For days nothing was talked of but the ball--how this man had danced, the
bad taste of this woman's dress, and the possibility of a marriage. The
ball had brought amusement to all, to Esther it had brought happiness. Her
happiness was now visible in her face and audible in her voice, and
Sarah's ironical allusions to her inability to learn to read no longer
annoyed her, no longer stirred her temper--her love seemed to induce
forgiveness for all and love for everything.
In the evenings when their work was done Esther and her lover lingered
about the farm buildings, listening to the rooks, seeing the lights die in
the west; and in the summer darkness about nine she tripped by his side
when he took the letters to post. The wheat stacks were thatching, and in
the rickyard, in the carpenter's shop, and in the whist of the woods they
talked of love and marriage. They lay together in the warm valleys,
listening to the tinkling of the sheep-bell, and one evening, putting his
pipe aside, William threw his arm round her, whispering that she was his
wife. The words were delicious in her fainting ears, and her will died in
what seemed like irresistible destiny. She could not struggle with him,
though she knew that her fate depended upon her resistance, and swooning
away she awakened in pain, powerless to free herself.... Soon after
thoughts betook themselves on their painful way, and the stars were
shining 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. Margaret
was in bed, and awakening a little asked her what had kept her out so
late. She did not answer... and hearing Margaret fall asleep she
remembered the supper-table. Sarah, who had come in late, had sat down by
her; William sat on the opposite side; Mrs. Latch was in her place, the
jockeys were all together; Mr. Swindles, his snuff-box on the table;
Margaret and Grover. Everyone had drunk a great deal; and Mr. Leopold had
gone to the beer cellar many times. She thought that she remembered
feeling a little dizzy when William asked her to come for a stroll up the
hill. They had passed through the hunting gate; they had wandered into the
loneliness of the hills. Over the folded sheep the rooks came home noisily
through a deepening sky. So far she remembered, and she could not remember
further; and all night lay staring into the darkness, and when Margaret
called 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. I
don'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, leaned
her 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 of
the meeting with William. She had seen him cleaning boots in the pantry as
they passed. He waited till Margaret left her, till he heard the baize
door 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. But
meeting his mother he mumbled some excuse and retreated. There were
visitors in the house, he had a good deal to do that morning, and Esther
kept close to Mrs. Latch; but at breakfast it suddenly became necessary
that she should answer him, and Sarah saw that Esther and William were no
longer friends.
"Well I never! Look at her! She sits there over her tea-cup as melancholy
as 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's
all."
"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 a
trifle pale, and after lingering a few moments he hurried away to the
stables, and Esther saw him spring on the box.
As it was frequent with Esther not to speak to anyone with whom she had
had a dispute for a week or fifteen days, her continued sulk excited
little suspicion, and the cause of the quarrel was attributed to some
trifle. Sarah said--
"Men are such fools. He is always begging of her to forgive him. Just look
at 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 he
forcibly barred the way she would say, "Let me go by, will you? You are
interfering with my work." And if he still insisted, she spoke of
appealing to Mrs. Barfield. And if her heart sometimes softened, and an
insidious thought whispered that it did not matter since they were going
to be married, instinct forced her to repel him; her instinct was that she
could only win his respect by refusing forgiveness for a long while. The
religion in which her soul moved and lived--the sternest
Protestantism--strengthened and enforced the original convictions and the
prejudices of her race; and the natural shame which she had first felt
almost disappeared in the violence of her virtue. She even ceased to fear
discovery. What did it matter who knew, since she knew? She opened her
heart to God. Christ looked down, but he seemed stern and unforgiving. Her
Christ was the Christ of her forefathers; and He had not forgiven, because
she could not forgive herself. Hers was the unpardonable sin, the sin
which her race had elected to fight against, and she lay down weary and
sullen 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 Esther
saw them go down the yard her heart said, "Let him take her out, I don't
want him." For she knew it to be a trick to make her jealous, and that he
should dare such a trick angered her still further against him, and when
they 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 you
drove me wild," she closed her teeth and refused to answer. But he stood
in 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 money
to 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 let
your temper get the better of you. So soon as I have got a bit of money
together--"
"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 the
world. I have been unlucky lately--"
"You think of nothing but that wicked betting. Come, let me pass; I'm not
going 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 this
way: they'll be suspecting something shortly."
"I shall leave Woodview." She had hardly spoken the words when it seemed
clear to her that she must leave, and the sooner the better. "Come, let me
pass.... If Mrs. Barfield--"