"I want to act honest with you, and you won't let me. If ever there was a
sulky pig! ...Sarah's quite right; you are just the sort that would make
hell of a man's life."
She was bound to make him respect her. She had vaguely felt from the
beginning that this was her only hope, and now the sensation developed and
defined 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 desired
to see William repentant. Her natural piety, filling as it did her entire
life, unconsciously made her deem repentance an essential condition of
their happiness. How could they be happy if he were not a God-fearing man?
This question presented itself constantly, and she was suddenly convinced
that she could not marry him until he had asked forgiveness of the Lord.
Then they would be joined together, and would love each other faithfully
unto death.
But in conflict with her prejudices, her natural love of the man was as
the sun shining above a fog-laden valley; rays of passion pierced her
stubborn nature, dissolving it, and unconsciously her eyes sought
William's, and unconsciously her steps strayed from the kitchen when her
ears told her he was in the passage. But when her love went out freely to
William, when she longed to throw herself in his arms, saying, "Yes, I
love you; make me your wife," she noticed, or thought she noticed, that he
avoided her eyes, and she felt that thoughts of which she knew nothing had
obtained a footing in his mind, and she was full of foreboding.
Her heart being intent on him, she was aware of much that escaped the
ordinary eye, and she was the first to notice when the drawing-room bell
rang, and Mr. Leopold rose, that William would say, "My legs are the
youngest, don't you stir."
No one else, not even Sarah, thought William intended more than to keep in
Mr. 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 it
was 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 heard
from Margaret that Miss Mary and Mrs. Barfield had gone to Southwick to
make a call, and she heard from one of the boys that the Gaffer and Ginger
had 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 she
remembered something--something that had been forgotten. The first Sunday,
the first time she went to the library for family prayers, Peggy was
sitting on the little green sofa, and as Esther passed across the room to
her place she saw her cast a glance of admiration on William's tall
figure, and the memory of that glance had flamed up in her brain, and all
that night Esther saw the girl with the pale face and the coal-black hair
looking 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 mistaken
when the metal tongue commenced calling. She heard the baize door close
behind him; but the bell still continued to utter little pathetic notes. A
moment after all was still in the corridor, and like one sunk to the knees
in quicksands she felt that the time had come for a decided effort. But
what could she do? She could not follow him to the drawing-room. She had
begun to notice that he seemed to avoid her, and by his conduct seemed to
wish that their quarrel might endure. But pride and temper had fallen from
her, and she lived conscious of him, noting every sign, and intensely, all
that related to him, divining all his intentions, and meeting him in the
passage when he least expected her.
"I'm always getting in your way," she said, with a low, nervous laugh.
"No harm in that; ...fellow servants; there must be give and take."
Tremblingly they looked at each other, feeling that the time had come,
that an explanation was inevitable, but at that moment the drawing-room
bell rang above their heads, and William said, "I must answer that bell."
He turned from her, and passed through the baize door before she had said
another word.
Sarah remarked that William seemed to spend a great deal of his time in
the drawing-room, and Esther started out of her moody contemplation, and,
speaking instinctively, she said, "I don't think much of ladies who go
after their servants."
Everyone looked up. Mrs. Latch laid her carving-knife on the meat and
fixed her eyes on her son.
"Lady?" said Sarah; "she's no lady! Her mother used to mop out the yard
before she was 'churched.'"
"I can tell you what," said William, "you had better mind what you are
a-saying of, for if any of your talk got wind upstairs you'd lose yer
situation, and it might be some time before yer got another!"
"Lose my situation! and a good job, too. I shall always be able to suit
mesel'; don't you fear about me. But if it comes to talking about
situations, I can tell you that you are more likely to lose yours than I
am to lose mine."
William hesitated, and while he sought a judicious reply Mrs. Latch and
Mr. Leopold, putting forth their joint authority, brought the discussion
to a close. The jockey-boys exchanged grins, Sarah sulked, Mr. Swindles
pursed up his mouth in consideration, and the elder servants felt that the
matter would not rest in the servant's hall; that evening it would be the
theme of conversation in the "Red Lion," and the next day it would be the
talk of the town.
About four o'clock Esther saw Mrs. Barfield, Miss Mary, and Peggy walk
across the yard towards the garden, and as Esther had to go soon after to
the wood-shed she saw Peggy slip out of the garden by a bottom gate and
make her way through the evergreens. Esther hastened back to the kitchen
and stood waiting for the bell to ring. She had not to wait long; the bell
tinkled, but so faintly that Esther said, "She only just touched it; it is
a signal; he was on the look-out for it; she did not want anyone else to
hear."
Esther remembered the thousands of pounds she had heard that the young
lady possessed, and the beautiful dresses she wore. There was no hope for
her. How could there be? Her poor little wages and her print dress! He
would never look at her again! But oh! how cruel and wicked it was! How
could one who had so much come to steal from one who had so little? Oh, it
was very cruel and very wicked, and no good would come of it either to her
or to him; of that she felt quite sure. God always punished the wicked.
She knew he did not love Peggy. It was sin and shame; and after his
promises--after what had happened. Never would she have believed him to be
so false. Then her thought turned to passionate hatred of the girl who had
so cruelly robbed her. He had gone through that baize door, and no doubt
he was sitting by Peggy in the new drawing-room. He had gone where she
could not follow. He had gone where the grand folk lived in idleness, in
the sinfulness of the world and the flesh, eating and gambling, thinking
of nothing else, and with servants to wait on them, obeying their orders
and saving them from every trouble. She knew that these fine folk thought
servants inferior beings. But was she not of the same flesh and blood as
they? Peggy wore a fine dress, but she was no better; take off her dress
and they were the same, woman to woman.
She pushed through the door and walked down the passage. A few steps
brought her to the foot of a polished oak staircase, lit by a large window
in coloured glass, on either side of which there were statues. The
staircase sloped slowly to an imposing landing set out with columns and
blue vases and embroidered curtains. The girl saw these things vaguely,
and she was conscious of a profusion of rugs, matting, and bright doors,
and of her inability to decide which door was the drawing-room door--the
drawing-room of which she had heard so much, and where even now, amid gold
furniture and sweet-scented air, William listened to the wicked woman who
had tempted him away from her. Suddenly William appeared, and seeing
Esther he seemed uncertain whether to draw back or come forward. Then his
face took an expression of mixed fear and anger; and coming rapidly
towards her, he said--
"What are you doing here?"... then changing his voice, "This is against
the rules of the 'ouse."
"I want to see her."
"Anything else? What do you want to say to her? I won't have it, I tell
you.... What do you mean by spying after me? That's your game, is it?"
"I want to speak to her."
With averted face the young lady fled up the oak staircase, her
handkerchief to her lips. Esther made a movement as if to follow, but
William prevented her. She turned and walked down the passage and entered
the kitchen. Her face was one white tint, her short, strong arms hung
tremblingly, and William saw that it would be better to temporise.
"Now look here, Esther," he said, "you ought to be damned thankful to me
for having prevented you from making a fool of yourself."
Esther's eyelids quivered, and then her eyes dilated.
"Now, if Miss Margaret," continued William, "had--"
"Go away! go away! I am--" At that moment the steel of a large,
sharp-pointed knife lying on the table caught her eye. She snatched it up,
and seeing blood she rushed at him.
William retreated from her, and Mrs. Latch, coming suddenly in, caught her
arm. Esther threw the knife; it struck the wall, falling with a rattle on
the meat screen. Escaping from Mrs. Latch, she rushed to secure it, but
her strength gave way, and she fell back in a dead faint.
"What have you been doing to the girl?" said Mrs. Latch.
"Nothing, mother.... We had a few words, that was all. She said I should
not go out with Sarah."
"That is not true.... I can read the lie in your face; a girl doesn't take
up a knife unless a man well-nigh drives her mad."
"That's right; always side against your son! ...If you don't believe me,
get what you can out of her yourself." And, turning on his heel, he walked
out of the house.
Mrs. Latch saw him pass down the yard towards the stables, and when Esther
opened her eyes she looked at Mrs. Latch questioningly, unable to
understand why the old woman was standing by her.
"Are you better now, dear?"
"Yes, but--but what--" Then remembrance struggled back. "Is he gone? Did I
strike him? I remember that I--"
"You did not hurt him."
"I don't want to see him again. Far better not. I was mad. I did not know
what I was doing."
"You will tell me about it another time, dear."
"Where is he? tell me that; I must know."
"Gone to the stables, I think; but you must not go after him--you'll see
him to-morrow."
"I do not want to go after him; but he isn't hurt? That's what I want to
know."
"No, he isn't hurt.... You're getting stronger.... Lean on me. You'll
begin to feel better when you are in bed. I'll bring you up your tea."
"Yes, I shall be all right presently. But how'll you manage to get the
dinner?"
"Don't you worry about that; you go upstairs and lie down."
A desolate hope floated over the surface of her brain that William might
be brought back to her.
In the evening the kitchen was full of people: Margaret, Sarah, and Grover
were there, and she heard that immediately after lunch Mr. Leopold had
been sent for, and the Gaffer had instructed him to pay William a month's
wages, and see that he left the house that very instant. Sarah, Margaret,
and Grover watched Esther's face and were surprised at her indifference.
She even seemed pleased. She was pleased; nothing better could have
happened. William was now separated from her rival, and released from her
bad influence he would return to his real love. At the first sign she
would go to him, she would forgive him. But a little later, when the
dishes came down from the dining-room, it was whispered that Peggy was not
there.
Later in the evening, when the servants were going to bed, it became known
that she had left the house, that she had taken the six o'clock to
Brighton. Esther turned from the foot of the stair with a wild look.
Margaret caught her.
"It's no use, dear; you can do nothing to-night."
"I can walk to Brighton."
"No, you can't; you don't know the way, and even if you did you don't know
where they are."
Neither Sarah nor Grover made any remark, and in silence the servants went
to their rooms. Margaret closed the door and turned to look at Esther, who
had fallen on the chair, her eyes fixed in vacancy.
"I know what it is; I was the same when Jim Story got the sack. It seems
as if one couldn't live through it, and yet one does somehow."
"I wonder if they'll marry."
"Most probable. She has a lot of money."
Two days after a cab stood in the yard in front of the kitchen window.
Peggy's luggage was being piled upon it--two large, handsome basket boxes
with the initials painted on them. Kneeling on the box-seat, the coachman
leaned over the roof making room for another--a small box covered with red
cowhide and tied with a rough rope. The little box in its poor simplicity
brought William back to Esther, whelming her for a moment in so acute a
sense of her loss that she had to leave the kitchen. She went into the
scullery, drew the door after her, sat down, and hid her face in her
apron. A stifled sob or two, and then she recovered her habitual gravity
of expression, and continued her work as if nothing had happened.