couldn't be helped. The first personthey saw on entering the bar was old John; and he sat in the corner of thebar on a high stool, his grey, death-like face sunk in the old unstarchedshirt collar. The thin, wrinkled throat was hid with the remains of acravat; it was passed twice round, and tied according to the fashions offifty years ago. His boots were broken; the trousers, a grey, dirty brown, were torn as high up as the ankle; they had been mended and the patcheshardly held together; the frock coat, green with age, with huge flaps overthe pockets, frayed and torn, and many sizes too large, hung upon hisstarveling body. He seemed very feeble, and there was neither light norexpression in his glassy, watery eyes. 

"Eighteen months; a devil of a stiff sentence for a first offence, " saidWilliam. 

"I just dropped in. Charles said you'd sure to be back. You're later thanI expected. "

"We stopped to have a bit of lunch. But you heard what I said. She goteighteen months. "

"Who got eighteen months?"

"Sarah. "

"Ah, Sarah. She was tried to-day. So she got eighteen months. "

"What's the matter? Wake up; you're half asleep. What will you have todrink?"

"A glass of milk, if you've got such a thing. "

"Glass of milk! What is it, old man--not feeling well?"

"Not very well. The fact is, I'm starving. "

"Starving! ... Then come into the parlour and have something to eat. Whydidn't you say so before?"

"I didn't like to. "

He led the old chap into the parlour and gave him a chair. "Didn't like totell me that you was as hard up as all that? What do you mean? You didn'tuse to mind coming round for half a quid. "

"That was to back a horse; but I didn't like coming to ask forfood--excuse me, I'm too weak to speak much. "

When old John had eaten, William asked how it was that things had gone sobadly with him. 

"I've had terrible bad luck lately, can't get on a winner nohow. I havebacked 'orses that 'as been tried to win with two stone more on theirbacks than they had to carry, but just because I was on them they didn'twin. I don't know how many half-crowns I've had on first favourites. ThenI tried the second favourites, but they gave way to outsiders or the firstfavourites when I took to backing them. Stack's tips and Ketley's omenswas all the same as far as I was concerned. It's a poor business whenyou're out of luck. "

"It is giving way to fancy that does for the backers. The bookmaker'sadvantage is that he bets on principle and not on fancy. "

Old John told how unlucky he had been in business. He had been dismissedfrom his employment in the restaurant, not from any fault of his own, hehad done his work well. "But they don't like old waiters; there's always alot of young Germans about, and customers said I smelt bad. I suppose itwas my clothes and want of convenience at home for keeping one's selftidy. We've been so hard up to pay the three and sixpence rent which we'veowed, that the black coat and waistkit had to go to the pawnshop, so evenif I did meet with a job in the Exhibition places, where they ain't soparticular about yer age, I should not be able to take it. It's terribleto think that I should have to come to this and after having worked roundthe table this forty years, fifty pounds a year and all found, andaccustomed always to a big footman and page-boy under me. But there'splenty more like me. It's a poor game. You're well out of it. I supposethe end of it will be the work'us. I'm pretty well wore out, and--"

The old man's voice died away. He made no allusion to his wife. Hisdislike to speak of her was part and parcel of his dislike to speak of hisprivate affairs. The conversation then turned on Sarah; the severity ofthe sentence was alluded to, and William spoke of how the judge's remarkswould put the police on the watch, and how difficult it would be tocontinue his betting business without being found out. 

"There's no doubt that it is most unfortunate, " said old John. 

"The only thing for you to do is to be very particular about yerintroductions, and to refuse to bet with all who haven't been properlyintroduced. "

"Or to give up betting altogether, " said Esther. 

"Give up betting altogether!" William answered, his face flushed, and hegradually worked himself into a passion. "I give you a good 'ome, don't I?You want for nothing, do yer? Well, that being so, I think you might keepyour nose out of your husband's business. There's plenty ofprayer-meetings where you can go preaching if you like. "

William would have said a good deal more, but his anger brought on a fitof coughing. Esther looked at him contemptuously, and without answeringshe walked into the bar. 

"That's a bad cough of yours, " said old John. 

"Yes, " said William, and he drank a little water to pass it off. "I mustsee the doctor about it. It makes one that irritable. The missis is in apretty temper, ain't she?"

Old John did not reply; it was not his habit to notice domesticdifferences of opinion, especially those in which women had a share--queercattle that he knew nothing about. The men talked for a long timeregarding the danger the judge's remarks had brought the house into; andthey considered all the circumstances of the case. Allusion was made tothe injustice of the law, which allowed the rich and forbade the poor tobet; anecdotes were related, but nothing they said threw new light on thematter in hand, and when Old John rose to go William summed up thesituation in these few words--

"Bet I must, if I'm to get my living. The only thing I can do is to becareful not to bet with strangers. "

"I don't see how they can do nothing to you if yer makes that yerprinciple and sticks to it, " said old John, and he put on the huge-rimmed, greasy hat, three sizes too large for him, looking in his square-cuttattered frock-coat as queer a specimen of humanity as you would be likelyto meet with in a day's walk. "If you makes that yer principle and sticksto it, " thought William. 

But practice and principle are never reduced to perfect agreement. One isalways marauding the other's territory; nevertheless for several monthsprinciple distinctly held the upper hand; William refused over and overagain to make bets with comparative strangers, but the day came when hisprinciple relaxed, and he took the money of a man whom he thought was allright. It was done on the impulse of the moment, but the two half-crownswrapped up in the paper, with the name of the horse written on the paper, had hardly gone into the drawer than he felt that he had done wrong. Hecouldn't tell why, but the feeling came across him that he had done wrongin taking the man's money--a tall, clean-shaven man dressed in broadcloth. It was too late to draw back. The man had finished his beer and had leftthe bar, which in itself was suspicious. 

Three days afterwards, between twelve and one, just the busiest time, whenthe bar was full of people, there came a cry of "Police!" An effort wasmade to hide the betting plant; a rush was made for the doors. It was alltoo late; the sergeant and a constable ordered that no one was to leavethe house; other police were outside. The names and addresses of allpresent were taken down; search was made, and the packets of money and thebetting books were discovered. Then they all had to go to MarlboroughStreet. 

XLI

Next day the following account was given in most of the dailypapers:--"Raid on a betting man in the West End. William Latch, 35, landlord of the 'King's Head, ' Dean Street, Soho, was charged that he, being a licensed person, did keep and use his public-house for the purposeof betting with persons resorting thereto. Thomas William, 35, billiardmarker, Gaulden Street, Battersea; Arthur Henry Parsons, 25, waiter, Northumberland Street, Marylebone; Joseph Stack, 52, gentleman; HaroldJourneyman, 45, gentleman, High Street, Norwood; Philip Hutchinson, grocer, Bisey Road, Fulham; William Tann, piano-tuner, Standard Street, Soho; Charles Ketley, butterman, Green Street, Soho; John Randal, FrithStreet, Soho; Charles Muller, 44, tailor, Marylebone Lane; Arthur Bartram, stationer, East Street Buildings; William Burton, harness maker, Blue LionStreet, Bond Street, were charged with using the 'King's Head' for thepurpose of betting. Evidence was given by the police regarding the roomupstairs, where a good deal of drinking went on after hours. There hadbeen cases of disorder, and the magistrate unfortunately remembered that aservant-girl, who had pledged her master's plate to obtain money to back ahorse, had been arrested in the 'King's Head. ' Taking these facts intoconsideration, it seemed to him that he could not do less than inflict afine of £100. The men who were found in Latch's house he ordered to bebound over. "

Who had first given information? That was the question. Old John satsmoking in his corner. Journeyman leaned against the yellow-paintedpartition, his legs thrust out. Stack stood square, his dark, crimson-tinted skin contrasting with sallow-faced little Ketley. 

"Don't the omens throw no light on this 'ere matter?" said Journeyman. 

Ketley started from his reverie. 

"Ah, " said William, "if I only knew who the b---- was. "

"Ain't you got no idea of any sort?" said Stack. 

"There was a Salvation chap who came in some months ago and told my wifethat the betting was corrupting the neighbourhood. That it would have tobe put a stop to. It may 'ave been 'e. "

"You don't ask no one to bet with you. They does as they like. "

"Does as they like! No one does that nowadays. There's a temperance party, a purity party, and a hanti-gambling party, and what they is working foris just to stop folk from doing as they like. "

"That's it, " said Journeyman. 

Stack raised his glass to his lips and said, "Here's luck. "

"There's not much of that about, " said William. "We seem to be losing allround. I'd like to know where the money goes. I think it is the 'ouse;it's gone unlucky, and I'm thinking of clearing out. "

"We may live in a 'ouse a long while before we find what its luck reallyis, " said Ketley. "I've been in my old 'ouse these twenty years, and itain't nothing like what I thought it. "

"You are that superstitious, " said Journeyman. "If there was anything thematter with the 'ouse you'd've know'd it before now. "

"Ain't you doing the trade you was?" said Stack. 

"No, my butter and egg trade have fallen dreadful lately. "

The conversation paused. It was Stack who broke the silence. 

"Do you intend to do no more betting 'ere?" he asked. 

"What, after being fined £100? You 'eard the way he went on about Sarah, and all on account of her being took here. I think he might have leftSarah out. "

"It warn't for betting she took the plate, " said Journeyman; "it was'cause her chap said if she did he'd marry her. "

"I wonder you ever left the course, " said Stack. 

"It was on account of my 'ealth. I caught a dreadful cold at Kempton, standing about in the mud. I've never quite got over that cold. "

"I remember, " said Ketley; "you couldn't speak above a whisper for twomonths. "

"Two months! more like three. "

"Fourteen weeks, " said Esther. 

She was in favour of disposing of the house and going to live in thecountry. But it was soon found that the conviction for keeping abetting-house had spoiled their chance of an advantageous sale. If, however, the licence were renewed next year, and the business did not inthe meantime decline, they would be in a position to obtain better terms. So all their energies should be devoted to the improvement of theirbusiness. Esther engaged another servant, and she provided the best meatand vegetables that money could buy; William ordered beer and spirits of aquality that could be procured nowhere else in the neighbourhood; but allto no purpose. As soon as it became known that it was no longer possibleto pass half a crown or a shilling wrapped up in a piece of paper acrossthe bar, their custom began to decline. 

At last William could stand it no longer, and he obtained his wife'spermission to once more begin book-making on the course. His health hadbegun to improve with the spring weather, and there was no use keeping himat home eating his heart out with vexation because they were doing nobusiness. So did Esther reason, and it reminded her of old times when hecame back with his race-glasses slung round his shoulder. "Favourites allbeaten today; what have you got for me to eat, old girl?" Esther forgother dislike of racing in the joy of seeing her husband happy, if he'd onlypick up a bit of flesh; but he seemed to get thinner and thinner, and hisfood didn't seem to do him any good. 

One day he came home complaining that the ring was six inches of soft mud;he was wet to the skin, and he sat shivering the whole evening, with thesensation of a long illness upon him. He was laid up for several weeks, and his voice seemed as if it would never return to him again. There waslittle or no occupation for him in the bar; and instead of laying he beganto take the odds. He backed a few winners, it is true; but they could notrely on that. Most of their trade had slipped from them, so it did notmuch matter to them if they were found out. He might as well be hung foran old sheep as a lamb, and surreptitiously at first, and then moreopenly, he began to take money across the bar, and with every shilling hetook for a bet another shilling was spent in drink. Custom came back inripples, and then in stronger waves, until once again the bar of the"King's Head" was full to overflowing. Another conviction meant ruin, butthey must risk it, so said William; and Esther, like a good wife, acquiesced in her husband's decision. But he took money only from thosewhom he was quite sure of. He required an introduction, and was careful tomake inquiries concerning every new backer. "In this way, " he said toKetley, "so long as one is content to bet on a small scale, I think it canbe kept dark; but if you try to extend your connection you're bound tocome across a wrong 'un sooner or later. It was that room upstairs thatdid for me. "

"I never did think much of that room upstairs, " said Ketley. "There was asomething about it that I didn't like. Be sure you never bet in that jugand bottle bar, whatever you do. There's just the same look there as inthe room upstairs. Haven't you noticed it?"

"Can't say I've, nor am I sure that I know exactly what you mean. "

"If you don't see it, you don't see it; but it's plain enough to me, anddon't you bet with nobody standing in that bar. I wouldn't go in there fora sovereign. "

William laughed. He thought at first that Ketley was joking, but he soonsaw that Ketley regarded the jug and bottle entrance with real suspicion. When pressed to explain, he told Journeyman that it wasn't that he wasafraid of the place, he merely didn't like it. "There's some places thatyou likes better than others, ain't they?" Journeyman was obliged toconfess that there were. 

"Well, then, that's one of the places I don't like. Don't you hear a voicetalking there, a soft, low voice, with a bit of a jeer in it?"

On another occasion he shaded his eyes and peered curiously into theleft-hand corner. 

"What are you looking at?" asked Journeyman. 

"At nothing that you can see, " Ketley answered; and he drank his whisky asif lost in consideration of grave and difficult things. A few weeks laterthey noticed that he always got as far from the jug and bottle entrance aspossible, and he was afflicted with a long story concerning a danger thatawaited him. "He's waiting; but nothing will happen if I don't go inthere. He can't follow me; he is waiting for me to go to him. "

"Then keep out of his way, " said Journeyman. "You might ask your bloodyfriend if he can tell us anything about the Leger. "

"I'm trying to keep out of his way, but he's always watching anda-beckoning of me. "

"Can you see him now?" asked Stack. 

"Yes, " said Ketley; "he's a-sitting there, and he seems to say that if Idon't come to him worse will happen. "

"Don't say nothing to him, " William whispered to Journeyman. "I don'tthink he's quite right in 'is 'ead; he's been losing a lot lately. "

One day Journeyman was surprised to see Ketley sitting quite composedly inthe jug and bottle bar. 

"He got me at last; I had to go, the whispering got so loud in my head asI was a-coming down the street. I tried to get out into the middle of thestreet, but a drunken chap pushed me across the pavement, and he was atthe door waiting, and he said, 'Now, you'd better come in; you know whatwill happen if you don't. '"

"Don't talk rot, old pal; come round and have a drink with us. "

"I can't just at present--I may later on. "

"What do he mean?" said Stack. 

"Lord, I don't know, " said Journeyman. "It's only his wandering talk. "

They tried to discuss the chances of the various horses they wereinterested in, but they could not detach their thoughts from Ketley, andtheir eyes went back to the queer little sallow-faced man who sat on ahigh stool in the adjoining bar paring his nails. 

They felt something was going to happen, and before they could say theword he had plunged the knife deep into his neck, and had fallen heavilyon the floor. William vaulted over the counter. As he did so he feltsomething break in his throat, and when Stack and Journeyman came to hisassistance he was almost as white as the corpse at his feet. Blood flowedfrom his mouth and from Ketley's neck in a deep stream that swelled into agreat pool and thickened on the sawdust. 

"It was jumping over that bar, " William replied, faintly. 

"I'll see to my husband, " said Esther. 

A rush of blood cut short his words, and, leaning on his wife, he walkedfeebly round into the back parlour. Esther rang the bell violently. 

"Go round at once to Doctor Green, " she said; "and if he isn't in inquirewhich is the nearest. Don't come back without a doctor. "

William had broken a small blood-vessel, and the doctor said he would haveto be very careful for a long time. It was likely to prove a long case. But Ketley had severed the jugular at one swift, keen stroke, and had diedalmost instantly. Of course there was an inquest, and the coroner askedmany questions regarding the habits of the deceased. Mrs. Ketley was oneof the witnesses called, and she deposed that he had lost a great deal ofmoney lately in betting, and that he went to the "King's Head" for thepurpose of betting. The police deposed that the landlord of the "King'sHead" had been fined a hundred pounds for keeping a betting-house, and theforeman of the jury remarked that betting-houses were the ruin of thepoorer classes, and that they ought to be put a stop to. The coroner addedthat such places as the "King's Head" should not be licensed. That was thesimplest and most effectual way of dealing with the nuisance. 

"There never was no luck about this house, " said William, "and what therewas has left us; in three months' time we shall be turned out of it neckand crop. Another conviction would mean a fine of a couple of hundred, ormost like three months, and that would just about be the end of me. "

"They'll never license us again, " said Esther, "and the boy at school anddoing so well. "

"I'm sorry, Esther, to have brought this trouble on you. We must do thebest we can, get the best price we can for the 'ouse. I may be luckyenough to back a few winners. That's all there is to be said--the 'ousewas always an unlucky one. I hate the place, and shall be glad to get outof it. "

Esther sighed. She didn't like to hear the house spoken ill of, and afterso many years it did seem a shame. 

XLII

Esther kept William within doors during the winter months. If his healthdid not improve it got no worse, and she had begun to hope that thebreakage of the blood-vessel did not mean lung disease. But the harshwinds of spring did not suit him, and there was business with his lawyerto which he was obliged to attend. A determined set was going to be madeagainst the renewal of his licence, and he was determined to defeat hisopponents. Counsel was instructed, and a great deal of money was spent onthe case. But the licence was nevertheless refused, and the north-eastwind did not cease to rattle; it seemed resolved on William's death, andwith a sick husband on her hands, and all the money they had invested inthe house irreparably lost, Esther began to make preparations for moving. 

William had proved a kind husband, and in the seven years she had spent inthe "King's Head" there had been some enjoyment of life. She couldn't saythat she had been unhappy. She had always disapproved of the betting. Theyhad tried to do without it. There was a great deal in life which onecouldn't approve of. But Ketley had never been very right in his head, andSarah's misfortune had had very little to do with the "King's Head. " Theyhad all tried to keep her from that man; it was her own fault. There wereworse places than the "King's Head. " It wasn't for her to abuse it. Shehad lived there seven years; she had seen her boy growing up--he wasalmost a young man now, and had had the best education. That much good the"King's Head" had done. But perhaps it was no longer suited to William'shealth. The betting, she was tired thinking about that; and that constantnipping, it was impossible for him to keep from it with every one askinghim to drink with them. A look of fear and distress passed across herface, and she stopped for a moment.... 

She was rolling up a pair of curtains. She did not know how they were tolive, that was the worst of it. If they only had back the money they hadsunk in the house she would not so much mind. That was what was so hard tobear; all that money lost, just as if they had thrown it into the river. Seven years of hard work--for she had worked hard--and nothing to showfor it. If she had been doing the grand lady all the time it would havebeen no worse. Horses had won and horses had lost--a great deal of troubleand fuss and nothing to show for it. That was what stuck in her throat. Nothing to show for it. She looked round the dismantled walls, anddescended the vacant staircase. She would never serve another pint of beerin that bar. What a strong, big fellow he was when she first went to livewith him! He was sadly changed. Would she ever see him strong and wellagain? She remembered he had told her that he was worth nearly £3000. Shehadn't brought him luck. He wasn't worth anything like that to-day. 

"How much have we in the bank, dear?"

"A bit over six hundred pounds. I was reckoning of it up yesterday. Butwhat do you want to know for? To remind me that I've been losing. Well, Ihave been losing. I hope you're satisfied. "

"I wasn't thinking of such a thing. "

"Yes, you was, there's no use saying you wasn't. It ain't my fault if the'orses don't win; I do the best I can. "

She did not answer him. Then he said, "It's my 'ealth that makes meirritable, dear; you aren't angry, are you?"

"No, dear, I know you don't mean it, and I don't pay no attention to it. "She spoke so gently that he looked at her surprised, for he remembered herquick temper, and he said, "You're the best wife a man ever had. "

"No, I'm not, Bill, but I tries to do my best. "

The spring was the harshest ever known, and his cough grew worse and theblood-spitting returned. Esther grew seriously alarmed. Their doctor spokeof Brompton Hospital, and she insisted on his going there to be examined. William would not have her come with him; and she did not press the point, fearing to irritate him, but sat at home waiting anxiously for him toreturn, hoping against hope, for their doctor had told her that he fearedvery long trouble. And she could tell from his face and manner that he hadbad news for her. All her strength left her, but she conquered herweakness and said--

"Now tell me what they said. I've a right to know; I want to know. "

"They said it was consumption. "

"Oh, did they say that?"

"Yes, but they don't mean that I'm going to die. They said they hoped theycould patch me up; people often live for years with only half a lung, andit is only the left one that's gone. "

He coughed slightly and wiped the blood from his lips. Esther was quiteovercome. 

"Now, don't look like that, " he said, "or I shall fancy I'm going to dieto-morrow. "

"They said they thought that they could patch you up?"

"Yes; they said I might go on a long while yet, but that I would never bethe man I was. "

This was so obvious she could not check a look of pity. 

"If you're going to look at me like that I'd sooner go into the hospitalat once. It ain't the cheerfulest of places, but it will be better thanhere. "

"I'm sorry it was consumption. But if they said they could patch you up, it will be all right. It was a great deal for them to say. "

Her duty was to overcome her grief and speak as if the doctors had toldhim that there was nothing the matter that a little careful nursing wouldfail to put right. William had faith in the warm weather, and she resolvedto put her trust in it. It was hard to see him wasting away before hereyes and keep cheerful looks in her face and an accent of cheerfulness inheir voice. The sunshine which had come at last seemed to suck up all thelife that was in him; he grew paler, and withered like a plant. Thenill-luck seemed to have joined in the hunt; he could not "touch" a winner, and their fortune drained away with his life. Favourites and outsiders, itmattered not; whatever he backed lost; and Esther dreaded the cry"Win-ner, all the win-ner!" He sat on the little balcony in the sunnyevenings looking down the back street for the boy to appear with the"special. " Then she had to go and fetch the paper. On the rare occasionswhen he won, the spectacle was even more painful. He brightened up, histhin arm and hand moved nervously, and he began to make projects andindulge in hopes which she knew were vain. 

She insisted, however, on his taking regularly the medicine they gave himat the hospital, and this was difficult to do. For his irritabilityincreased in measure as he perceived the medicine was doing him no good;he found fault with the doctors, railed against them unjustly, and all thewhile the little; cough continued, and the blood-spitting returned at theend of cruel intervals, when he had begun to hope that at least thattrouble was done with. One morning he told his wife that he was going toask the doctors to examine him again. They had spoken of patching up; buthe wanted to know whether he was going to live or die. There was a certainrelief in hearing him speak so plainly; she had had enough of the tortureof hope, and would like to know the worst. He liked better to go to thehospital alone, but she felt that she could not sit at home counting theminutes for him to return, and begged to be allowed to go with him. To hersurprise, he offered no opposition. She had expected that her requestwould bring about quite a little scene, but he had taken it so much as amatter of course that she should accompany him that she was doubly gladthat she had proposed to go with him; if she hadn't he might have accusedher of neglecting him. She put on her hat; the day was too hot for ajacket; it was the beginning of August; the town was deserted, and thestreets looked as if they were about to evaporate or lie down exhausted, and the poor, dry, dusty air that remained after the season was too pooreven for Esther's healthy lungs; it made William cough, and she hoped thedoctors would order him to the seaside. 

From the top of their omnibus they could see right across the plateau ofthe Green Park, dry and colourless like a desert; as they descended thehill they noticed that autumn was already busy in the foliage; lower downthe dells were full of fallen leaves. At Hyde Park Corner the blown dustwhirled about the hill-top; all along St. George's Place glimpses of theempty Park appeared through the railings. The wide pavements, the BromptonRoad, and a semi-detached public-house at the cross-roads, announcedsuburban London to the Londoner. 

"You see, " said William, "where them trees are, where the road turns offto the left. That 'ouse is the 'Bell and Horns. ' That's the sort of houseI should like to see you in. "

"It's a pity we didn't buy it when we had the money. "

"Buy it! That 'ouse is worth ten thousand pounds if it's worth a penny. "

"I was once in a situation not far from here. I like the Fulham Road; it'slike a long village street, ain't it?"

Her first service was with Mrs. Dunbar, in Sydney Street, and sheremembered the square church tower at the Chelsea end; a little further onthere was the Vestry Hall in the King's Road, and then Oakley Street onthe left, leading down to Battersea. Mrs. Dunbar used to go to somegardens at the end of the King's Road. Cremorne Gardens, that was thename; there used to be fire-works there, and she often spent the eveningat the back window watching the rockets go up. That was just before LadyElwin had got her the situation as kitchen-maid at Woodview. Sheremembered the very shops--there was Palmer's the butterman, and there wasHyde's the grocer's. Everything was just as she had left it. How manyyears ago? Fifteen or sixteen. So enwrapped was she in memories thatWilliam had to touch her. "Here we are, " he said; "don't you remember theplace?"

She remembered very well that great red brick building, a centrepiece withtwo wings, surrounded by high iron railings lined with gloomy shrubs. Thelong straight walks, the dismal trees arow, where pale-faced men walked orrested feebly, had impressed themselves on her young mind--thin, patientmen, pacing their sepulchre. She had wondered who they were, if they wouldget well; and then, quick with sensation of lingering death, she hadhurried away on her errands. The low wooden yellow-painted gates wereunchanged. She had never before seen them open, and it was new to her tosee the gardens filled with bright sunshine and numerous visitors. Therewere flowers in the beds, and the trees were beautiful in their leafage. Alittle yellow was creeping through, and from time to time a leaf fellexhausted from the branches. 

William, who was already familiar with the custom of the place, nodded tothe porter and was let pass without question. He did not turn to theprincipal entrance in the middle of the building, but went towards a sideentrance. The house physician was standing near it talking with a youngman whom Esther recognised as Mr. Alden. The thought that he, too, mightbe dying of consumption crossed her mind, but his appearance and hishealthy, hearty laugh reassured her. A stout, common girl, healthy too, came out of the building with a child, a little thing of twelve orthirteen, with death in her face. Mr. Alden stopped her, and in hischeerful, kind manner hoped the little one was better. She answered thatshe was. The doctor bade him good-bye and beckoned William and Esther tofollow him. Esther would have liked to have spoken to Mr. Alden. But hedid not see her, and she followed her husband, who was talking with thedoctor, through the doorway into a long passage. At the end of the passagethere were a number of girls in print dresses. The gaiety of the dressesled Esther to think that they must be visitors. But the little coughwarned her that death was amongst them. As she went past she caught sightof a wasted form in a bath-chair. The thin hands were laid on the knees, on a little handkerchief, and there were spots on the whiteness deeperthan the colour of the dress. They passed down another passage, meeting asister on their way; pretty and discreet she was in her black dress andveil, and she raised her eyes, glancing affectionately at the youngdoctor. No doubt they loved each other. The eternal love-story among somuch death!

Esther wished to be present at the examination, but a sudden whim madeWilliam say that he would prefer to be alone with the doctor, and shereturned to the gardens. Mr. Alden had not yet gone. He stood with hisback turned to her. The little girl she had seen him speaking to wassitting on a bench under the trees; she held in her hands a skein ofyellow worsted which her companion was winding into a ball. Two otheryoung women were with them and all four were smiling and whispering andlooking towards Mr. Alden. They evidently sought to attract his attention, and wished him to come and speak to them. Just the natural desire of womento please, and moved by the pathos of this poor coquetting, he went tothem, and Esther could see that they all wanted to talk to him. She toowould have liked to have spoken to him; he was an old friend. And shewalked up the grounds, intending to pass by him as she walked back. Hisback was still turned to her, and they were all so interested that theygave no heed to anything else. One of the young women had an exceedinglypretty face. A small oval, perfectly snow-white, and large blue eyesshaded with long dark lashes; a little aquiline nose; and Esther heard hersay, "I should be well enough if it wasn't for the cough. It isn't nobetter since--" The cough interrupted the end of the sentence, andaffecting to misunderstand her, Mr. Alden said--

"No better than it was a week ago. "

"A week ago!" said the poor girl. "It is no better since Christmas. "

There was surprise in her voice, and the pity of it took Mr. Alden in thethroat, and it was with difficulty that he answered that "he hoped thatthe present fine weather would enable her to get well. Such weather asthis, " he said, "is as good as going abroad. "

This assertion was disputed. One of the women had been to Australia forher health, and the story of travel was interspersed by the little coughs, terrible in their apparent insignificance. But it was Mr. Alden that theothers wished to hear speak; they knew all about their companion's trip toAustralia, and in their impatience their eyes went towards Esther. So Mr. Alden became aware of a new presence, and he turned. 

"What! is it you, Esther?"

"Yes, sir. "

"But there doesn't seem much the matter with you. You're all right. "

"Yes, I'm all right, sir; it's my husband. "

They walked a few yards up the path. 

"Your husband! I'm very sorry. "

"He's been an out-door patient for some time; he's being examined by thedoctors now. "

"Whom did you marry, Esther?"

"William Latch, a betting man, sir. "

"You married a betting man, Esther? How curiously things do work out! Iremember you were engaged to a pious young man, the stationer's foreman. That was when you were with Miss Rice; you know, I suppose, that she'sdead. "

"No, sir, I didn't know it. I've had so much trouble lately that I've notbeen to see her for nearly two years. When did she die, sir?"

"About two months ago. So you married a betting man! Miss Rice did saysomething about it, but I don't think I understood that he was a bettingman; I thought he was a publican. "

"So he was, sir. We lost our licence through the betting. "

"You say he's being examined by the doctor. Is it a bad case?"

"I'm afraid it is, sir. "

They walked on in silence until they reached the gate. 

"To me this place is infinitely pathetic. That little cough never silentfor long. Did you hear that poor girl say with surprise that her cough isno better than it was last Christmas?"

"Yes, sir. Poor girl, I don't think she's long for this world. "

"But tell me about your husband, Esther, " he said, and his face filledwith an expression of true sympathy. "I'm a subscriber, and if yourhusband would like to become an in-door patient, I hope you'll let meknow. "

"Thank you, sir; you was always the kindest, but there's no reason why Ishould trouble you. Some friends of ours have already recommended him, andit only rests with himself to remain out or go in. "

He pulled out his watch and said, "I am sorry to have met you in such sadcircumstances, but I'm glad to have seen you. It must be seven years ormore since you left Miss Rice. You haven't changed much; you keep yourgood looks. "

"Oh, sir. "

He laughed at her embarrassment and walked across the road hailing ahansom, just as he used to in old times when he came to see Miss Rice. Thememory of those days came back upon her. It was strange to meet him againafter so many years. She felt she had seen him now for the last time. Butit was foolish and wicked, too, to think of such things; her husbanddying.... But she couldn't help it; he reminded her of so much of what waspast and gone. A moment after she dashed these personal tears aside andwalked open-hearted to meet William. What had the doctor said? She mustknow the truth. If she was to lose him she would lose everything. No, noteverything; her boy would still remain to her, and she felt that, afterall, her boy was what was most real to her in life. These thoughts hadpassed through her mind before William had had time to answer herquestion. 

"He said the left lung was gone, that I'd never be able to stand anotherwinter in England. He said I must go to Egypt. "

"Egypt, " she repeated. "Is that very far from here?"

"What matter how far it is! If I can't live in England I must go where Ican live. "

"Don't be cross, dear. I know it's your health that makes you thatirritable, but it's hard to bear at times. "

"You won't care to go to Egypt with me. "

"How can you think that, Bill? Have I ever refused you anything?"

"Quite right, old girl, I'm sorry. I know you'd do anything for me. I'vealways said so, haven't I? It's this cough that makes me sharp temperedand fretful. I shall be different when I get to Egypt. "

"When do we start?"

"If we get away by the end of October it will be all right. It will cost alot of money; the journey is expensive, and we shall have to stop theresix months. I couldn't think of coming home before the end of April. "

Esther did not answer. They walked some yards in silence. Then he said--

"I've been very unlucky lately; there isn't much over a hundred pounds inthe bank. "

"How much shall we want?"

"Three or four hundred pounds at least. We won't take the boy with us, wecouldn't afford that; but I should like to pay a couple of quarters inadvance. "

"That won't be much. "

"Not if I have any luck. The luck must turn, and I have some splendidinformation about the Great Ebor and the Yorkshire Stakes. Stack knows ofa horse or two that's being kept for Sandown. Unfortunately there is notmuch doing in August. I must try to make up the money: it's a matter oflife and death. "

It was for his very life that her husband was now gambling on therace-course, and a sensation of very great wickedness came up in her mind, but she stifled it instantly. William had noticed the look of fear thatappeared in her eyes, and he said--

"It's my last chance. I can't get the money any other way; and I don'twant to die yet awhile. I haven't been as good to you as I'd like, and Iwant to do something for the boy, you know. "

He had been told not to remain out after sundown, but he was resolved toleave no stone unturned in his search for information, and often hereturned home as late as nine and ten o'clock at night coughing--Esthercould hear him all up the street. He came in ready to drop with fatigue, his pockets filled with sporting papers, and these he studied, spreadingthem on the table under the lamp, while Esther sat striving to do someneedlework. It often dropped out of her hands, and her eyes filled withtears. But she took care that he should not see these tears; she did notwish to distress him unnecessarily. Poor chap! he had enough to put upwith as it was. Sometimes he read out the horses' names and asked herwhich she thought would win, which seemed to her a likely name. But shebegged of him not to ask her; they had many quarrels on this subject, butin the end he understood that it was not fair to ask her. Sometimes Stackand Journeyman came in, and they argued about weights and distances, untilmidnight; old John came to see them, and every day he had heard some newtip. It often rose to Esther's lips to tell William to back his fancy andhave done with it; she could see that these discussions only fatigued him, that he was no nearer to the truth now than he was a fortnight ago. Meanwhile the horse he had thought of backing had gone up in the betting. But he said that he must be very careful. They had only a hundred poundsleft; he must be careful not to risk this money foolishly--it was his verylife-blood. If he were to lose all this money, he wouldn't only sign hisown death warrant, but also hers. He might linger on a long while--therewas no knowing, but he would never be able to do any work, that wascertain (unless he went out to Egypt); the doctor had said so, and then itwould be she who would have to support him. And if God were mercifulenough to take him off at once he would leave her in a worse plight thanhe had found her in, and the boy growing up! Oh, it was terrible! Heburied his face in his hands, and seemed quite overcome. Then the coughwould take him, and for a few minutes he could only think of himself. Esther gave him a little milk to drink, and he said--

"There's a hundred pounds left, Esther. It isn't much, but it's something. I don't believe that there's much use in my going to Egypt. I shall neverget well. It is better that I should pitch myself into the river. Thatwould be the least selfish way out of it. "

"William, I will not have you talk in that way, " Esther said, laying downher work and going over to him. "If you was to do such a thing I shouldnever forgive you. I could never think the same of you. "

"All right, old girl, don't be frightened. I've been thinking too muchabout them horses, and am a bit depressed. I daresay it will come out allright. I think that Mahomet is sure to win the Great Ebor, don't you?"

"I don't think there's no better judge than yourself. They all say if hedon't fall lame that he's bound to win. "

"Then Mahomet shall carry my money. I'll back him to-morrow. "

Now that he had made up his mind what horse to back his spirits revived. He was able to dismiss the subject from his mind, and they talked of otherthings, of their son, and they laid projects for his welfare. But on theday of the race, from early morning, William could barely contain himself. Usually he took his winnings and losings very quietly. When he had beenespecially unlucky he swore a bit, but Esther had never seen any greatexcitement before a race was run. The issues of this race wereextraordinary, and it was heart-breaking to see him suffer; he could notremain still a moment. A prey to all the terrors of hope, exhausted withanticipation, he rested himself against the sideboard and wiped drops ofsweat from his forehead. A broiling sunlight infested their window-panes, the room grew oven-like, and he was obliged at last to go into the backparlour and lie down. He lay there in his shirt sleeves quite exhausted, hardly able to breathe; the arm once so strong and healthy was shrunken toa little nothing. He seemed quite bloodless, and looking at him Esthercould hardly hope that any climate would restore him to health. He justasked her what the time was, and said, "The race is being run now. " A fewminutes after he said, "I think Mahomet has won. I fancied I saw him getfirst past the post. " He spoke as if he were sure, and said nothing aboutthe evening paper. If he were disappointed, Esther felt that it would killhim, and she knelt down by the bedside and prayed that God would allow thehorse to win. It meant her husband's life, that was all she knew. Oh, thatthe horse might win! Presently he said, "There's no use praying, I feelsure it is all right. Go into the next room, stand on the balcony so thatyou may see the boy coming along. "

A pale yellow sky rose behind the brick neighbourhood, and with agonisedsoul the woman viewed its plausive serenity. There seemed to be hope inits quietness. At that moment the cry came up, "Win-ner, Win-ner. " It camefrom the north, from the east, and now from the west. Three boys wereshouting forth the news simultaneously. Ah, if it should prove bad news!But somehow she too felt that the news was good. She ran to meet the boy. She had a half-penny ready in her hand; he fumbled, striving to detach asingle paper from the quire under his arm. Seeing her impatience, he said, "Mahomet's won. " Then the pavement seemed to slide beneath her feet, andthe setting sun she could hardly see, so full was her heart, so burdenedwith the happiness that she was bringing to the poor sick fellow who layin his shirt sleeves on the bed in the back room. "It's all right, " shesaid. "I thought so too; it seemed like it. " His face flushed, life seemedto come back. He sat up and took the paper from her. "There, " he said, "I've got my place-money, too. I hope Stack and Journeyman come intonight. I'd like to have a chat about this. Come, give me a kiss, dear. I'm not going to die, after all. It isn't a pleasant thing to think thatyou must die, that there's no hope for you, that you must go underground. "

The next thing to do was to pick the winner of the Yorkshire Handicap. Inthis he was not successful, but he backed several winners at Sandown Park, and at the close of the week had made nearly enough to take him to Egypt. 

The Doncaster week, however, proved disastrous. He lost most of hiswinnings, and had to look forward to retrieving his fortunes at Newmarket. "The worst of it is, if I don't make up the money by October, it will beno use. They say the November fogs will polish me off. "

Between Doncaster and Newmarket he lost a bet, and this bet carried himback into despondency. He felt it was no use struggling against fate. Better remain in London and be taken away at the end of November orDecember; he couldn't last much longer than that. This would allow him toleave Esther at least fifty pounds to go on with. The boy would soon beable to earn money. It would be better so. No use wasting all this moneyfor the sake of his health, which wasn't worth two-pence-three-farthings. It was like throwing sovereigns after farthings. He didn't want to do anybetting; he was as hollow as a shell inside, he could feel it. Egypt coulddo nothing for him, and as he had to go, better sooner than later. Estherargued with him. What should she have to live for if he was taken fromher. The doctors had said that Egypt might set him right. She didn't knowmuch about such things, but she had always heard that it was extraordinaryhow people got cured out there. 

"That's true, " he said. "I've heard that people who couldn't live a weekin England, who haven't the length of your finger of lung left, can go onall right out there. I might get something to do out there, and the boymight come out after us. "

"That's the way I like to hear you talk. Who knows, at Newmarket we mighthave luck! Just one big bet, a winner at fifty to one, that's all wewant. "

"That's just what has been passing in my mind. I've got particularinformation about the Cesarewitch and Cambridgeshire. I could get theprice you speak of--fifty to one against the two, Matchbox andChasuble--the double event, you know. I'm inclined to go it. It's my lastchance. "

XLIII

When Matchbox galloped home the winner of the Cesarewitch by five lengths, William was lying in his bed, seemingly at death's door. He had remainedout late one evening, had caught cold, and his mouth was constantly filledwith blood. He was much worse, and could hardly take notice of the goodnews. When he revived a little he said, "It has come too late. " But whenChasuble was backed to win thousands at ten to one, and Journeyman andStack assured him that the stable was quite confident of being able topull it off, his spirits revived. He spoke of hedging. "If, " he said toEsther, "I was to get out at eight or nine to one I should be able toleave you something, you know, in case of accidents. " But he would notentrust laying off his bet to either Stack of Journeyman; he spoke of acab and seeing to it himself. If he did this the doctor assured him thatit would not much matter whether Chasuble won or lost. "The best thing hecould do, " the doctor said, "would be to become an in-door patient atonce. In the hospital he would be in an equable temperature, and he wouldreceive an attention which he could not get at home. "

William did not like going into the hospital; it would be a bad omen. Ifhe did, he felt sure that Chasuble would not win. 

"What has going or not going to the hospital to do with Chasuble's chanceof winning the Cambridgeshire?" said the doctor. "This window is loose inits sash, a draught comes under the door, and if you close out thedraughts the atmosphere of the room becomes stuffy. You're thinking ofgoing abroad; a fortnight's nice rest is just what you want to set you upfor your journey. "

So he allowed himself to be persuaded; he was taken to the hospital, andEsther remained at home waiting for the fateful afternoon. Now that thedying man was taken from her she had no work to distract her thought. Theunanswerable question--would Chasuble win?--was always before her. She sawthe slender greyhound creatures as she had seen them at Epsom, through asea of heads and hats, and she asked herself if Chasuble was the brownhorse that had galloped in first, or the chestnut that had trotted inlast. She often thought she was going mad--her head seemed like it--asensation of splitting like a piece of calico.... She went to see her boy. Jack was a great tall fellow of fifteen, and had happily lost none of hisaffection for his mother, and great sweetness rose up within her. Shelooked at his long, straight, yellow-stockinged legs; she settled thecollar of his cloak, and slipped her fingers into his leathern belt asthey walked side by side. He was bare-headed, according to the fashion ofhis school, and she kissed the wild, dark curls with which his head wasrun over; they were much brighter in colour when he was a littleboy--those days when she slaved seventeen hours a day for his dear life!But he paid her back tenfold for the hardship she had undergone. 

She listened to the excellent report his masters gave of his progress, andwalked through the quadrangles and the corridors with him, thinking of thesound of his voice as he told her the story of his classes and hisstudies. She must live for him; though for herself she had had enough oflife. But, thank God, she had her darling boy, and whatever unhappinessthere might be in store for her she would bear it for his sake. He knewthat his father was ill, but she refrained and told him no word of thetragedy that was hanging over them. The noble instincts which were sointrinsically Esther Waters' told her that it were a pity to soil at theoutset a young life with a sordid story, and though it would have been aninexpressible relief to her to have shared her trouble with her boy, sheforced back her tears and courageously bore her cross alone, without onceallowing its edge to touch him. 

And every day that visitors were allowed she went to the hospital with thenewspaper containing the last betting. "Chasuble, ten to one taken, "William read out. The mare had advanced three points, and William lookedat Esther inquiringly, and with hope in his eyes. 

"I think she'll win, " he said, raising himself in his cane chair. 

"I hope so, dear, " she murmured, and she settled his cushions. 

Two days after the mare was back again at thirteen to one taken andoffered; she went back even as far as eighteen to one, and then returnedfor a while to twelve to one. This fluctuation meant that something waswrong, and William began to lose hope. But on the following day the marewas backed to win a good deal of money at Tattersall's, and once more shestood at ten to one. Seeing her back at the old price made William look sohopeful that a patient stopped as he passed down the corridor, andcatching sight of the _Sportsman_ on William's lap, he asked him if he wasinterested in racing. William told him that he was, and that if Chasublewon he would be able to go to Egypt. 

"Them that has money can buy health as well as everything else. We'd allget well if we could get out there. "

William told him how much he stood to win. 

"That'll keep you going long enough to set you straight. You say themare's backed at ten to one--two hundred to twenty. I wonder if I couldget the money. I might sell up the 'ouse. "

But before he had time to realise the necessary money the mare was drivenback to eighteen to one, and he said--

"She won't win. I might as well leave the wife in the 'ouse. There's noluck for them that comes 'ere. "

On the day of the race Esther walked through the streets like one daft, stupidly interested in the passers-by and the disputes that arose betweenthe drivers of cabs and omnibuses. Now and then her thoughts collected, and it seemed to her impossible that the mare should win. If she did theywould have £2, 500, and would go to Egypt. But she could not imagine such athing; it seemed so much more natural that the horse should lose, and thather husband should die, and that she should have to face the world oncemore. She offered up prayers that Chasuble might win, although it did notseem right to address God on the subject, but her heart often felt likebreaking, and she had to do something. And she had no doubt that God wouldforgive her. But now that the day had come she did not feel as if he hadgranted her request. At the same time it did not seem possible that herhusband was going to die. It was all so hard to understand. 

She stopped at the "Bell and Horns" to see what the time was, and wassurprised to find it was half-an-hour later than she had expected. Therace was being run, Chasuble's hoofs were deciding whether her husband wasto live or die. It was on the wire by this time. The wires were distinctupon a blue and dove-coloured sky. Did that one go to Newmarket, or theother? Which?

The red building came in sight, and a patient walked slowly up the walk, his back turned to her; another had sat down to rest. Sixteen years agopatients were walking there then, and the leaves were scattering then justas now.... Without transition of thought she wondered when the first boywould appear with the news. William was not in the grounds; he wasupstairs behind those windows. Poor fellow, she could fancy him sittingthere. Perhaps he was watching for her out of one of those windows. Butthere was no use her going up until she had the news; she must wait forthe paper. She walked up and down listening for the cry. Every now andthen expectation led her to mistake some ordinary cry for the terrible"Win-ner, all the win-ner, " with which the whole town would echo in a fewminutes. She hastened forward. No, it was not it. At last she heard theword shrieked behind her. She hastened after the boy, but failed toovertake him. Returning, she met another, gave him a half-penny and took apaper. Then she remembered she must ask the boy to tell her who won. Butheedless of her question he had run across the road to sell papers to somemen who had come out of a public-house. She must not give William thepaper and wait for him to read the news to her. If the news were bad theshock might kill him. She must learn first what the news was, so that herface and manner might prepare him for the worst if need be. So she offeredthe paper to the porter and asked him to tell her. "Bramble, King ofTrumps, Young Hopeful, " he read out. 

"Are you sure that Chasuble hasn't won?"

"Of course I'm sure, there it is. "

"I can't read, " she said as she turned away. 

The news had stunned her; the world seemed to lose reality; she wasuncertain what to do, and several times repeated to herself, "There'snothing for it but to go up and tell him. I don't see what else I can do. "The staircase was very steep; she climbed it slowly, and stopped at thefirst landing and looked out of the window. A poor hollow-chestedcreature, the wreck of a human being, struggled up behind her. He had torest several times, and in the hollow building his cough sounded loud andhollow. "It isn't generally so loud as that, " she thought, and wonderedhow she could tell William the news. "He wanted to see Jack grow up to bea man. He thought that we might all go to Egypt, and that he'd get quitewell there, for there's plenty of sunshine there, but now he'll have tomake up his mind to die in the November fogs. " Her thoughts came strangelyclear, and she was astonished at her indifference, until a suddenrevulsion of feeling took her as she was going up the last flight. Shecouldn't tell him the news; it was too cruel. She let the patient passher, and when alone on the landing she looked down into the depth. Shethought she'd like to fall over; anything rather than to do what she knewshe must do. But her cowardice only endured for a moment, and with a firmstep she walked into the corridor. It seemed to cross the entire building, and was floored and wainscotted with the same brown varnished wood as thestaircase. There were benches along the walls; and emaciated and worn-outmen lay on the long cane chairs in the windowed recesses by which thepassage was lighted. The wards, containing sometimes three, sometimes sixor seven beds, opened on to this passage. The doors of the wards were allopen, and as she passed along she started at the sight of a boy sitting upin bed. His head had been shaved and only a slight bristle covered thecrown. The head and face were a large white mass with two eyes. At the endof the passage there was a window; and William sat there reading a book. He saw her before she saw him, and when she caught sight of him shestopped, holding the paper loose before her between finger and thumb, andas she approached she saw that her manner had already broken the news tohim. 

"I see that she didn't win, " he said. 

"No, dear, she didn't win. We wasn't lucky this time: next time--"

"There is no next time, at least for me. I shall be far away from herewhen flat racing begins again. The November fogs will do for me, I feelthat they will. I hope there'll be no lingering, that's all. Better toknow the worst and make up your mind. So I have to go, have I? So there'sno hope, and I shall be under ground before the next meeting. I shallnever lay or take the odds again. It do seem strange. If only that marehad won. I knew damned well she wouldn't if I came here. "

Then, catching sight of the pained look on his wife's face, he said, "Idon't suppose it made no difference; it was to be, and what has to be hasto be. I've got to go under ground. I felt it was to be all along. Egyptwould have done me no good; I never believed in it--only a lot of falsehope. You don't think what I say is true. Look 'ere, do you know what bookthis is? This is the Bible; that'll prove to you that I knew the game wasup. I knew, I can't tell you how, but I knew the mare wouldn't win. Onealways seems to know. Even when I backed her I didn't feel about her likeI did about the other one, and ever since I've been feeling more and moresure that it wasn't to be. Somehow it didn't seem likely, and to-daysomething told me that the game was up, so I asked for this book.... There's wonderful beautiful things in it. "

"There is, indeed, Bill; and I hope you won't get tired of it, but will goon reading it. "

"It's extraordinary how consoling it is. Listen to this. Isn't itbeautiful; ain't them words heavenly?"

"They is, indeed. I knew you'd come to God at last. "

"I'm afraid I've not led a good life. I wouldn't listen to you when youused to tell me of the lot of harm the betting used to bring on the poorpeople what used to come to our place. There's Sarah, I suppose she's outof prison by this. You've seen nothing of her, I suppose?"

"No, nothing. "

"There was Ketley. "

"No, Bill, don't let's think about it. If you're truly sorry, God willforgive. "

"Do you think He will--and the others that we know nothing about? Iwouldn't listen to you; I was headstrong, but I understand it all now. Myeyes 'ave been opened. Them pious folk that got up the prosecution knewwhat they was about. I forgive them one and all. "

William coughed a little. The conversation paused, and the cough wasrepeated down the corridor. Now it came from the men lying on the longcane chairs; now from the poor emaciated creature, hollow cheeks, browneyes and beard, who had just come out of his ward and had sat down on abench by the wall. Now it came from an old man six feet high, withsnow-white hair. He sat near them, and worked assiduously at a piece oftapestry. "It'll be better when it's cut, " he said to one of the nurses, who had stopped to compliment him on his work; "it'll be better when it'scut. " Then the cough came from one of the wards, and Esther thought of thefearsome boy sitting bolt up, his huge tallow-like face staring throughthe silence of the room. A moment after the cough came from her husband'slips, and they looked at each other. Both wanted to speak, and neitherknew what to say. At last William spoke. 

"I was saying that I never had that feeling about Chasuble as one 'asabout a winner. Did she run second? Just like my luck if she did. Let mesee the paper. "

Esther handed it to him. 

"Bramble, a fifty to one chance, not a man in a hundred backed her; Kingof Trumps, there was some place money lost on him; Young Hopeful, a rankoutsider. What a day for the bookies!"

"You mustn't think of them things no more, " said Esther. "You've got theBook; it'll do you more good. "

"If I'd only have thought of Bramble... I could have had a hundred to oneagainst Matchbox and Bramble coupled. "

"What's the use of thinking of things that's over? We should think of thefuture. "

"If I'd only been able to hedge that bet I should have been able to leaveyou something to go on with, but now, when everything is paid for, you'llhave hardly a five-pound note. You've been a good wife to me, and I'vebeen a bad husband to you. "

"Bill, you mustn't speak like that. You must try to make your peace withGod. Think of Him. He'll think of us that you leave behind. I've alwayshad faith in Him. He'll not desert me. "

Her eyes were quite dry; the instinct of life seemed to have left her. They spoke some little while longer, until it was time for visitors toleave the hospital. It was not until she got into the Fulham Road thattears began to run down her cheeks; they poured faster and faster, likerain after long dry weather. The whole world disappeared in a mist oftears. And so overcome was she by her grief that she had to lean againstthe railings, and then the passers-by turned and looked at her curiously. 

XLIV

With fair weather he might hold on till Christmas, but if much fog wasabout he would go off with the last leaves. One day Esther received aletter asking her to defer her visit from Friday to Sunday. He hoped to bebetter on Sunday, and then they would arrange when she should come to takehim away. He begged of her to have Jack home to meet him. He wanted to seehis boy before he died. 

Mrs. Collins, a woman who lived in the next room, read the letter toEsther. 

"If you can, do as he wishes. Once they gets them fancies into their headsthere's no getting them out. "

"If he leaves the hospital on a day like this it'll be the death of him. "

Both women went to the window. The fog was so thick that only an outlinehere and there was visible of the houses opposite. The lamps burnt low, mournful, as in a city of the dead, and the sounds that rose out of thestreet added to the terror of the strange darkness. 

"What do he say about Jack? That I'm to send for him. It's natural heshould like to see the boy before he goes, but it would be cheerfuller totake him to the hospital. "

"You see, he wants to die at home; he wants you to be with him at thelast. "

"Yes, I want to see the last of him. But the boy, where's he to sleep?"

"We can lay a mattress down in my room--an old woman like me, it don'tmatter. "

Sunday morning was harsh and cold, and when she came out of SouthKensington Station a fog was rising in the squares, and a great whiff ofyellow cloud drifted down upon the house-tops. In the Fulham road the topsof the houses disappeared, and the light of the third gas-lamp was notvisible. 

"This is the sort of weather that takes them off. I can hardly breathe itmyself. "

Everything was shadow-like; those walking in front of her passed out ofsight like shades, and once she thought she must have missed her way, though that was impossible, for her way was quite straight.... Suddenlythe silhouette of the winged building rose up enormous on the sulphur sky. The low-lying gardens were full of poisonous vapour, and the thin treesseemed like the ghosts of consumptive men. The porter coughed like a deadman as she passed, and he said, "Bad weather for the poor sick onesupstairs. "

She was prepared for a change for the worse, but she did not expect to seea living man looking so like a dead one. 

He could no longer lie back in bed and breathe, so he was propped up withpillows, and he looked even as shadow-like as those she had half seen inthe fog-cloud. There was fog even in the ward, and the lights burned redin the silence. There were five beds--low iron bedsteads--and each wascovered with a dark red rug. In the furthest corner lay the wreck of agreat working man. He wore his hob-nails and his corduroys, and his oncebrawny arm lay along his thigh, shrivelled and powerless as a child's. Inthe middle of the room a little clerk, wasted and weary, without anystrength at all, lay striving for breath. The navvy was alone; the littleclerk had his family round him, his wife and his two children, a baby inarms and a little boy three years old. The doctor had just come in, andthe woman was prattling gaily about her confinement. She said--

"I was up the following week. Wonderful what we women can go through. Noone would think it.... Brought the childer to see their father; they is alittle idol to him, poor fellow. "

"How are you to-day, dearie?" Esther said, as she took a seat by herhusband's bed. 

"Better than I was on Friday, but this weather'll do for me if itcontinues much longer.... You see them two beds? They died yesterday, andI've 'eard that three or four that left the hospital are gone, too. "

The doctor came to William's bed. "Well, are you still determined to gohome?" he said. 

"Yes; I'd like to die at home. You can't do nothing for me.... I'd like todie at home; I want to see my boy. "

"You can see Jack here, " said Esther. 

"I'd sooner see him at 'ome.... I suppose you don't want the trouble of adeath in the 'ouse. "

"Oh, William, how can you speak so!" The patient coughed painfully, andleaned against the pillows, unable to speak. 

Esther remained with William till the time permitted to visitors hadexpired. He could not speak to her but she knew he liked her to be withhim. 

When she came on Thursday to take him away, he was a little better. Theclerk's wife was chattering; the great navvy lay in the corner, still as ablock of stone. Esther often looked at him and wondered if he had nofriend who could spare an hour to come and see him. 

"I was beginning to think that you wasn't coming, " said William. 

"He's that restless, " said the clerk's wife; "asking the time every threeor four minutes. "

"How could you think that?" said Esther. 

"I dun know... You're a bit late, aren't you?"

"It often do make them that restless, " said the clerk's wife. "But my poorold man is quiet enough--aren't you, dear?" The dying clerk could notanswer, and the woman turned again to Esther. 

"And how do you find him to-day?"

"Much the same.... I think he's a bit better; stronger, don't yer know. But this weather is that trying. I don't know how it was up your way, butdown my way I never seed such a fog. I thought I'd have to turn back. " Atthat moment the baby began to cry, and the woman walked up and down theward, rocking it violently, talking loud, and making a great deal ofnoise. But she could not quiet him.... "Hungry again, " she said. "I neverseed such a child for the breast, " and she sat down and unbuttoned herdress. When the young doctor entered she hurriedly covered herself; hebegged her to continue, and spoke about her little boy. She showed him ascar on his throat. He had been suffering, but it was all right now. Thedoctor glanced at the breathless father. 

"A little better to-day, thank you, doctor. "

"That's all right;" and the doctor went over to William. 

"Are you still determined to leave the hospital?" he said. 

"Yes, I want to go home. I want to--"

"You'll find this weather very trying; you'd better--"

"No, thank you, sir. I should like to go home. You've been very kind;you've done everything that could be done for me. But it's God's will.... My wife is very grateful to you, too. "

"Yes, indeed, I am, sir. However am I to thank you for your kindness to myhusband?'

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more. But you'll want the sister to help you todress him. I'll send her to you. "

When they got him out of bed, Esther was shocked at the spectacle of hispoor body. There was nothing left of him. His poor chest, his wasted ribs, his legs gone to nothing, and the strange weakness, worst of all, whichmade it so hard for them to dress him. At last it was nearly done: Estherlaced one boot, the nurse the other, and, leaning on Esther's arm, helooked round the room for the last time. The navvy turned round on his bedand said--

"Good-bye, mate. "

"Good-bye.... Good-bye, all. "

The clerk's little son clung to his mother's skirt, frightened at theweakness of so big a man. 

"Go and say good-bye to the gentleman. "

The little boy came forward timidly, offering his hand. William looked atthe poor little white face; he nodded to the father and went out. 

As he went downstairs he said he would like to go home in a hansom. Thedoctor and nurse expostulated, but he persisted until Esther begged of himto forego the wish for her sake. 

"They do rattle so, these four-wheelers, especially when the windows areup. One can't speak. "

The cab jogged up Piccadilly, and as it climbed out of the hollow thedying man's eyes were fixed on the circle of lights that shone across theGreen Park. They looked like a distant village, and Esther wondered ifWilliam was thinking of Shoreham--she had seen Shoreham look like thatsometimes--or if he was thinking that he was looking on London for thelast time. Was he saying to himself, "I shall never, never see Piccadillyagain"? They passed St. James's Street. The Circus, with its mob ofprostitutes, came into view; the "Criterion" bar, with its loafersstanding outside. William leaned a little forward, and Esther was sure hewas thinking that he would never go into that bar again. The cab turned tothe left, and Esther said that it would cross Soho, perhaps pass down OldCompton Street, opposite their old house. It happened that it did, andEsther and William wondered who were the new people who were selling beerand whisky in the bar? All the while boys were crying, "Win-ner, all thewin-ner!"

"The ---- was run to-day. Flat racing all over, all over for this year. "

Esther did not answer. The cab passed over a piece of asphalte, and hesaid--

"Is Jack waiting for us?"

"Yes, he came home yesterday. "

The fog was thick in Bloomsbury, and when he got out of the cab he wastaken with a fit of coughing, and had to cling to the railings. She had topay the cab, and it took some time to find the money. Would no one openthe door? She was surprised to see him make his way up the steps to thebell, and having got her change, she followed him into the house. 

"I can manage. Go on first; I'll follow. "

And stopping every three or four steps for rest, he slowly dragged himselfup to the first landing. A door opened and Jack stood on the threshold ofthe lighted room. 

"Is that you, mother?"

"Yes, dear; your father is coming up. "

The boy came forward to help, but his mother whispered, "He'd rather comeup by himself. "

William had just strength to walk into the room; they gave him a chair, and he fell back exhausted. He looked around, and seemed pleased to seehis home again. Esther gave him some milk, into which she had put a littlebrandy, and he gradually revived. 

"Come this way, Jack; I want to look at you; come into the light where Ican see you. "

"Yes, father. "

"I haven't long to see you, Jack. I wanted to be with you and your motherin our own home. I can talk a little now: I may not be able to to-morrow. "

"Yes, father. "

"I want you to promise me, Jack, that you'll never have nothing to do withracing and betting. It hasn't brought me or your mother any luck. "

"Very well, father. "

"You promise me, Jack. Give me your hand. You promise me that, Jack. "

"Yes, father, I promise. "

"I see it all clearly enough now. Your mother, Jack, is the best woman inthe world. She loved you better than I did. She worked for you--that is asad story. I hope you'll never hear it. "

Husband and wife looked at each other, and in that look the wife promisedthe husband that the son should never know the story of her desertion. 

"She was always against the betting, Jack; she always knew it would bringus ill-luck. I was once well off, but I lost everything. No good comes ofmoney that one doesn't work for. "

"I'm sure you worked enough for what you won, " said Esther; "travellingday and night from race-course to race-course. Standing on themrace-courses in all weathers; it was the colds you caught standing on themrace-courses that began the mischief. "

"I worked hard enough, that's true; but it was not the right kind ofwork.... I can't argue, Esther.... But I know the truth now, what youalways said was the truth. No good comes of money that hasn't beenproperly earned. "

He sipped the brandy-and-milk and looked at Jack, who was crying bitterly. 

"You mustn't cry like that, Jack; I want you to listen to me. I've stillsomething on my mind. Your mother, Jack, is the best woman that everlived. You're too young to understand how good. I didn't know how good fora long time, but I found it all out in time, as you will later, Jack, whenyou are a man. I'd hoped to see you grow up to be a man, Jack, and yourmother and I thought that you'd have a nice bit of money. But the money Ihoped to leave you is all gone. What I feel most is that I'm leaving youand your mother as badly off as she was when I married her. " He heaved adeep sigh, and Esther said--

"What is the good of talking of these things, weakening yourself fornothing?"

"I must speak, Esther. I should die happy if I knew how you and the boywas going to live. You'll have to go out and work for him as you didbefore. It will be like beginning it all again. "

The tears rolled down his cheeks; he buried his face in his hands andsobbed, until the sobbing brought on a fit of coughing. Suddenly his mouthfilled with blood. Jack went for the doctor, and all remedies were triedwithout avail. "There is one more remedy, " the doctor said, "and if thatfails you must prepare for the worst. " But this last remedy provedsuccessful, and the hæmorrhage was stopped, and William was undressed andput to bed. The doctor said, "He mustn't get up to-morrow. "

"You lie in bed to-morrow, and try to get up your strength. You'veoverdone yourself to-day. "

She had drawn his bed into the warmest corner, close by the fire, and hadmade up for herself a sort of bed by the window, where she might doze abit, for she did not expect to get much sleep. She would have to be up anddown many times to settle his pillows and give him milk or a little weakbrandy-and-water. 

Night wore away, the morning grew into day, and about twelve o'clock heinsisted on getting up. She tried to persuade him, but he said he couldnot stop in bed; and there was nothing for it but to ask Mrs. Collins tohelp her dress him. They placed him comfortably in a chair. The cough hadentirely ceased and he seemed better. And on Saturday night he sleptbetter than he had done for a long while and woke up on Sunday morningrefreshed and apparently much stronger. He had a nice bit of boiled rabbitfor his dinner. He didn't speak much; Esther fancied that he was stillthinking of them. When the afternoon waned, about four o'clock, he calledJack; he told him to sit in the light where he could see him, and helooked at his son with such wistful eyes. These farewells were very sad, and Esther had to turn aside to hide her tears. 

"I should have liked to have seen you a man, Jack. "

"Don't speak like that--I can't bear it, " said the poor boy, bursting intotears. "Perhaps you won't die yet. "

"Yes, Jack; I'm wore out. I can feel, " he said, pointing to his chest, "that there is nothing here to live upon.... It is the punishment comeupon me. "

"Punishment for what, father?"

"I wasn't always good to your mother, Jack. "

"If to please me, William, you'll say no more. "

"The boy ought to know; it will be a lesson for him, and it weighs upon myheart. "

"I don't want my boy to hear anything bad about his father, and I forbidhim to listen. "

The conversation paused, and soon after William said that his strength wasgoing from him, and that he would like to go back to bed. Esther helpedhim off with his clothes, and together she and Jack lifted him into bed. He sat up looking at them with wistful, dying eyes. 

"It is hard to part from you, " he said. "If Chasuble had won we would haveall gone to Egypt. I could have lived out there. "

"You must speak of them things no more. We all must obey God's will. "Esther dropped on her knees; she drew Jack down beside her, and Williamasked Jack to read something from the Bible. Jack read where he firstopened the book, and when he had finished William said that he liked tolisten. Jack's voice sounded to him like heaven. 

About eight o'clock William bade his son good-night. 

"Good-night, my boy; perhaps we shan't see each other again. This may bemy last night. "

"I won't leave you, father. "

"No, my boy, go to your bed. I feel I'd like to be alone with mother. " Thevoice sank almost to a whisper. 

"You'll remember what you promised me about racing.... Be good to yourmother--she's the best mother a son ever had. "

"I'll work for mother, father, I'll work for her. "

"You're too young, my son, but when you're older I hope you'll work forher. She worked for you.... Good-bye, my boy. "

The dying man sweated profusely, and Esther wiped his face from time totime. Mrs. Collins came in. She had a large tin candlestick in her hand inwhich there was a fragment of candle end. He motioned to her to put itaside. She put it on the table out of the way of his eyes. 

"You'll help Esther to lay me out.... I don't want any one else. I don'tlike the other woman. "

"Esther and me will lay you out, make your mind easy; none but we twoshall touch you. "

Once more Esther wiped his forehead, and he signed to her how he wishedthe bed-clothes to be arranged, for he could no longer speak. Mrs. Collinswhispered to Esther that she did not think that the end could be far off, and compelled by a morbid sort of curiosity she took a chair and sat down. Esther wiped away the little drops of sweat as they came upon hisforehead; his chest and throat had to be wiped also, for they too werefull of sweat. His eyes were fixed on the darkness and he moved his handrestlessly, and Esther always understood what he wanted. She gave him alittle brandy-and-water, and when he could not take it from the glass shegave it to him with a spoon. 

The silence grew more solemn, and the clock on the mantelpiece strikingten sharp strokes did not interrupt it; and then, as Esther turned fromthe bedside for the brandy, Mrs. Collins's candle spluttered and went out;a little thread of smoke evaporated, leaving only a morsel of blackenedwick; the flame had disappeared for ever, gone as if it had never been, and Esther saw darkness where there had been a light. Then she heard Mrs. Collins say--

"I think it is all over, dear. "

The profile on the pillow seemed very little. 

"Hold up his head, so that if there is any breath it may come on theglass. "

"He's dead, right enough. You see, dear, there's not a trace of breath onthe glass. "

"I'd like to say a prayer. Will you say a prayer with me?"

"Yes, I feel as if I should like to myself; it eases the heart wonderful. "

XLV

She stood on the platform watching the receding train. A few bushes hidthe curve of the line; the white vapour rose above them, evaporating inthe grey evening. A moment more and the last carriage would pass out ofsight. The white gates swung slowly forward and closed over the line. 

An oblong box painted reddish brown lay on the seat beside her. A woman ofseven or eight and thirty, stout and strongly built, short arms andhard-worked hands, dressed in dingy black skirt and a threadbare jackettoo thin for the dampness of a November day. Her face was a blunt outline, and the grey eyes reflected all the natural prose of the Saxon. 

The porter told her that he would try to send her box up to Woodviewto-morrow.... That was the way to Woodview, right up the lane. She couldnot miss it. She would find the lodge gate behind that clump of trees. Andthinking how she could get her box to Woodview that evening, she looked atthe barren strip of country lying between the downs and the shingle beach. The little town clamped about its deserted harbour seemed more than everlike falling to pieces like a derelict vessel, and when Esther passed overthe level crossing she noticed that the line of little villas had notincreased; they were as she had left them eighteen years ago, laurels, iron railing, antimacassars. It was about eighteen years ago, on abeautiful June day, that she had passed up this lane for the first time. At the very spot she was now passing she had stopped to wonder if shewould be able to keep the place of kitchen-maid. She remembered regrettingthat she had not a new dress; she had hoped to be able to brighten up thebest of her cotton prints with a bit of red ribbon. The sun was shining, and she had met William leaning over the paling in the avenue smoking hispipe. Eighteen years had gone by, eighteen years of labour, suffering, disappointment. A great deal had happened, so much that she could notremember it all. The situations she had been in; her life with that deargood soul, Miss Rice, then Fred Parsons, then William again; her marriage, the life in the public-house, money lost and money won, heart-breakings, death, everything that could happen had happened to her. Now it all seemedlike a dream. But her boy remained to her. She had brought up her boy, thank God, she had been able to do that. But how had she done it? Howoften had she found herself within sight of the workhouse? The last timewas no later than last week. Last week it had seemed to her that she wouldhave to accept the workhouse. But she had escaped, and now here she wasback at the very point from which she started, going back to Woodview, going back to Mrs. Barfield's service. 

William's illness and his funeral had taken Esther's last few pounds awayfrom her, and when she and Jack came back from the cemetery she found thatshe had broken into her last sovereign. She clasped him to her bosom--hewas a tall boy of fifteen--and burst into tears. But she did not tell himwhat she was crying for. She did not say, "God only knows how we shallfind bread to eat next week;" she merely said, wiping away her tears, "Wecan't afford to live here any longer. It's too expensive for us now thatfather's gone. " And they went to live in a slum for three-and-sixpence aweek. If she had been alone in the world she would have gone into asituation, but she could not leave the boy, and so she had to look out forcharing. It was hard to have to come down to this, particularly when sheremembered that she had had a house and a servant of her own; but therewas nothing for it but to look out for some charing, and get along as bestshe could until Jack was able to look after himself. But the variousscrubbings and general cleaning that had come her way had been so badlypaid that she soon found that she could not make both ends meet. She wouldhave to leave her boy and go out as a general servant. And as hernecessities were pressing, she accepted a situation in a coffee-shop inthe London Road. She would give all her wages to Jack, seven shillings aweek, and he would have to live on that. So long as she had her health shedid not mind. 

It was a squat brick building with four windows that looked down on thepavement with a short-sighted stare. On each window was written in lettersof white enamel, "Well-aired beds. " A board nailed to a post by theside-door announced that tea and coffee were always ready. On the otherside of the sign was an upholsterer's, and the vulgar brightness of theBrussels carpets seemed in keeping with the slop-like appearance of thecoffeehouse. 

Sometimes a workman came in the morning; a couple more might come in aboutdinner-time. Sometimes they took rashers and bits of steak out of theirpockets. 

"Won't you cook this for me, missis?"

But it was not until about nine in the evening that the real business ofthe house began, and it continued till one, when the last stragglerknocked for admittance. The house lived on its beds. The best rooms weresometimes let for eight shillings a night, and there were four beds whichwere let at fourpence a night in the cellar under the area where Estherstood by the great copper washing sheets, blankets, and counterpanes, whenshe was not cleaning the rooms upstairs. There was a double-bedded roomunderneath the kitchen, and over the landings, wherever a space could befound, the landlord, who was clever at carpentering work, had fitted upsome sort of closet place that could be let as a bedroom. The house was ahoneycomb. The landlord slept under the roof, and a corner had been foundfor his housekeeper, a handsome young woman, at the end of the passage. Esther and the children--the landlord was a widower--slept in thecoffee-room upon planks laid across the tops of the high backs of thebenches where the customers mealed. Mattresses and bedding were laid onthese planks and the sleepers lay, their faces hardly two feet from theceiling. Esther slept with the baby, a little boy of five; the two bigboys slept at the other end of the room by the front door. The eldest wasabout fifteen, but he was only half-witted; and he helped in thehousework, and could turn down the beds and see quicker than any one ifthe occupant had stolen sheet or blanket. Esther always remembered how hewould raise himself up in bed in the early morning, rub the glass, andlight a candle so that he could be seen from below. He shook his head ifevery bed was occupied, or signed with his fingers the prices of the bedsif they had any to let. 

The landlord was a tall, thin man, with long features and hair turninggrey. He was very quiet, and Esther was surprised one night at theabruptness with which he stopped a couple who were going upstairs. 

"Is that your wife?" he said. 

"Yes, she's my wife all right. "

"She don't look very old. "

"She's older than she looks. "

Then he said, half to Esther, half to his housekeeper, that it was hard toknow what to do. If you asked them for their marriage certificates they'dbe sure to show you something. The housekeeper answered that they paidwell, and that was the principal thing. But when an attempt was made tosteal the bedclothes the landlord and his housekeeper were more severe. AsEsther was about to let a most respectable woman out of the front door, the idiot boy called down the stairs, "Stop her! There's a sheet missing. "

"Oh, what in the world is all this? I haven't got your sheet. Pray let mepass; I'm in a hurry. "

"I can't let you pass until the sheet is found. "

"You'll find it upstairs under the bed. It's got mislaid. I'm in a hurry. "

"Call in the police, " shouted the idiot boy. 

"You'd better come upstairs and help me to find the sheet, " said Esther. 

The woman hesitated a moment, and then walked up in front of Esther. Whenthey were in the bedroom she shook out her petticoats, and the sheet fellon the floor. 

"There, now, " said Esther, "a nice botheration you'd 've got me into. Ishould've had to pay for it. "

"Oh, I could pay for it; it was only because I'm not very well off atpresent. "

"Yes, you _will_ pay for it if you don't take care, " said Esther. 

It was very soon after that Esther had her mother's books stolen from her. They had not been doing much business, and she had been put to sleep inone of the bedrooms. The room was suddenly wanted, and she had no time tomove all her things, and when she went to make up the room she found thather mother's books and a pair of jet earrings that Fred had given her hadbeen stolen. She could do nothing; the couple who had occupied the roomwere far away by this time. There was no hope of ever recovering her booksand earrings, and the loss of these things caused her a great deal ofunhappiness. The only little treasure she possessed were those earrings;now they were gone, she realised how utterly alone she was in the world. If her health were to break down to-morrow she would have to go to theworkhouse. What would become of her boy? She was afraid to think; thinkingdid no good. She must not think, but must just work on, washing thebedclothes until she could wash no longer. Wash, wash, all the week long;and it was only by working on till one o'clock in the morning that shesometimes managed to get the Sabbath free from washing. Never, not even inthe house in Chelsea, had she had such hard work, and she was not asstrong now as she was then. But her courage did not give way until oneSunday Jack came to tell her that the people who employed him had soldtheir business. 

Then a strange weakness came over her. She thought of the endless week ofwork that awaited her in the cellar, the great copper on the fire, theheaps of soiled linen in the corner, the steam rising from the wash-tub, and she felt she had not sufficient strength to get through another weekof such work. She looked at her son with despair in her eyes. She hadwhispered to him as he lay asleep under her shawl, a tiny infant, "Thereis nothing for us, my poor boy, but the workhouse, " and the same thoughtrose up in her mind as she looked at him, a tall lad with large grey eyesand dark curling hair. But she did not trouble him with her despair. Shemerely said--

"I don't know how we shall pull through, Jack. God will help us. "

"You're washing too hard, mother. You're wasting away. Do you know no one, mother, who could help us?"

She looked at Jack fixedly, and she thought of Mrs. Barfield. Mrs. Barfield might be away in the South with her daughter. If she were atWoodview Esther felt sure that she would not refuse to help her. So Jackwrote at Esther's dictation, and before they expected an answer, a lettercame from Mrs. Barfield saying that she remembered Esther perfectly well. She had just returned from the South. She was all alone at Woodview, andwanted a servant. Esther could come and take the place if she liked. Sheenclosed five pounds, and hoped that the money would enable Esther toleave London at once. 

But this returning to former conditions filled Esther with strangetrouble. Her heart beat as she recognised the spire of the church betweenthe trees, and the undulating line of downs behind the trees awakenedpainful recollections. She knew the white gate was somewhere in thisplantation, but could not remember its exact position; and she took theroad to the left instead of taking the road to the right, and had toretrace her steps. The gate had fallen from its hinge, and she had somedifficulty in opening it. The lodge where the blind gatekeeper used toplay the flute was closed; the park paling had not been kept in repair;wandering sheep and cattle had worn away the great holly hedge; and Esthernoticed that in falling an elm had broken through the garden wall. 

When she arrived at the iron gate under the bunched evergreens, her stepspaused. For this was where she had met William for the first time. He hadtaken her through the stables and pointed out to her Silver Braid's box. She remembered the horses going to the downs, horses coming from thedowns--stabling and the sound of hoofs everywhere. But now silence. Shecould see that many a roof had fallen, and that ruins of outhouses filledthe yard. She remembered the kitchen windows, bright in the setting sun, and the white-capped servants moving about the great white table. But nowthe shutters were up, nowhere a light; the knocker had disappeared fromthe door, and she asked herself how she was to get in. She even feltafraid.... Supposing she should not find Mrs. Barfield. She made her waythrough the shrubbery, tripping over fallen branches and trunks of trees;rooks rose out of the evergreens with a great clatter, her heart stoodstill, and she hardly dared to tear herself through the mass of underwood. At last she gained the lawn, and, still very frightened, sought for thebell. The socket plate hung loose on the wire, and only a faint tinklecame through the solitude of the empty house. 

At last footsteps and a light; the chained door was opened a little, and avoice asked who it was. Esther explained; the door was opened, and shestood face to face with her old mistress. Mrs. Barfield stood, holding thecandle high, so that she could see Esther. Esther knew her at once. Shehad not changed very much. She kept her beautiful white teeth and hergirlish smile; the pointed, vixen-like face had not altered in outline, but the reddish hair was so thin that it had to be parted on the side anddrawn over the skull; her figure was delicate and sprightly as ever. Esther noticed all this, and Mrs. Barfield noticed that Esther had grownstouter. Her face was still pleasant to see, for it kept that look ofblunt, honest nature which had always been its charm. She was now thethick-set working woman of forty, and she stood holding the hem of herjacket in her rough hands. 

"We'd better put the chain up, for I'm alone in the house. "

"Aren't you afraid, ma'am?"

"A little, but there's nothing to steal. I asked the policeman to keep alook-out. Come into the library. "

There was the round table, the little green sofa, the piano, the parrot'scage, and the yellow-painted presses; and it seemed only a little whilesince she had been summoned to this room, since she had stood facing hermistress, her confession on her lips. It seemed like yesterday, and yetseventeen years and more had gone by. And all these years were now a sortof a blur in her mind--a dream, the connecting links of which were gone, and she stood face to face with her old mistress in the old room. 

"You've had a cold journey, Esther; you'd like some tea?"

"Oh, don't trouble, ma'am. "

"It's no trouble; I should like some myself. The fire's out in thekitchen. We can boil the kettle here. "

They went through the baize door into the long passage. Mrs. Barfield toldEsther where was the pantry, the kitchen, and the larder. Esther answeredthat she remembered quite well, and it seemed to her not a little strangethat she should know these things. Mrs. Barfield said--

"So you haven't forgotten Woodview, Esther?"

"No, ma'am. It seems like yesterday.... But I'm afraid the damp has gotinto the kitchen, ma'am, the range is that neglected----"

"Ah, Woodview isn't what it was. "

Mrs. Barfield told how she had buried her husband in the old villagechurch. She had taken her daughter to Egypt; she had dwindled there tillthere was little more than a skeleton to lay in the grave. 

"Yes, ma'am, I know how it takes them, inch by inch. My husband died ofconsumption. "

They sat talking for hours. One thing led to another and Esther graduallytold Mrs. Barfield the story of her life from the day they bade each othergood-bye in the room they were now sitting in. 

"It is quite a romance, Esther. "

"It was a hard fight, and it isn't over yet, ma'am. It won't be over untilI see him settled in some regular work. I hope I shall live to see himsettled. "

They sat over the fire a long time without speaking. Mrs. Barfield said--

"It must be getting on for bedtime. "

"I suppose it must, ma'am. "

She asked if she should sleep in the room she had once shared withMargaret Gale. Mrs. Barfield answered with a sigh that as all the bedroomswere empty Esther had better sleep in the room next to hers. 

XLVI

Esther seemed to have quite naturally accepted Woodview as a final stage. Any further change in her life she did not seem to regard as possible ordesirable. One of these days her boy would get settled; he would come downnow and again to see her. She did not want any more than that. No, she didnot find the place lonely. A young girl might, but she was no longer ayoung girl; she had her work to do, and when it was done she was glad tosit down to rest. 

And, dressed in long cloaks, the women went for walks together; sometimesthey went up the hill, sometimes into Southwick to make some littlepurchases. On Sundays they walked to Beeding to attend meeting. And theycame home along the winter roads, the peace and happiness of prayer upontheir faces, holding their skirts out of the mud, unashamed of theircommon boots. They made no acquaintances, seeming to find in each otherall necessary companionship. Their heads bent a little forward, theytrudged home, talking of what they were in the habit of talking, thatanother tree had been blown down, that Jack was now earning goodmoney--ten shillings a week. Esther hoped it would last. Or else Esthertold her mistress that she had heard that one of Mr. Arthur's horses hadwon a race. He lived in the North of England, where he had a smalltraining stable, and his mother never heard of him except through thesporting papers. "He hasn't been here for four years, " Mrs. Barfield said;"he hates the place; he wouldn't care if I were to burn it downto-morrow.... However, I do the best I can, hoping that one day he'llmarry and come and live here. "

Mr. Arthur--that was how Mrs. Barfield and Esther spoke of him--did notdraw any income from the estate. The rents only sufficed to pay thecharges and the widow's jointure. All the land was let; the house he hadtried to let, but it had been found impossible to find a tenant, unlessMr. Arthur would expend some considerable sum in putting the house andgrounds into a state of proper repair. This he did not care to do; he saidthat he found race-horses a more profitable speculation. Besides, even thepark had been let on lease; nothing remained to him but the house and lawnand garden; he could no longer gallop a horse on the hill withoutsomebody's leave, so he didn't care what became of the place. His mothermight go on living there, keeping things together as she called it; he didnot mind what she did as long as she didn't bother him. So did he expresshimself regarding Woodview on the rare occasion of his visits, and when hetroubled to answer his mother's letters. Mrs. Barfield, whose thoughtswere limited to the estate, was pained by his indifference; she graduallyceased to consult him, and when Beeding was too far for her to walk shehad the furniture removed from the drawing-room and a long deal tableplaced there instead. She had not asked herself if Arthur would object toher inviting a few brethren of the neighbourhood to her house for meeting, or publishing the meetings by notices posted on the lodge gate. 

One day Mrs. Barfield and Esther were walking in the avenue, when, totheir surprise, they saw Mr. Arthur open the white gate and come through. The mother hastened forward to meet her son, but paused, dismayed by theanger that looked out of his eyes. He did not like the notices, and shewas sorry that he was annoyed. She didn't think that he would mind them, and she hastened by his side, pleading her excuses. But to her greatsorrow Arthur did not seem to be able to overcome his annoyance. Herefused to listen, and continued his reproaches, saying the things that heknew would most pain her. 

He did not care whether the trees stood or fell, whether the cementremained upon the walls or dropped from them; he didn't draw a penny ofincome from the place, and did not care a damn what became of it. Heallowed her to live there, she got her jointure out of the property, andhe didn't want to interfere with her, but what he could not stand was thesnuffy little folk from the town coming round his house. The Barfields atleast were county, and he wished Woodview to remain county as long as thewalls held together. He wasn't a bit ashamed of all this ruin. You couldreceive the Prince of Wales in a ruin, but he wouldn't care to ask himinto a dissenting chapel. Mrs. Barfield answered that she didn't see howthe mere assembling of a few friends in prayer could disgrace a house. Shedid not know that he objected to her asking them. She would not ask themany more. The only thing was that there was no place nearer than Beedingwhere they could meet, and she could no longer walk so far. She would haveto give up meeting. 

"It seems to me a strange taste to want to kneel down with a lot of littleshop-keepers.... Is this where you kneel?" he said, pointing to the longdeal table. "The place is a regular little Bethel. "

"Our Lord said that when a number should gather together for prayer thatHe would be among them. Those are true words, and as we get old we feelmore and more the want of this communion of spirit. It is only then thatwe feel that we're really with God.... The folk that you despise are equalin His sight. And living here alone, what should I be without prayer? andEsther, after her life of trouble and strife, what would she be withoutprayer?... It is our consolation. "

"I think one should choose one's company for prayer as for everythingelse. Besides, what do you get out of it? Miracles don't happen nowadays. "

"You're very young, Arthur, and you cannot feel the want of prayer as wedo--two old women living in this lonely house. As age and solitudeovertake us, the realities of life float away and we become more and moresensible to the mystery which surrounds us. And our Lord Jesus Christ gaveus love and prayer so that we might see a little further. "

An expression of great beauty came upon her face, that unconsciousresignation which, like the twilight, hallows and transforms. In suchmoments the humblest hearts are at one with nature, and speaks out of theeternal wisdom of things. So even this common racing man was touched, andhe said--

"I'm sorry if I said anything to hurt your religious feelings. "

Mrs. Barfield did not answer. 

"Do you not accept my apologies, mother?"

"My dear boy, what do I care for your apologies; what are they to me? AllI think of now is your conversion to Christ. Nothing else matters. I shallalways pray for that. "

"You may have whom you like up here; I don't mind if it makes you happy. I'm ashamed of myself. Don't let's say any more about it. I'm only downfor the day. I'm going home to-morrow. "

"Home, Arthur! this is your home. I can't bear to hear you speak of anyother place as your home. "

"Well, mother, then I shall say that I'm going back to businessto-morrow. "

Mrs. Barfield sighed. 

XLVII

Days, weeks, months passed away, and the two women came to live more andmore like friends and less like mistress and maid. Not that Esther everfailed to use the respectful "ma'am" when she addressed her mistress, nordid they ever sit down to a meal at the same table. But these slightsocial distinctions, which habit naturally preserved, and which it wouldhave been disagreeable to both to forego, were no check on the intimacy oftheir companionship. In the evening they sat in the library sewing, orMrs. Barfield read aloud, or they talked of their sons. On Sundays theyhad their meetings. The folk came from quite a distance, and sometimes asmany as five-and-twenty knelt round the deal table in the drawing room, and Esther felt that these days were the happiest of her life. She wascontent in the peaceful present, and she knew that Mrs. Barfield would notleave her unprovided for. She was almost free from anxiety. But Jack didnot seem to be able to obtain regular employment in London, and her wageswere so small that she could not help him much. So the sight of hishandwriting made her tremble, and she sometimes did not show the letter toMrs. Barfield for some hours after. 

One Sunday morning, after meeting, as the two women were going for theirwalk up the hill, Esther said--

"I've a letter from my boy, ma'am. I hope it is to tell me that he's gotback to work. "

"I'm afraid I shan't be able to read it, Esther. I haven't my glasses withme. "

"It don't matter, ma'am--it'll keep. "

"Give it to me--his writing is large and legible. I think I can read it. 'My dear mother, the place I told you of in my last letter was given away, so I must go on in the toy-shop till something better turns up. I only getsix shillings a week and my tea, and can't quite manage on that. ' Thensomething--something--'pay three and sixpence a week'--something--'bed'--something--something. "

"I know, ma'am; he shares a bed with the eldest boy. "

"Yes, that's it; and he wants to know if you can help him. 'I don't liketo trouble you, mother; but it is hard for a boy to get his living inLondon. '"

"But I've sent him all my money. I shan't have any till next quarter. "

"I'll lend you some, Esther. We can't leave the boy to starve. He can'tlive on two and sixpence a week. "

"You're very good, ma'am; but I don't like to take your money. We shan'tbe able to get the garden cleared this winter. "

"We shall manage somehow, Esther. The garden must wait. The first thing todo is to see that your boy doesn't want for food. "

The women resumed their walk up the hill. When they reached the top Mrs. Barfield said--

"I haven't heard from Mr. Arthur for months. I envy you, Esther, thoseletters asking for a little money. What's the use of money to us except togive it to our children? Helping others, that is the only happiness. "

At the end of the coombe, under the shaws, stood the old red-tiledfarmhouse in which Mrs. Barfield had been born. Beyond it, downlandsrolled on and on, reaching half-way up the northern sky. Mrs. Barfield wasthinking of the days when her husband used to jump off his cob and walkbeside her through those gorse patches on his way to the farmhouse. Shehad come from the farmhouse beneath the shaws to go to live in an Italianhouse sheltered by a fringe of trees. That was her adventure. She knew it, and she turned from the view of the downs to the view of the sea. Theplantations of Woodview touched the horizon, then the line dipped, andbetween the top branches of a row of elms appeared the roofs of the town. Over a long spider-legged bridge a train wriggled like a snake, the bleakriver flowed into the harbour, and the shingle banks saved the low landfrom inundation. Then the train passed behind the square, dogmatic towerof the village church. Her husband lay beneath the chancel; her father, mother, all her relations, lay in the churchyard. She would go there in afew years.... Her daughter lay far away, far away in Egypt. Upon thisdownland all her life had been passed, all her life except the few monthsshe had spent by her daughter's bedside in Egypt. She had come from thatcoombe, from that farmhouse beneath the shaws, and had only crossed thedown. 

And this barren landscape meant as much to Esther as to her mistress. Itwas on these downs that she had walked with William. He had been born andbred on these downs; but he lay far away in Brompton Cemetery; it was shewho had come back! and in her simple way she too wondered at the mysteryof destiny. 

As they descended the hill Mrs. Barfield asked Esther if she ever heard ofFred Parsons. 

"No, ma'am, I don't know what's become of him. "

"And if you were to meet him again, would you care to marry him?"

"Marry and begin life over again! All the worry and bother over again! Whyshould I marry?--all I live for now is to see my boy settled in life. "

The women walked on in silence, passing by long ruins of stables, coach-houses, granaries, rickyards, all in ruin and decay. The womenpaused and went towards the garden; and removing some pieces of the brokengate they entered a miniature wilderness. The espalier apple-trees haddisappeared beneath climbing weeds, and long briars had shot out from thebushes, leaving few traces of the former walks--a damp, dismal place thatthe birds seemed to have abandoned. Of the greenhouse only some brokenglass and a black broken chimney remained. A great elm had carried away alarge portion of the southern wall, and under the dripping trees an agedpeacock screamed for his lost mate. 

"I don't suppose that Jack will be able to find any more paying employmentthis winter. We must send him six shillings a week; that, with what he isearning, will make twelve; he'll be able to live nicely on that. "

"I should think he would indeed. But, then, what about the wages of themwho was to have cleared the gardens for us?"

"We shan't be able to get the whole garden cleared, but Jim will be ableto get a piece ready for us to sow some spring vegetables, not a largepiece, but enough for us. The first thing to do will be to cut down thoseapple-trees. I'm afraid we shall have to cut down that walnut; nothingcould grow beneath it. Did any one ever see such a mass of weed and briar?Yet it is only about ten years since we left Woodview, and the garden waslet run to waste. Nature does not take long, a few years, a very fewyears. "

XLVIII

All the winter the north wind roamed on the hills; many trees fell in thepark, and at the end of February Woodview seemed barer and more desolatethan ever; broken branches littered the roadway, and the tall trunksshowed their wounds. The women sat over their fire in the eveninglistening to the blast, cogitating the work that awaited them as soon asthe weather showed signs of breaking. 

Mrs. Barfield had laid by a few pounds during the winter; and the day thatJim cleared out the first piece of espalier trees she spent entirely inthe garden, hardly able to take her eyes off him. But the pleasure of theday was in a measure spoilt for her by the knowledge that on that day herson was riding in the great steeplechase. She was full of fear for hissafety; she did not sleep that night, and hurried down at an early hour tothe garden to ask Jim for the newspaper which she had told him to bringher. He took some time to extract the paper from his torn pocket. 

"He isn't in the first three, " said Mrs. Barfield. "I always know thathe's safe if he's in the first three. We must turn to the account of therace to see if there were any accidents. "

She turned over the paper. 

"Thank God, he's safe, " she said; "his horse ran fourth. "

"You worry yourself without cause, ma'am. A good rider like him don't meetwith accidents. "

"The best riders are often killed, Esther. I never have an easy momentwhen I hear he's going to ride in these races. Supposing one day I were toread that he was carried back on a shutter. "

"We mustn't let our thoughts run on such things, ma'am. If a war was tobreak out to-morrow, what should I do? His regiment would be ordered out. It is sad to think that he had to enlist. But, as he said, he couldn't goon living on me any longer. Poor boy! ... We must keep on working, doingthe best we can for them. There are all sorts of chances, and we can onlypray that God may spare them. "

"Yes, Esther, that's all we can do. Work on, work on to the end.... Butyour boy is coming to see you to-day. "

"Yes, ma'am, he'll be here by twelve o'clock. '"

"You're luckier than I am. I wonder if I shall ever see my boy again. "

"Yes, ma'am, of course you will. He'll come back to you right enough oneof these days. There's a good time coming; that's what I always says.... And now I've got work to do in the house. Are you going to stop here, orare you coming in with me? It'll do you no good standing about in the wetclay. "

Mrs. Barfield smiled and nodded, and Esther paused at the broken gate towatch her mistress, who stood superintending the clearing away of tenyears' growth of weeds, as much interested in the prospect of a few peasand cabbages as in former days she had been in the culture of expensiveflowers. She stood on what remained of a gravel walk, the heavy clayclinging to her boots, watching Jim piling weeds upon his barrow. Would hebe able to finish the plot of ground by the end of the week? What shouldthey do with that great walnut-tree? Nothing would grow underneath it. Jimwas afraid that he would not be able to cut it down and remove it withouthelp. Mrs. Barfield suggested sawing away some of the branches, but Jimwas not sure that the expedient would prove of much avail. In his opinionthe tree took all the goodness out of the soil, and that while it stoodthey could not expect a very great show of vegetables. Mrs. Barfield askedif the sale of the tree trunk would indemnify her for the cost of cuttingit down. Jim paused in his work, and, leaning on his spade, considered ifthere was any one in the town, who, for the sake of the timber, would cutthe tree down and take it away for nothing. There ought to be some suchperson in town; if it came to that, Mrs. Barfield ought to receivesomething for the tree. Walnut was a valuable wood, was extensively usedby cabinetmakers, and so on, until Mrs. Barfield begged him to get on withhis digging. 

At twelve o'clock Esther and Mrs. Barfield walked out on the lawn. A loudwind came up from the sea, and it shook the evergreens as if it were angrywith them. A rook carried a stick to the tops of the tall trees, and thewomen drew their cloaks about them. The train passed across the vista, andthe women wondered how long it would take Jack to walk from the station. Then another rook stooped to the edge of the plantation, gathered a twig, and carried it away. The wind was rough; it caught the evergreensunderneath and blew them out like umbrellas; the grass had not yet begunto grow, and the grey sea harmonised with the grey-green land. The womenwaited on the windy lawn, their skirts blown against their legs, keepingtheir hats on with difficulty. It was too cold for standing still. Theyturned and walked a few steps towards the house, and then looked round. 

A tall soldier came through the gate. He wore a long red cloak, and asmall cap jauntily set on the side of his close-clipped head. Estheruttered a little exclamation, and ran to meet him. He took his mother inhis arms, kissed her, and they walked towards Mrs. Barfield together. Allwas forgotten in the happiness of the moment--the long fight for his life, and the possibility that any moment might declare him to be mere food forpowder and shot. She was only conscious that she had accomplished herwoman's work--she had brought him up to man's estate; and that was hersufficient reward. What a fine fellow he was! She did not know he was sohandsome, and blushing with pleasure and pride she glanced shyly at himout of the corners of her eyes as she introduced him to her mistress. 

"This is my son, ma'am. "

Mrs. Barfield held out her hand to the young soldier. 

"I have heard a great deal about you from your mother. "

"And I of you, ma'am. You've been very kind to my mother. I don't know howto thank you. "

And in silence they walked towards the house.