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Esther Waters

<h2 id="id00521" style="margin-top: 4em">XII</h2> "They are just crazy about it upstairs. Ginger and the Gaffer are the worst. They say they had better sell the place and build another house somewhere else. None of the county people will call on them now—and just as they were beginning to get on so well! Miss Mary, too, is terrible cut up about it; she says it will interfere with her prospects, and that Ginger has nothing to do now but to marry the kitchen-maid to complete the ruin of the Barfields." "Miss Mary is far too kind to say anything to wound another's feelings. It is only a nasty old deceitful thing like yourself who could think of such a thing." "Eh, you got it there, my lady," said Sarah, who had had a difference with Grover, and was anxious to avenge it. Grover looked at Sarah in astonishment, and her look clearly said, "Is everyone going to side with that little kitchen-maid?" Then, to flatter Mrs. Latch, Sarah spoke of the position the Latches had held three generations ago; the Barfields were then nobodies; they had nothing even now but their money, and that had come out of a livery stable. "And it shows, too; just compare Ginger with young Preston or young Northcote. Anyone could tell the difference." Esther listened with an unmoved face and a heavy ache in her heart. She had now not an enemy nor yet an opponent; the cause of rivalry and jealousy being removed, all were sorry for her. They recognised that she had suffered and was suffering, and seeing none but friends about her, she was led to think how happy she might have been in this beautiful house if it had not been for William. She loved her work, for she was working for those she loved. She could imagine no life happier than hers might have been. But she had sinned, and the Lord had punished her for sin, and she must bear her punishment uncomplainingly, giving Him thanks that He had imposed no heavier one upon her. Such reflection was the substance of Esther's mind for three months after William's departure; and in the afternoons, about three o'clock, when her work paused, Esther's thoughts would congregate and settle on the great misfortune of her life—William's desertion. It was one afternoon at the beginning of December; Mrs. Latch had gone upstairs to lie down. Esther had drawn her chair towards the fire. A broken-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. She sat on her wooden chair facing the wide kitchen window. She had advanced one foot on the iron fender; her head leaned back, rested on her hand. She did not think—her mind was lost in vague sensation of William, and it was in this death of active memory that something awoke within her, something that seemed to her like a flutter of wings; her heart seemed to drop from its socket, and she nearly fainted away, but recovering herself she stood by the kitchen table, her arms drawn back and pressed to her sides, a death-like pallor over her face, and drops of sweat on her forehead. The truth was borne in upon her; she realised in a moment part of the awful drama that awaited her, and from which nothing could free her, and which she would have to live through hour by hour. So dreadful did it seem, that she 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, and who thought so highly of her. Her father would not have her at home; she would be homeless in London. No hope of obtaining a situation…. they would send her away without a character, homeless in London, and every month her position growing more desperate…. A sickly faintness crept up through her. The flesh had come to the relief of the spirit; and she sank upon her chair, almost unconscious, sick, it seemed, to death, and she rose from the chair wiping her forehead slowly with her apron…. She might be mistaken. And she hid her face in her hands, and then, falling on her knees, her arms thrown forward upon the table, she prayed for strength to walk without flinching under any cross that He had thought fit to lay upon her. There was still the hope that she might be mistaken; and this hope lasted for one week, for two, but at the end of the third week it perished, and she abandoned herself in prayer. She prayed for strength to endure with courage what she now knew she must endure, and she prayed for light to guide her in her present decision. Mrs. Barfield, however much she might pity her, could not keep her once she knew the truth, whereas none might know the truth if she did not tell it. She might remain at Woodview earning another quarter's wages; the first she had spent on boots and clothes, the second she had just been paid. If she stayed on for another quarter she would have eight pounds, and with that money, and much less time to keep herself, she might be able to pull through. But would she be able to go undetected for nearly three whole months, until her next wages came due? She must risk it. Three months of constant fear and agonising suspense wore away, and no one, not even Margaret, suspected Esther's condition. Encouraged by her success, and seeing still very little sign of change in her person, and as every penny she could earn was of vital consequence in the coming time, Esther determined to risk another month; then she would give notice and leave. Another month passed, and Esther was preparing for departure when a whisper went round, and before she could take steps to leave she was told that Mrs. Barfield wished to see her in the library. Esther turned a little pale, and the expression of her face altered; it seemed to her impossible to go before Mrs. Barfield and admit her shame. Margaret, who was 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 not yet 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 without further thought. She had then but to turn to the left and a few steps would bring her to the library door. The room was already present in her mind. She could see it. The dim light, the little green sofa, the round table 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-known voice said, "Come in." She turned the handle, and found herself alone with her mistress. Mrs. Barfield laid down the book she was reading, and looked up. She did not look as angry as Esther had imagined, but her voice was harder 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 then said— "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 prayer in this room, for twelve Sundays you sat by me learning to read, and you never said a word?" A certain harshness in Mrs. Barfield's voice awakened a rebellious spirit in 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 a quarter'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, have I?" "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. But I 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 she felt she had not been wholly wrong in her estimate of the girl's character; she said, and in a different intonation— "Perhaps you were right, Esther. I couldn't have kept you on, on account of the bad example to the younger servants. I might have helped you with money. But six months alone in London and in your condition! …I am glad you did not tell me, Esther; and as you say there is another to think of now, I hope you will never neglect your child, if God give it to you alive." "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 for you. A girl like you, and only twenty! …Oh, it is a shame! May God give you courage to bear up in your adversity!" "I know there is many a hard time before me, but I have prayed for strength, and God will give me strength, and I must not complain. My case is 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 a character." "Can I give you a character? You were tempted, you were led into temptation. I ought to have watched over you better—mine is the responsibility. Tell me, it was not your fault." "It is always a woman's fault, ma'am. But he should not have deserted me as he did, that's the only thing I reproach him with, the rest was my fault—I shouldn't have touched the second glass of ale. Besides, I was in love with him, and you know what that is. I thought no harm, and I let him kiss 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 or speak to him any more; and while our quarrel was going on Miss Peggy went after 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 all this. 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 and downstairs, the whole place is poisoned with it, and it is the fault of—" Mrs. Barfield walked hurriedly across the room, but when she turned the sight 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; you are not the first victim. Ah, what ruin, what misery, what death!" Mrs. Barfield covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out the memories that crowded upon her. "I think, ma'am, if you will excuse my saying so, that a great deal of harm do come from this betting on race-horses. The day when you was all away at Goodwood when the horse won, I went down to see what the sea was like here. I was brought up by the seaside at Barnstaple. On the beach I met Mrs. Leopold, that is to say Mrs. Randal, John's wife; she seemed to be in great trouble, she looked that melancholy, and for company's sake she 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 not give me one she broke down completely, and told me what her troubles had been." "What did she tell you, Esther?" "I hardly remember, ma'am, but it was all the same thing—ruin if the horse didn't win, and more betting if he did. But she said they never had been in such a fix as the day Silver Braid won. If he had been beaten they would have been thrown out on the street, and from what I have heard the best 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 vice instead of righteousness." Walking towards the window, Mrs. Barfield continued to talk to herself. "I have struggled against the evil all my life, 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 from which 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 me stay at home if I can pay my way. I could manage easily on seven shillings a week. When my time comes I shall go to the hospital." While Esther spoke Mrs. Barfield calculated roughly that about ten pounds would meet most of her wants. Her train fare, two month's board at seven shillings a week, the room she would have to take near the hospital before her confinement, and to which she would return with her baby—all these would run to about four or five pounds. There would be baby's clothes to buy…. If she gave four pounds Esther would have then twelve pounds, and with that she would be able to manage. Mrs. Barfield went over to an old-fashioned escritoire, and, pulling out some small drawers, took from one some paper packages which she unfolded. "Now, my girl, look here. I'm going to give you four pounds; then you will have twelve, and that ought to see you through your trouble. You have been a good servant, Esther; I like you very much, and am truly sorry to part with you. You will write and tell me how you are getting on, and if one of these days you want a place, 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 by kindness, and she longed to throw herself at her mistress's feet; but her nature did not admit of such effusion, and she said, in her blunt English way— "You are far too good, ma'am; I do not deserve such treatment—I know I don't." "Say no more, Esther. I hope that the Lord may give you strength to bear your cross…. Now go and pack up your box. But, Esther, do you feel your sin, 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 in the 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 strayed and has fallen into sin. But Thou hast said there is more joy in heaven over 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 to stand firm against temptation. Forgive her sin, even as Thou forgavest the woman of Samaria. Give her strength to walk uprightly before Thee, and give 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's eyes were full of tears. Without speaking she turned to go. "One word more, Esther. You asked me just now for a character; I hesitated, but it seems to me now that it would be wrong to refuse. If I did you might never get a place, and then it would be impossible to say what might happen. I am not certain that I am doing right, but I know what it means to refuse to give a servant a character, and I cannot take upon myself the responsibility." Mrs. Barfield wrote out a character for Esther, in which she described her as an honest, hard-working girl. She paused at the word "reliable," and wrote 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 all the women in the kitchen; evidently they were waiting for her. Coming forward, Sarah said— "I hope we shall part friends, Esther; any quarrels we may have had—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 on both 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, kissing Esther, she declared that she had never got on with a girl who slept in her room so well before. Esther shook hands with Grover, and then her eyes met 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 you such a wrong—But if you want for anything let me know, and you shall have it. You will want money; I have some here for you." "Thank you, thank you, but I have all I want. Mrs. Barfield has been very good to me." The babbling of so many voices drew Mr. Leopold from the pantry; he came with 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 the beer." The idea provoked some good-natured laughter, and Esther hid her face in her hands and tried to get away. But Margaret would not allow her. "What nonsense!" she said. "We don't think any the worse of you; why that's an accident 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 tears were shed, and Esther walked down the yard through the stables. The avenue was full of wind and rain; the branches creaked dolefully overhead; the lane was drenched, and the bare fields were fringed with white mist, and the houses seemed very desolate by the bleak sea; and the girl's soul was desolate as the landscape. She had come to Woodview to escape the suffering of a home which had become unendurable, and she was going back in circumstances a hundred times worse than those in which she had left it, and she was going back with the memory of the happiness she had lost. All the grief and trouble that girls of her class have so frequently to bear gathered in Esther's heart when she looked out of the railway carriage window and saw for the last time the stiff plantations on the downs and the angles of the Italian house between the trees. She drew her handkerchief from her jacket, and hid her distress as well as she could from the other occupants of the carriage. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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