William was waiting for her in the area; and while pinning on her hat she
thought of what she should say, and how she should act. Should she tell
him that she wanted to marry Fred? Then the long black pin that was to
hold 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 how
beautifully dressed he was. He wore a pair of grey trousers, and in his
spick 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 these
years."
"I'll tell you, Esther.... But it is nice to be walking out with you
again. If you'd only let bygones be bygones we might settle down together
yet. What do you think?"
She did not answer, and he continued, "It do seem strange to be walking
out with you again, meeting you after all these years, and I'm never in
your neighbourhood. I just happened to have a bit of business with a
friend who lives your way, and was coming along from his 'ouse, turning
over 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 of
girl I'd like to see behind the bar of the "King's Head."' You always
keeps your figure--you know you ain't a bit changed; and when I caught
sight 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 into
your eyes I felt it had been a mistake all along, and that you was the
only 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 of
the child as a way of getting you back; but little by little I began to
take an interest in him, to wonder what he was like, and with thoughts of
the boy came different thoughts of you, Esther, who is the mother of my
boy. Then I wanted you both back; and I've thought of nothing else ever
since."
At that moment they reached the Metropolitan Railway, and William pressed
forward to get the tickets. A subterraneous rumbling was heard, and they
ran down the steps as fast as they could, and seeing them so near the
ticket-collector held the door open for them, and just as the train was
moving from the platform William pushed Esther into a second-class
compartment.
"We're in the wrong class," she cried.
"No, we ain't; get in, get in," he shouted. And with the guard crying to
him to desist, he hopped in after her, saying, "You very nearly made me
miss the train. What 'ud you've done if the train had taken you away and
left 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 second
seems to me quite good enough. I don't care about third, unless one is
with a lot of pals, and can keep the carriage to ourselves. That's the way
we manage it when we go down to Newmarket or Doncaster."
They were alone in the compartment. William leaned forward and took her
hand.
"Try to forgive me, Esther."
She drew her hand away; he got up, and sat down beside her, and put his
arm around her waist.
"No, no. I'll have none of that. All that sort of thing is over between
us."
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 do
when you left Woodview?" He unfortunately added, "Did you ever meet any
one since that you cared for?"
The question irritated her, and she said, "It don't matter to you who I
met or what I went through."
The conversation paused. William spoke about the Barfields, and Esther
could not but listen to the tale of what had happened at Woodview during
the last eight years.
Woodview had been all her unhappiness and all her misfortune. She had gone
there when the sap of life was flowing fastest in her, and Woodview had
become the most precise and distinct vision she had gathered from life.
She remembered that wholesome and ample country house, with its park and
its down lands, and the valley farm, sheltered by the long lines of elms.
She remembered the race-horses, their slight forms showing under the grey
clothing, the round black eyes looking out through the eyelet holes in the
hanging hoods, the odd little boys astride--a string of six or seven
passing always before the kitchen windows, going through the paddock gate
under the bunched evergreens. She remembered the rejoicings when the horse
won at Goodwood, and the ball at the Shoreham Gardens. Woodview had meant
too much in her life to be forgotten; its hillside and its people were
drawn out in sharp outline on her mind. Something in William's voice
recalled her from her reverie, and she heard him say--
"The poor Gaffer, 'e never got over it; it regular broke 'im up. I forgot
to tell you, it was Ginger who was riding. It appears that he did all he
knew; he lost start, he tried to get shut in, but it warn't no go, luck
was against them; the 'orse was full of running, and, of course, he
couldn't sit down and saw his blooming 'ead off, right in th' middle of
the course, with Sir Thomas's (that's the 'andicapper) field-glasses on
him. He'd have been warned off the blooming 'eath, and he couldn't afford
that, even to save his own father. The 'orse won in a canter: they clapped
eight stun on him for the Cambridgeshire. It broke the Gaffer's 'eart. He
had to sell off his 'orses, and he died soon after the sale. He died of
consumption. It generally takes them off earlier; but they say it is in
the family. Miss May----"
"Oh, tell me about her," said Esther, who had been thinking all the while
of Mrs. Barfield and of Miss Mary. "Tell me, there's nothing the matter
with Miss Mary?"
"Yes, there is: she can't live no more in England; she has to go to
winter, I think it is, in Algeria."
At that moment the train screeched along the rails, and vibrating under
the 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," she
said, and they ran up the high steps. William strode along so fast that
Esther was obliged to cry out, "There's no use, William; train or no
train, I can't walk at that rate."
There was just time for them to get their tickets at Ludgate Hill. They
were in a carriage by themselves, and he proposed to draw up the windows
so that they might be able to talk more easily. He was interested in the
ill-luck that had attended certain horses, and Esther wanted to hear about
Mrs. 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 the
winter?"
"Yes, that's it. Most of the estate was sold; but Mrs. Barfield, the
Saint--you remember we used to call her the Saint--well, she has her
fortune, about five hundred a year, and they just manage to live there in
a 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 the
beginning of May. Woodview ain't what it was. You remember the stables
they were putting up when Silver Braid won the two cups? Well, they are
just 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 if
I 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 be
without it to-day."
"So all the servants have left Woodview? I wonder what has become of
them."
"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 a
situation in Cumberland Place, near the Marble Arch. He sometimes comes
round and has a glass in the 'King's Head.' Sarah Tucker--she's in a
situation somewhere in town. I don't know what has become of Margaret
Gale."
"I met her one day in the Strand. I'd had nothing to eat all day. I was
almost fainting, and she took me into a public-house and gave me a
sausage."