Mrs. Humphries, an elderly person, who looked after a bachelor's
establishment two doors up, and generally slipped in about tea-time, soon
began to speak of Fred as a very nice young man who would be likely to
make a woman happy. But Esther moved about the kitchen in her taciturn
way, hardly answering. Suddenly she told Mrs. Humphries that she had been
to Dulwich with him, and that it was wonderful how he and Jackie had taken
to 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 give
herself out as Jackie's aunt. "None believes them stories, but they make
one seem more respectable like, and I am sure Mr. Parsons will appreciate
the intention." Esther did not answer, but she thought of what Mrs.
Humphries had said. Perhaps it would be better if Jackie were to leave off
calling her Mummie. Auntie! But no, she could not bear it. Fred must take
her as she was or not at all. They seemed to understand each other; he was
earning good money, thirty shillings a week, and she was now going on for
eight-and-twenty; if she was ever going to be married it was time to think
about it.
"I don't know how that dear soul will get on without me," she said one
October 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 looking
after 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 of
me before then."
"Say next spring, Esther."
The train stopped.
"There's father waiting for us in the spring-cart. Father! He don't hear
us. 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 to
be introduced to Fred's sisters and to his brother. But these did not
concern her much, her thoughts were set on Mrs. Parsons, for Fred had
spoken a great deal about his mother. When she had been told about Jackie
she was of course very sorry; but when she had heard the whole of Esther's
story she had said, "We are all born into temptation, and if your Esther
has 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 regretted
that she had consented to see Fred's people until he had made her his
wife. But it was too late to think of such things. There was the
farm-house. Fred had just pointed it out, and scenting his stable, the old
grey ascended the hill at a trot, and Esther wondered what the farm-house
would be like. All the summer they had had a fine show of flowers, Fred
said. Now only a few Michaelmas daisies withered in the garden, and the
Virginia creeper covered one side of the house with a crimson mantle. The
old man said he would take the trap round to the stable, and Fred walked
up the red-bricked pavement and lifted the latch. As they passed through
the kitchen Fred introduced Esther to his two sisters, Mary and Lily. But
they were busy cooking.
"Mother is in the parlour," said Mary; "she is waiting for you." By the
window, in a wide wooden arm-chair, sat a large woman about sixty, dressed
in black. She wore on either side of her long white face two corkscrew
curls, which gave her a somewhat ridiculous appearance. But she ceased to
be 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 of
welcome.
"Oh, how do you do, dear Fred? I am that glad to see you! How good of you
to 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 laid
them 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." Then
turning to Fred, "Tell me, Fred, how you've been getting on. Are you still
living at Hackney?"
"Yes, mother; but when we're married we're going to have a cottage at
Mortlake. Esther will like it better than Hackney. It is nearer the
country."
"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 find
that Mortlake suits us. There are many friends there; more than fifty meet
together every Sunday. And there's a lot of political work to be done
there. I know that you're against politics, but men can't stand aside
nowadays. Times change, mother."
"So long as we have God in our hearts, my dear boy, all that we do is
well. But you must want something after your journey. Fred, dear, knock at
that door. Your sister Clara's dressing there. Tell her to make haste."
"All right, mother," cried a voice from behind the partition which
separated the rooms, and a moment after the door opened and a young woman
about thirty entered. She was better-looking than the other sisters, and
the fashion of her skirt, and the worldly manner with which she kissed her
brother and gave her hand to Esther, marked her off at once from the rest
of the family. She was forewoman in a large millinery establishment. She
spent Saturday afternoon and Sunday at the farm, but to-day she had got
away earlier, and with the view to impressing Esther, she explained how
this had come about.
Mrs. Parsons suggested a glass of currant wine, and Lily came in with a
tray and glasses. Clara said she was starving. Mary said she would have to
wait, and Lily whispered, "In about half-an-hour."
After dinner the old man said that they must be getting on with their work
in the orchard. Esther said she would be glad to help, but as she was
about to follow the others Mrs. Parsons detained her.
"You don't mind staying with me a few minutes, do you, dear? I shan't keep
you long." She drew over a chair for Esther. "I shan't perhaps see you
again for some time. I am getting an old woman, and the Lord may be
pleased to take me at any moment. I wanted to tell you, dear, that I put
my trust in you. You will make a good wife to Fred, I feel sure, and he
will make a good father to your child, and if God blesses you with other
children he'll treat your first no different than the others. He's told me
so, and my Fred is a man of his word. You were led into sin, but you've
repented. We was all born into temptation, and we must trust to the Lord
to 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 this
house is your home whenever you please to come to see us. And I hope that
that will be often. I like to have my children about me. I can't get about
much now, so they must come to me. It is very sad not to be able to go to
meeting. I've not been to meeting since Christmas, but I can see them
going there from the kitchen window, and how 'appy they look coming back
from prayer. It is easy to see that they have been with God. The
Salvationists come this way sometimes. They stopped in the lane to sing. I
could not hear the words, but I could see by their faces that they was
with God... Now, I've told you all that was on my mind. I must not keep
you; Fred is waiting."
Esther kissed the old woman, and went into the orchard, where she found
Fred 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, words
seemed unnecessary; each felt happiness to be in the other's presence.
They heard the water trickling through the weeds, and as the light waned
the sound of the falling apples grew more distinct. Then a breeze shivered
among the tops of the apple-trees, and the sered leaves were blown from
the branches. The voices of the gatherers were heard crying that their
baskets were full. They crossed the plank bridge, joking the lovers, who
stood aside to let them pass.
When they entered the house they saw the old farmer, who had slipped in
before them, sitting by his wife holding her hand, patting it in a curious
old-time way, and the attitude of the old couple was so pregnant with
significance that it fixed itself on Esther's mind. It seemed to her that
she had never seen anything so beautiful. So they had lived for forty
years, faithful to each other, and she wondered if Fred forty years hence
would be sitting by her side holding her hand.
The old man lighted a lantern and went round to the stable to get a trap
out. Driving through the dark country, seeing village lights shining out
of the distant solitudes, was a thrilling adventure. A peasant came like a
ghost out of the darkness; he stepped aside and called, "Good-night!"
which the old farmer answered somewhat gruffly, while Fred answered in a
ringing, cheery tone. Never had Esther spent so long and happy a day.
Everything had combined to produce a strange exaltation of the spirit in
her; 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 on
through a brick entanglement; rattled over iron bridges, passed over deep
streets, over endless lines of lights.
He bade her good-bye at the area gate, and she had promised him that they
should be married in the spring. He had gone away with a light heart. And
she had run upstairs to tell her dear mistress of the happy day which her
kindness had allowed her to spend in the country. And Miss Rice had laid
the book she was reading on her knees, and had listened to Esther's
pleasures as if they had been her own.