 CHAPTER 1 She stood on the platform, watching the receding train. A few bushes hid the curve of the line. The white vapor rose above them, evaporating in the pale evening. A moment more, and the last carriage would pass out of sight. The white gates swung forward slowly and closed over the line. An oblong box, painted reddish-brown, and tied with a rough rope, lay on the seat beside her. The movement of her back and shoulders showed that the bundle she carried was a heavy one, the sharp bulging of the gray linen cloth that the weight was dead. She wore a faded yellow dress and a black jacket too warm for the day. A girl of twenty, short, strongly built, with short, strong arms. Her neck was plump, and her hair of so ordinary a brown that it passed unnoticed. The nose was too thick, but the nostrils were well-formed. The eyes were gray, luminous, and veiled with dark lashes. But it was only when she laughed that her face lost its habitual expression, which was somewhat sullen. Then it flowed with bright humour. She laughed now, showing a white line of almond-shaped teeth. The porter had asked her if she were afraid to leave her bundle with her box. Both, he said, would go up together in the donkey-cart. The donkey-cart came down every evening to fetch parcels. That was the way to Woodview, right up the lane. She could not miss it. She would find the lodge-gate in that clump of trees. The man lingered, for she was an attractive girl, but the stationmaster called him away to remove some luggage. It was a barren country. Once the sea had crawled at high tide, half way up the sloping sides of those downs. It would do so now, were it not for the Shingle Bank, which its surging had thrown up along the coast. Between the Shingle Bank and the shore a weedy river flowed, and the little town stood clamped together its feet in the water's edge. There were decaying shipyards about the harbour, and wooden break-waters stretched long, thin arms seaward for ships that did not come. On the other side of the railway, apple blossoms showed above a whitewashed wall, as a market gardening was done in the low-lying fields, whence the downs rose in gradual ascents. On the first slope there was a fringe of trees. That was Woodview. The girl gazed on this bleak country, like one who saw it for the first time. She saw, without perceiving, for her mind was occupied with other consideration. She found it difficult to decide whether she should leave her bundle with her box. It hung heavy in her hand, and she did not know how far Woodview was from the station. At the end of the platform the stationmaster took her ticket, and she passed over the level crossing still undecided. The lane began with iron railings, laurels, and French windows. She had been in service in such houses, and knew if she were engaged in any of them what her duties would be. But the life in Woodview was a great dream, and she could not imagine herself accomplishing all that would be required of her. There would be a butler, a footman, and a page. She would not mind the page, but the butler and footman, what would they think? There would be an upper housemaid, and an under-housemaid, and perhaps a ladiesmaid, and maybe that these ladies had been abroad with the family. She had heard of France and Germany. Their conversation would, no doubt, turn on such subjects, as silence would betray her. They would ask her what situations she had been in, and when they learnt the truth she would have to leave, disgraced. She had not sufficient money to pay for a ticket to London. But what excuse could she give to Lady Elwynne, who had rescued her from Mrs. Dunbar, and got her the place of kitchen-made at Woodview? She must not go back. Her father would curse her, and perhaps beat her mother and her too. Ah, he would not dare to strike her again, and the girl's face flushed with shameful remembrance. And her little brothers and sisters would cry if she came back. They had little enough to eat as it was. Of course, she must not go back. How silly of her to think of such a thing. She smiled, and her face became as bright as the month. It was the first day of June. Still, she would be glad when the first week was over. If she had only a dress to wear in the afternoons, the old yellow thing on her back would never do. But one of her cotton prints was pretty fresh. She must get a bit of red ribbon. That would make a difference. She had heard that the housemaids in places like Woodview always changed their dresses twice a day, and on Sundays went out in silk mantles and hats in the newest fashion. As for the ladies' maid, she of course had all her mistresses clothes, and walked with a butler. What would such people think of a little girl like her? Her heart sank at the thought, and she sighed, anticipating much bitterness and disappointment. Even when her first quarter's wages came due, she would hardly be able to buy herself a dress. They would want the money at home. Her quarter's wages. A month's wages, most like, for she'd never be able to keep the place. No doubt all those fields belonged to the squire, and those great trees, too, they must be fine folk, quite as fine as Lady Elwynne—finer, for she lived in a house like those near the station. On both sides of the straight road there were tall hedges, and the nursemaids lay in the wide shadows on the rich summer grass, their perambulators at a little distance. The hum of the town died out of the ear, and the girl continued to imagine a future she was about to enter on with increasing distinctness. She could see two houses, one in grey stone, the other in red brick, with a gable covered with ivy, and between them, lost in the north, the spire of a church. On questioning a passer-by, she learnt that the first house was the rectory, the second was Woodview Lodge. If that was the lodge, what must the house be? Two hundred yards further on, the roads branched on either side of a triangular clump of trees. The sunlight was fierce in the meadows, but under the leaves the air was green and pleasant, and so vigorous that the flesh of the jaded town girl tingled already with the happiness of health. Behind those trees a large white-painted wooden gate opened into a handsome avenue. The gatekeeper told her to keep straight on, and to turn to the left when she got to the top. She had never seen anything like it before, and stopped to admire. The uncouth arms of elms roofed the roadway, and pink clouds showed through like pictures. The monotonous dove seemed the very heart of the silence. She had expected nothing so grand as this, and her doubts returned. She would never be able to keep the place. The avenue turned a little, and she came suddenly upon a young man leaning over the pailing, smoking his pipe. Please, sir, is this the way to Woodview? Yes, right up through the stables round to the left. Then, noticing the sturdily built figure, graceful in its sturdiness, and the bright cheeks full of lily and rose-colour. He added, You look pretty well done. That bundle is a heavy one. Let me hold it for you. I am a little tired, she said, leaning the bundle on the pailing. They told me at the station that the donkey-cart would bring my box up later on. Ah! The newer the new kitchen made. What's your name? Esther Waters. My mother's the cook here. You'll have to mind your peas and queues or else you'll be dropped on. The devil of a temper while it lasts, but not a bad sort if you don't put her out. Are you in service here? No, but I hoped to be a forelong. I could have been two years ago, but my mother did not like me to put on livery, and I don't know how I'll face her when I come running down to go out with the carriage. Is the place vacant? Esther asked, raising her eyes timidly, looking at him sideways. Yes, Jim's story got the sack about a week ago. When he had taken a drop he'd tell every blessed thing that was done in the stables. They'd get him down to the red lion for the purpose. Of course the squire couldn't stand that. And shall you take the place? Yes. I'm not going to spend my life carrying parcels up and down the King's Road Brighton if I can squeeze in here. It isn't so much the berth that I care about, but the advantages—information fresh from the fountain-head. You won't catch me chattering over the bar at the red lion, and having every blessed word I say wired up to London and printed next morning in all the papers? Esther wondered what he was talking about. She looked and saw a low, narrow forehead, a small round head, a long nose, a pointed chin, and rather hollow, bloodless cheeks. Notwithstanding the shallow chest he was powerfully built, the long arms could deal a swinging blow. The low forehead and the lustilous eyes told of a slight unimaginative brain. Regular features and a look of natural honesty made William Latch a man that ten men and eighteen women out of twenty would like. I see you have got books in that bundle, he said, at the end of a long silence. Fond of Reeden? They are mother's books, she replied hastily. I was afraid to leave them at the station, for it would be easy for any one to take one out, and I should not miss it until I undid the bundle. Sarah Tucker, that's the upper housemaid, will be after you to lend them to her. She is a wonderful reader. She has read every story that has come out in bow-bells for the last three years, and you can't puzzle her, try as you will, she knows all the names, can tell you which lord it was that saved the girl from the carriage when the Aussies were tearing like mad towards a precipice a hundred feet deep, and all about the baronet for whose sake the girl went out to drown herself in the moonlight. I haven't read the books myself, but Sarah and me are great pals. Esther trembled, lest you might ask her again if she were fond of reading. She could not read, and she was ashamed of her ignorance. He, noticing a change in the expression of her face, concluded that she was disappointed to hear that he liked Sarah, and regretted his indiscretion. Good friends, you know, no more. Me and Sarah never hit it off. She will worry me with the stories she reads. I don't know what is your taste, but I like something more practical. The little osse in there, he is more to my taste. Fearing he might speak again of her books, she mustered up courage and said, They told me at the station that the donkey-cart would bring out my box. The donkey-cart isn't going to the station to-night. You'll want your things to be sure. I'll see the coachman. Perhaps he is going down with the trap. But, golly, it has gone the half-hour. I shall catch it for keeping you talking, and my mother has been expecting you for the last hour. She hasn't assaulted a helper and six people coming to dinner. You must say the train was late. Let us go, then, cried Esther. Will you show me the way? When the conversation dropped, the coup of the pigeons grew louder. Over the iron gate which opened into the pleasure-ground, thick branches of evergreen oaks made an arch of foliage. Between the trees a glimpse was caught of the angles and urns of an Italian house, distant about a hundred yards. A high brick wall separated the pleasure-ground from the stables, and as William and Esther turned to the left and walked up the roadway, William explained that the numerous buildings were stables. They passed by many doors, hearing the trampling of horses and the rattling of chains. Then the roadway opened into a handsome yard overlooked by the house, the back premises of which had been lately rebuilt in red brick. There were gables and ornamental porches, and through the large kitchen windows the servants were seen passing to and fro. At the top of this yard was a gate. It led into the park, and like the other gate was overhung by bunched evergreens. A string of horses came toward this gate, and William ran to open it. The horses were clothed in grey cloth. They wore hoods, and Esther noticed the black round eyes looking through the eyelet holes. They were ridden by small, ugly boys, who swung their little legs, and struck them with ash-plants when they reached their heads forward, choring at the bits. When William returned he said, Look there, the third one, that's he, that's silver braid. An impatient knocking at the kitchen window interrupted his admiration, and William, turning quickly, said, Mind you say the train was late, don't I I kept you, or you'll get me into the devil of a pickle, this way. The door led into a wide passage covered with coconut matting. They walked a few yards. The kitchen was the first door, and the handsome room she found herself in did not conform to anything that Esther had seen or heard of kitchens. The range almost filled one end of the room, and on it a dozen saucepans were simmering. The dresser reached the ceiling, and was covered with a multitude of plates and dishes. Esther thought how she must strive to keep it in its present beautiful condition, and the elegant white-capped servants passing round the white table made her feel her own insignificance. This is the new kitchen, ma'am. Ah, is it indeed? said Mrs. Latch, looking up from the tray of tartlets which she had taken from the oven and was filling with jam. Esther noticed the likeness that Mrs. Latch bore to her son. The hair was iron grey, and, as in William's face, the nose was the most prominent feature. I suppose you'll tell me the train was late. Yes, mother, the train was a quarter an hour late. William chimed in. I didn't ask you, you idle, lazy, good-for-nothing vagabond, as opposed it was you who kept the girl all this time. Six people coming to dinner, and I've had the whole day without a kitchen made. If Margaret Gale hadn't come down to help me, I don't know where we should be, as it is the dinner will be late. The two housemaids, both in print dresses, stood listening. Esther's face clouded, and when Mrs. Latch told her to take her things off and set to and prepare the vegetables, so that she might see what she was made of, Esther did not answer at once. She turned away, saying under her breath, I must change my dress, and my box has not come up from the station yet. You can tuck your dress up and Margaret Gale will lend you her apron. Esther hesitated. What you've got on doesn't look as if it could come to much damage. Come now, set to. The housemaids burst into loud laughter, and then a sullen look of dogged obstinacy passed over and settled on Esther's face, even to the point of visibly darkening the white and rose complexion. End of chapter 1 Recording by Corrie Samuel Chapter 2 of Esther Waters This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Corrie Samuel Esther Waters by George Moore Chapter 2 A sloping roof formed one end of the room, and through a broad single pane, the early sunlight fell across a wall papered with blue and white flowers. Print dresses hung over the door. On the wall were two pictures, a girl with a basket of flowers, the coloured supplement of an illustrated newspaper, and an old and dilapidated last-century print. On the chimney-piece there were photographs of the Gale family in Sunday clothes, and the green vases that Sarah had given Margaret on her birthday. In a low, narrow, iron bed, pushed close against the wall in the full glare of the sunlight, Esther lay staring, half awake, her eyes open but still dim with dreams. She looked at the clock. It was not yet time to get up, and she raised her arms as if to cross them behind her head, but a sudden remembrance of yesterday arrested the movement, and a sudden shadow settled upon her face. She had refused to prepare the vegetables. She hadn't answered, and the cook had turned her out of the kitchen. She had rushed from the house under the momentary sway of hope that she might succeed in walking back to London. But William had overtaken her in the avenue. He had apostulated with her. He had refused to allow her to pass. She had striven to tear herself from him, and failing had burst into tears. William had been very kind, and at last she had allowed him to lead her back, and all the time he had filled her ears with assurances that he would make it right with his mother. But Mrs. Latch had closed her kitchen against her, and she had had to go to her room. Even if they paid her fare back to London, how was she to face her mother? What would Father say? He would drive her from the house. But she had done nothing wrong. Why did Cook insult her? As she pulled on her stockings, she stopped and wondered if she should awake Margaret Gale. Margaret's bed stood in the blonde shadow of the obliquely falling wall. She lay in a heavy attitude, one arm thrown forward, her short, square face raised to the light. Margaret slept so deeply that for a moment Esther felt afraid. Suddenly the eyes opened, and Margaret looked at her vaguely, as if out of eternity. Raising her hands to her eyes, she said, What time is it? It has just gone six. Then there is plenty of time, we needn't be down before seven. You get on with your dressing, there's no use my getting up till you're done. We'll be tumbling over each other. This is no room to put two girls to sleep in, one glass not much bigger than your hand. You'll have to get your box under your bed. In my last place I had a beautiful room with a Brussels carpet and a marble wash handstand. I wouldn't stay here three days if it weren't. The girl laughed and turned lazily over. Esther did not answer. Now, isn't it a grubby little room to put two girls to sleep in? What was your last place like? Esther answered that she had hardly been in service before. Margaret was too much engrossed in her own thoughts to notice the curtness of the answer. There's only one thing to be said for wood view and that is the eating. We have everything we want and we'd have more than we want if it weren't for the old cook. She must have her little bit out of everything and she cuts us short in our bacon in the morning. But that reminds me, you have set the cook against you. You'll have to bring her over to your side if you want to remain here. Why should I be asked to wash up the moment I came in the house, before even I had time to change my dress? It was rather hard on you. She always gets as much as she can out of her kitchen-made, but last night she was pressed. There was company to dinner. I'd have lent you an apron, and the dress you had on wasn't of much account. It isn't because a girl is poor. Oh, I didn't mean that. I know well enough what it is to be hard up. Margaret clasped her stays across her plump figure and walked to the door for her dress. She was a pretty girl with a snub nose and large, clear eyes. Her hair was lighter in tone than Esther's, and she had brushed it from her forehead so as to obviate the defect of her face, which was too short. Esther was on her knees, saying her prayers, when Margaret turned to the light to button her boots. Well, I never, she exclaimed. Do you think prayers do any good? Esther looked up angrily. I don't want to say anything against saying prayers, but I wouldn't before the others if I was you. They'll chaff dreadful and call you creeping gee— Oh, Margaret, I hope they won't do anything so wicked. But I'm afraid I shall not be here long, so it doesn't matter what they think of me. When they got downstairs, they opened the windows and doors, and Margaret took Esther round, showing her where the things were kept, and telling her for how many she must lay the table. The rashers were frying when a number of boys and men came clattering up the passage. They cried to Esther to hurry up, declaring that they were late. Esther did not know who they were, but she served them as best she might. They breakfasted hastily and rushed away to the stables. They had not been long gone when the squire and his son Arthur appeared in the yard. The gaffer, as he was called, was a man of about medium height. He wore breaches and gaiters, and in them his legs seemed grotesquely thick. His son was a narrow-chested, undersized young man, absurdly thin and hatchet-faced. He was also in breaches and gaiters, and to his boots were attached long-necked spurs. His pale yellow hair gave him a somewhat ludicrous appearance. But he seemed quite different the moment he was in the saddle. He rode a beautiful chestnut horse, a little too thin, so Esther thought. The ugly little boys were mounted on horses equally thin. The squire rode a stout gray cob, and he watched the chestnut, and was also interested in the brown horse that walked with its head in the air, pulling at the smallest of all the boys, a little freckled red-headed fellow. That silver braid, the brown horse, the one that the demon is riding. The chestnut is bayleaf. Ginger is riding him. He won the city and suburban. Oh, we did have a fine time then, for he all had a bit on. The betting was twenty to one, and I won twelve and six pence. Grover won thirty shillings. They say that John, that's the battler, won a little fortune. But he is so close no one knows what he does. Cook wouldn't have anything on. She says that betting is the curse of servants. You know what is said, that it was through betting that Mrs. Latch's husband got into trouble. He was steward here, you know, in the late squire's time. Then Margaret told all she had heard on the subject. The late Mr. Latch had been a confidential steward, and large sums of money were constantly passing through his hands, for which he was never asked for any exact account. Contrary to all expectation, Marksman was beaten for the Chester Cup, and the squire's property was placed under the charge of a receiver. Under the new management things were gone in two more closely, and it was then discovered that Mr. Latch's accounts were incapable of satisfactory explanation. The defeat of Marksman had hit Mr. Latch as hard as it had hit the squire, and to pay his debts of honour he had to take from the money placed in his charge, confidently hoping to return it in a few months. The squire's misfortunes anticipated the realisation of his intentions. Proceedings were threatened, but were withdrawn on Mrs. Latch coming forward with all her savings, and volunteering to forgo her wages for a term of years. Old Latch died soon after. Some lucky bets set the squire on his legs again. The matter was half forgotten, and in the next generation it became the legend of the Latch family. So it was to others, but to Mrs. Latch it became an incurable grief, and to remove her son from influences which, in her opinion, had caused his father's death, Mrs. Latch had always refused Mr. Barfield's offers to do something for William. Against her will he had been taught to ride in the hope of his becoming a jockey, but to her great joy he soon grew out of all such possibility. She had then placed him in an office in Brighton. But the young man's height and shape marked him out for livery, and Mrs. Latch was pained when Mr. Barfield proposed it. Why cannot they leave me my son? she cried, for it seemed to her that in that hateful cloth, buttons, and cockeyed, he would be no more her son, nor could she entirely forget what the Latches had been long ago. I believe there's going to be a trial this morning, said Margaret. Silver braid was stripped, you notice that, and Ginger always rides in the trials. I don't know what a trial is, said Esther. They are not carriage horses, are they? They look too slight. Carriage horses? You niny! Where have you been to all this while? Can't you see that they're race horses? Esther hung down her head, and murmured something which Margaret didn't catch. To tell the truth, I didn't know much about them when I came, but then one never hears anything else here. And that reminds me, it is as much as your place is worth to breathe one syllable about them horses. You must know nothing when you are asked. That's what Jim Story got sacked for, saying in the red lion that Valentine pulled up lame. We don't know how it came to the gaffers ears. I believe that it was Mr. Leopold that told. He finds out everything. But I was telling you how I learned about the race horses. It was from Jim Story. Jim was my pal. Sarah is after William, you know, the fellow who brought you into the kitchen last night. Jim could never talk about anything but the osses. Would go every night and sit in the woodshed, that is to say if it was wet, if it was fine, would walk in the driveway. I'd have married Jim. I know I should, if he hadn't been sent away. That's the worst of being a servant. They sent Jim away just as if he was a dog. It was wrong of him to say the horse pulled up lame. I admit that, but they needn't have sent him away as they did. Esther did not listen to Margaret's discursive chatter. She was absorbed in the consideration of her own perilous position. Would they send her away at the end of the week, or that very afternoon? Would they give her a week's wages, or would they turn her out destitute to find her way back to London as best she might? What should she do if they turned her out of doors that very afternoon? Walk back to London? She did not know if that was possible. She did not know how far she had come—a long distance, no doubt. She had seen woods, hills, rivers, and towns flying past. Never would she be able to find her way back through that endless country. Besides, she could not carry her box on her back. What was she to do? Not a friend, not a penny in the world. Oh, why did such misfortune fall on a poor little girl who had never harmed any one in the world? And if they did give her her fare back, what then? Should she go home? To whom? To her mother. To her poor mother, who would burst into tears, who would say, Oh, my poor darling, I don't know what we shall do. Your father will never consent to your remaining here. Miss Slatch had not spoken to her since she had come into the kitchen. It seemed to Esther that she had looked round, with the air of one anxious to discover something that might serve as a pretext for blame. She had told Esther to make haste and lay the table afresh. Those who had gone were the stable folk. And breakfast had now to be prepared for the other servants. The person in the dark green dress, who spoke with her chin in the air, whose nose had been pinched to purple just above the nostrils, was Miss Grover, the lady's maid. Grover addressed an occasional remark to Sarah Tucker, a tall girl with a thin freckled face and dark red hair. The butler, who was not feeling well, did not appear at breakfast, and Esther was sent to him with a cup of tea. There were the plates to wash and the knives to clean, and when they were done there was cabbage, potato, onions to prepare, saucepans to fill with water, coal to fetch for the fire. She worked steadily without flagging, absorbed in her work, and in anticipation of Mrs. Barfield, who would come down no doubt about ten o'clock to order dinner. It was now past nine. The race-horses were coming through the paddock gate. Margaret called to Mr. Randall, a little man, whizzen, with a face sallow with frequent indigestions. Well, do you think the gaff has satisfied? said Margaret. John made no articulate reply, but he muttered something, and his manner showed that he strongly deprecated all female interest in racing. And when Sarah and Grover came running down the passage, and overwhelmed him with questions, crowding round him, asking both together if Silverbraid had won his trial, he testily pushed them aside, declaring that if he had a racehorse he would not have a woman's servant in the place. A positive curse, this chatter-chatter, won his trial, indeed. What business had a lot of female folk? The rest of John's sarcasm was lost in his shirt-collar, as he hurried away to his pantry, closing the door after him. What a testy little man he is! said Sarah. He might have told us which one. He has known the gaffer so long that he knows the moment he looks at him whether the cheese were all right. One can't speak to a chap in the lane that he doesn't know all about it next day, said Margaret. Peggy hates him. You know the way she skulks about the back garden and up the ill, so that she may meet young Johnson as he is riding home. I'll have none of this scandal-mongering going on in my kitchen, said Mrs. Latch. Do you see that girl there? She can't get past to her scullery. Esther would have managed pretty well, if it had not been for the dining-room lunch. Miss Mary was expecting some friends to play tennis with her. And, besides the roast chicken, there were cutlets, a la sobbees, and a curry. There was for dessert a jelly and a blemange, and Esther did not know where any of the things were, and a great deal of time was wasted. Don't you move, I might as well get it myself, said the old woman. Mr. Randall, too, lost his temper, for she had no hot plates ready, nor could she distinguish between those that were to go to the dining-room and those that were to go to the servants-hall. She understood, however, that it would not be wise to give way to her feeling, and that the only way she could hope to retain her situation was by doing nothing to attract attention. She must learn to control that temper of hers, she must, and would. And it was in this frame of mind and this determination that she entered the servants-hall. There were not more than ten or eleven at dinner, but sitting close together they seemed more numerous, and quite half the number of faces that looked up, as she took her place next to Margaret Gale, were unknown to her. There were the four ugly little boys whom she had seen on the race-horses, but she did not recognise them at first, and nearly opposite, sitting next to the ladies-maid, was a small sandy-haired man about forty. He was beginning to show signs of stoutness, and two little round whiskers grew on his pallid cheeks. Mr. Randall sat at the end of the table, helping the pudding. He addressed the sandy-haired man as Mr. Swindles, but Esther learned afterwards his real name was Ward, and that he was Mr. Barfield's head groom. She likewise discovered that the demon was not the real name of the charity-haired little boy, and she looked at him in amazement when he whispered in her ear that he would dearly love a real go-in at that pudding, but it was so fattening that he didn't even dare to venture on more than a couple of sniffs. Seeing that the girl did not follow him, he added by way of explanation. You know that I must keep under the sixth stone, and at times it becomes awful hard. Esther thought him a nice little fellow, and tried to persuade him to forego his resolution not to touch pudding, until Mr. Swindles told her to desist. The attention of the whole table being thus drawn towards the boy, Esther was still further surprised at the admiration he seemed so easily to command, and the important position he seemed to occupy, notwithstanding his diminutive stature. Whereas the bigger boys were treated with very little consideration. The long-nosed lad, with weak eyes and slipping shoulders, who sat on the other side of the table on Mr. Swindles' left, was everyone's laughing-stock, especially Mr. Swindles, who did not cease to poke fun at him. Mr. Swindles was now telling poor Jim's misadventures with the gaffer. But why do you call him Mr. Leopold when his name is Mr. Randall? Esther ventured to inquire of the demon. On account of Leopold Roth's child, said the demon, he's pretty near as rich if the truth was known, won a pile over the city and sub. But he weren't there, might have had a bit on. I have never seen the city, Esther replied innocently. Never seen the city and sub? I was up, had a lot in hand, so I came away from my horses the moment I got into the dip. The tin man nearly caught me on the post, came with a terrific rush, he is just awful at tin mannies. I did catch it from the gaffer, he did give it to me. The plates of all the boys, except the demons, were now filled with beefsteak pudding, potatoes and greens, likewise esters. Mr. Leopold, Mr. Swindles, the housemaid and the cook, dined off the leg of mutton, a small slice of which was sent to the demon. That for a dinner. And as he took up his knife and fork, and cut a small piece of his one slice, he said, I suppose you've never had to reduce yourself three pounds, girls never have. I do run to flesh so, you wouldn't believe it. If I don't walk to Port Sladenbach every second day I go up three or four pounds, then there's nothing for it but the physics, and that's what settles me. Can you take physics? I took three beach-hams pills once. Oh, that's nothing, can you take cast-royle? Esther looked in amazement at the little boy at her side. Swindles had overheard the question and burst into a roar of laughter. Everyone wanted to know what the joke was, and, feeling they were poking fun at her, Esther refused to answer. The first helpings of pudding or mutton had taken the edge off their appetites, and before sending their plates for more, they leaned over the table listening and laughing open-mouthed. It was a bare room, lit with one window, against which Mrs. Latch's austere figure appeared in dark gray silhouette. The window looked on one of the little backcourts and tiled ways which had been built at the back of the house, and the shadowed northern light softened the listening faces with gray tints. You know, said Mr. Swindles, glancing at Jim as if to assure himself that the boy was there and unable to escape from the hooks of his sarcasm. How fast the gaffer talks, and how he hates to be asked to repeat his words. Knowing this, Jim always says, Yes, sir, yes, sir. Now, do you quite understand, says the gaffer. Yes, sir, yes, sir, replies Jim, not having understood one word of what was said, but relying on us to put him right. Now, what did he say I was to do, says Jim, the moment the gaffer is out of hearing. But this morning we were on ahead, and the gaffer had Jim all to himself. As usually says, Now, do you quite understand? And as usual Jim says, Yes, sir, yes, sir. Suspecting that Jim had not understood, I said when he joined us, Now, if you are not sure what he said you are better go back and ask him. But Jim declared that he had perfectly understood. And what did he tell you to do, said I. He told me, says Jim, to bring the colt along and finish up close by where he will be standing at the end of the track. I thought it rather odd to send firefly such a stiff gallop as all that. But Jim was certain that he had heard right. And off they went, beginning the other side of Southwick Hill. I saw the gaffer with his arms in the air, and didn't know now what he said. Jim will tell you. He did give it to you, didn't he, you old wool gatherer? said Mr. Swindles, slapping the boy on his shoulder. You may laugh as much as you please, but I'm sure he did tell me to come along three-quarter speed after passing the barn, replied Jim. And to change the conversation he asked Mr. Leopold for some more pudding. And the demon's hungry eyes watched the last portion being placed on the wool-gatherer's plate. Noticing that Esther drank no beer, he exclaimed, Well, I never, to see your eaten drink one would think that it was you who was a-wasting to ride the crack at Goodwood. The remark was received with laughter, and excited by his success, the demon threw his arms round Esther, and, seizing her hand, said, Now, you are just beginning to get through yours's, and when you get on a level—but the demon, in his hungry merriment, had bestowed no thought of finding a temper in such a staid little girl, and a sound box on the ear threw him backwards into his seat, surprised and howling. You're a nasty thing, he blubbered out. Couldn't you see it was only a joke? But passion was hot in Esther. She had understood no word that had been said since she had sat down to dinner, and, conscious of her poverty and her ignorance, imagined easily that a great deal of the demon's conversation had been directed against her. And, choking with indignation, she only heard indistinctly the reproaches with which the other little boys covered her—nasty, dirty, ill-tempered things, scullery made, etc., nor did she understand their whispered plans to duck her when she passed the stables. All looked a little ascance, especially Grover and Mr. Leopold. Margaret said, That will teach these impertinent little jocky boys that the servant's hall is not the harness room, they oughtn't to be admitted here at all. Mr. Leopold nodded, and told the demon to leave off blubbering. You can't be as much hurt as all that. Come, wipe your eyes and have a piece of current tart, or leave the room. I want to hear from Mr. Swindles an account of the trial. We know that the silver-aid won, but we haven't heard how he won, nor yet what the weights were. Well, says Mr. Swindles, what I make out is this. I was riding within a pound or two of eight-stone seven, and the rake is, as you know, seven pounds, no more, no worse, than bay leaf. Ginger rides usually as near as possible my weight. I will say he was riding eight-stone seven. I think he could manage that. And the demon, we know, is now riding over the sixth stone. In his ordinary clothes he rides six-seven. Yes, yes, but how do we know that there weren't seven, perhaps ten pounds of lead in the saddle-cloth? The demon says there wasn't. Don't you, demon? I don't know nothing. I'm not going to stand being clouded by the kitchen maid. Oh, shut up or leave the room, said Mr. Leopold. We don't want to hear any more about that. I started making the running according to orders. Ginger was within three-quarters of a length of me, being pulled out of the saddle. The gaffer was standing at the three-quarters of the mile, and there Ginger won fairly easily. But they went on to the mill, then with the orders, and there the demon won by half a length, that is to say, if Ginger wasn't a kidding of him. A kidding of me, said the demon. When we was a quarter of a mile from home, I took a pull without him noticing me, and then I landed in last fifty yards by half a length. Ginger can't ride much better than any other gentleman. You see, said Mr. Swindles. He'd sooner have a box on the ear from the kitchen maid than be told a gentleman could kid him at a finish. He wouldn't mind if it was the Tinman, eh, demon? We know, said Mr. Leopold. The bay leaf can get in the mile. There must have been a lot of weight between them. Besides, I should think that the trial was at the three-quarters of the mile. The mile was so much kid. I should say, replied Mr. Swindles, that the horses were tried at a stone, and if silver braid can beat bay leaf at that weight, he'll take a deal of beating a good wood. And leaning forward, their arms on the table, with large pieces of cheese at the end of their knives, the maid-servants and the jockey listened to Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles, discussing the chances the stable had of pulling off the steward's cup with silver braid. But he will always keep trying them, said Mr. Swindles. And what's the use, says I, of trying horses that are no more than half-fit, and them downs is just rotten with horse-watches? It's just come to this, that you can't come out on horses' mane without seeing it in the papers the day after. I fired my way with them gentry. Mr. Swindles finished his beer at a gulp, and he put down his glass as firmly as he desired to put down the horse-watches. At the end of a long silence, Mr. Leopold said, come into my pantry and smoke a pipe. Mr. Arthur will be down presently. Perhaps he'll tell us what weight he was riding this morning. Canning old bird, said Mr. Swindles, as he rose from the table and wiped his shaven lips with the back of his hand. And you'd have us believe that you didn't know, would you? You'd have us believe, would you, that the gaffer didn't tell you everything when you bring up his hot water in the morning, would you? Mr. Leopold laughed under his breath, and looking mysterious and very rat-like, he led the way to his pantry. Esther watched them in strange trouble of soul. She had heard of race-courses as shameful places, where men were led to their ruin, and betting she had always understood to be sinful, but in this house no one seemed to think of anything else. It was no place for a Christian girl. Let's have some more of the new story, Margaret said. You've got the new number. The last piece was where he is going to ask the opera singer to run away with him. Sarah took an illustrated journal out of her pocket, and began to read aloud. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Esther Waters This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bridget. Esther Waters by George Moore Chapter 3 Esther was one of the Plymouth Brethren in their chapel, if the house in which they met could be called a chapel. There were neither pictured stories of saints, nor vestments, nor music, nor even imaginative stimulant in the shape of written prayers. Her knowledge of life was strictly limited to her experience of life. She knew no drama of passion, except that which the Gospels relate. This story in the family reader was the first representation of life she had met with, and its humanity thrilled her like the first idol set up for worship. The actress told Norris that she loved him. They were on a balcony, the sky was blue, the moon was shining. The warm sun of the Minionette came up from the garden below. The man was in evening dress with diamond shirt studs. The actress's arm was large and white. They had loved each other for years. The strangest events had happened for the purpose of bringing them together, and fascinated against her will, Esther could not but listen. But at the end of the chapter, the racial instinct forced approval from her. I am sure it is wicked to read such tales. Sarah looked at her in mute astonishment. Grover said, You shouldn't be here at all. Can't Mrs. Latch find nothing for you to do in the scholarly? Then said Sarah, awaking to a sense of the situation. I suppose that where you come from you are not so much as allowed to read a tale. Dirty little chapel-going folk. The incident might have closed with this reproval had not Margaret volunteered the information that Esther's box was full of books. I should like to see them books, said Sarah. I'll be bound that they are only prayer books. I don't mind what you say to me, but you shall not insult my religion. Insult your religion? I said you never had read a book in your life unless it was a prayer book. We don't use prayer books. Then what books have you read? Esther hesitated, her manner betrayed her, and, suspecting the truth, Sarah said, I don't believe that you can read it all. Come, I'll bet you two pence that you can't read the first five lines of my story. Esther pushed the paper from her and walked out of the room in a tumult of grief and humiliation. Woodview, and all belonging to it, had grown unbearable, and heedless to what complaint the cook might make against her, she ran upstairs and shut herself into her room. She asked why they should take pleasure in torturing her. It was not her fault if she did not know how to read. There were the books she loved for her mother's sake, the books that had brought such disgrace upon her. Even the names she could not read, and the shame of her ignorance lay upon her heavier than a weight of lead, Peter Parley's annual, Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands, Children of the Abbey, Uncle Tom's Cabin, Lamb's Tales of Shakespeare's Plays, A Cooking Book, Broda's Mission of Love, The Holy Bible, and The Common Prayer Book. She turned them over, wondering what were the mysteries that this print held from her. It was to her mysterious as the stars. Esther Waters came from Barnstable. She had been brought up in the strictness of the Plymouth Brethren, and her earliest memories were of prayers, of narrow, peaceful family life. This early life had lasted till she was ten years old. Then her father died. He had been a house painter, but in early youth he had been led into intemperance by some wild companions. He was often not in a fit state to go to work. And one day the fumes of the beer he had drunk overpowered him, as he sat in the strong sunlight on his scaffolding. In the hospital he called upon God to relieve him of his suffering. Then the brethren said, You never thought of God before. Be patient, your health is coming back. It is a present from God. You would like to know him and thank him from the bottom of your heart? John Waters' heart was touched. He became one of the brethren, renouncing those companions who refused to follow into the glory of God. His conversion and subsequent grace won for him the sympathies of Mary Thornby. But Mary's father would not consent to the marriage, unless John abandoned his dangerous trade of house painter. John Waters consented to do this, and old James Thornby, who had made a competence in the Curiosity Line, offered to make over his shop to the young people on certain conditions. These conditions were accepted, and under his father-in-law's direction John drove a successful trade in old glass, old jewelry, and old furniture. The brethren liked not this trade, and they often came to John to speak with him on the subject. And their words were, Of course this is between you and the Lord, but these things, pointing to the old glass and jewelry, are often but snares for the feet, and lead weaker brethren into temptation. Of course it is between you and the Lord. So John Waters was tormented with scruples concerning the righteousness of his trade, but his wife's gentle voice and eyes, and the limitations that his accident, from which he had never wholly recovered, had set upon his life, overruled his scruples, and he remained until he died a dealer in artistic wear, eliminating, however, from his dealings those things to which the brethren most strongly objected. When he died his widow strove to carry on the business, but her father, who is now a confirmed invalid, could not help her. In the following year she lost both her parents. Many changes were taking place in Barnstable, new houses were being built, a much larger and finer shop had been opened in the more prosperous end of the town, and Mrs. Waters found herself obliged to sell her business for almost nothing, and marry again. Children were born of this second marriage in rapid succession, the cradle was never empty, and Esther was spoken of as the little nurse. Her great solicitude was for her poor mother, who had lost her health, whose blood was impoverished by constant childbearing. Mother and daughter were seen in the evenings, one with the baby at her breast, the other with an eighteen-month-old child in her arms. Esther did not dare leave her mother, and to protect her she gave up school, and this was why she had never learnt how to read. One of the many causes of quarrel between Mrs. Saunders and her husband was her attendance at prayer meetings, when he said she should be at home minding her children. He used to accuse her of carrying on with the scripture-readers, and to punish her he would say, This week I'll spend five bod more in the public, that'll teach you, if beating won't, that I don't want none of your hypocritical folk hanging round my place. So it befell the Saunders' family to have little to eat, and Esther often wondered how she should get a bit of dinner for her sick mother and her hungry little brothers and sisters. Once they passed nearly thirty hours without food, she called them round her, and knelt down amid them. They prayed that God might help them, and to their prayers were answered. For at half-past twelve a scripture-lady came in with flowers in her hands. She asked Mrs. Saunders how her appetite was. Mrs. Saunders answered that it was more than she could afford, for there was nothing to eat in the house. Then the scripture-lady gave them eighteen pence, and they all knelt down, and thanked God together. But although Saunders spent a great deal of his money in the public-house, he rarely got drunk, and always kept his employment. He was a painter of engines, a first-rate hand, earning good money, from twenty-five to thirty shillings a week. He was a proud man, but so avaricious that he stopped at nothing to get money. He was an ardent politician, yet he would sell his vote to the highest bidder. And when Esther was seventeen he compelled her to take service regardless of the character of the people or of what the place was like. They had left Barnstaple many months, and were now living in a little street of the Vauxhall Bridge Road, near the factory where Saunders worked. And since they had been in London, Esther had been constantly in service. Why should he keep her? She wasn't one of his children. He had quite enough of his own. Sometimes of an evening, when Esther could escape from her drudgery for a few minutes, her mother would step round, and mother and daughter, wrapped in the same shawl, would walk to and fro telling each other their troubles, just as in old times. But these moments were few. In grimy lodging-houses she worked from early morning to late at night, scrubbing grates, preparing bacon and eggs, cooking chops, and making beds. She had become one of those London girls to whom rest, not to say pleasure, is unknown, who, if they should sit down for a few moments, hear the mistress's voice. Now, evisa, have you nothing to do that you are sitting there idle? Two of her mistresses, one after the other, had been sold up, and now all the rooms in the neighborhood were unlet. No one wanted a slavey, and Esther was obliged to return home. It was on the last of these occasions that her father had taken her by the shoulders, saying, No lodging-houses that want a slavey? I'll see about that. Tell me first, have you been to seventy-eight? Yes, but another girl was before me, and the place was taken when I arrived. I wonder what you were doing that you didn't get there sooner, dangling about after your mother, I suppose. Well, what about twenty-seven in the Crescent? I couldn't go there, that Mrs. Dunbar is a bad woman. Bad woman? Who are you, I should like to know, that you can take a lady's character away? Who told you she was a bad woman? One of the scripture-readers, I suppose? I knew it was. Well, then, just get out of my house. Where shall I go? Go to hell, for all I care. Do you hear me? Get out. Esther did not move. Words and then blows. Esther's escape from her stepfather seemed a miracle, and his anger was only appeased by Mrs. Saunders promising that Esther should accept the situation. Only for a little while. Perhaps Mrs. Dunbar is a better woman than you think for. For my sake, dearie, if you don't, he may kill you and me too. Esther looked at her one moment. Then she said, Very well, mother, to-morrow I'll take the place. No longer was the girl starved. No longer was she made to drudge till the thought of another day was a despair and a terror. And seeing that she was a good girl, Mrs. Dunbar respected her scruples. Indeed, she was very kind, and Esther soon learned to like her, and threw her affection for her to think less of the life she led. A dangerous point is this in a young girl's life. Esther was young and pretty and weary, and out of health, and it was at this critical moment that Lady Elwin, who while visiting, had heard her story, promised Mrs. Saunders to find Esther another place. And to obivier all difficulties about references and character, Lady Elwin proposed to take Esther as her own servant for a sufficient while to justify her in recommending her. And now, as she turned over her books, the books she could not read, her pure and passionate mind was filled with the story of her life. She remembered her poor little brothers and sisters, and her dear mother, and that tyrant revenging himself upon them because of the little she might eat and drink. No, she must bear with all insults and scorn, and forget that they thought her as dirt under their feet. But what were such sufferings compared to those she would endure were she to return home? In truth, they were as nothing. And yet the girl longed to leave Woodview. She had never been out of sight of home before. Amid the violences of her stepfather, there had always been her mother and the meeting-house. In Woodview there was nothing, only Margaret, who had come to console and persuade her to come downstairs. The resolution she had to call out of her soul to do this exhausted her, and she went downstairs heedless of what anyone might say. Two and three days passed without anything occurring that might suggest that the fates were for or against her remaining. Mrs. Barfield continued to be indisposed, but at the end of the week Esther, while she was at work in the scullery, heard a new voice speaking with Mrs. Latch. This must be Mrs. Barfield. She heard Mrs. Latch tell the story of her refusal to go to work the evening she arrived. But Mrs. Barfield told her that she would listen to no further complaints. This was the third kitchen maid in four months, and Mrs. Latch must make up her mind to bear with the faults and failings of this last one, whatever they were. Then Mrs. Barfield called Esther, and when she entered the kitchen she found herself face-to-face with a little red-haired woman, with a pretty pointed face. I hear, waters, that is your name, I think, that you refuse to obey cook, and walked out of the kitchen the night you arrived. I said, ma'am, that I would wait till my box came up from the station, so that I might change my dress. Mrs. Latch said my dress didn't matter. But when one is poor and hasn't many dresses. Are you short of clothes, then? I have not many, ma'am, and the dress I had on the day I came. Never mind about that. Tell me, are you short of clothes? For, if you are, I daresay my daughter might find you something. You are about the same height, with a little alteration. Oh, ma'am, you are too good. I shall be most grateful. But I think I shall be able to manage till my first quarter's wages come to me. And the scowl upon Mrs. Latch's long face did not kill the pleasure which the little interview with that kind, sweet woman Mrs. Barfield had created in her. She moved about her work, happy at heart, singing to herself as she washed the vegetables. Even Mrs. Latch's harshness did not trouble her much. She felt it to be a manner under which there might be a kind heart, and she hoped by her willingness to work to gain at least the cook's toleration. Margaret suggested that Esther should give up her beer. A solid pint extra a day could not fail, she said, to win the old woman's gratitude, and perhaps induce her to teach Esther how to make pastry and jellies. True that Margaret joined in the common laugh and jeer that the knowledge that Esther said her prayers morning and evening inspired. She sometimes united with Grover and Sarah in perplexing Esther with questions. Regarding her previous situations. But her hostilities were on the whole, gentle, and Esther felt that this almost neutral position was the best that Margaret could have adopted. She defended her without seeming to do so, and seemed genuinely fond of her, helping her sometimes even with her work, which Mrs. Latch made as heavy as possible. But Esther was now determined to put up with every task they might impose upon her. She would give them no excuse for sending her away. She would remain at Woodview until she had learned sufficient cooking to enable her to get another place. But Mrs. Latch had the power to thwart her in this. Before beginning on her jellies and gravies, Mrs. Latch was sure to find some sauce-bands that had not been sufficiently cleaned with white sand. And if her search proved abortive, she would send Esther upstairs to scrub out her bedroom. I cannot think why she is so down upon me, Esther often said to Margaret. She isn't more down upon you than she was on the others. You needn't expect to learn any cooking from her. Her plan has always been to take care that she shall not be supplanted by any of her kitchenmates. But I don't see why she should be always sending you upstairs to clean out her bedroom. If Grover wasn't so standoffish, we might tell her about it. And she could tell the saint. That's what we call the Mrs. The saint would soon put a stop to all that nonsense. I will say that for the saint. She do like everyone to have fair play. Mrs. Barfield, or the saint, as she was called, belonged like Esther to the sect known as the Plymouth Brethren. She was the daughter of one of the farmers on the estate, a very old man called Elliot. He had spent his life on his barren down-farm, becoming intimate with no one, driving hard bargains with all, especially the squire and the poor flint-pickers. He could be seen still on the hillsides. His long black coat buttoned strictly about him. His soft felt hat crushed over the thin gray face. Pretty Fanny Elliot had won the squire's heart as he rode across the down. Do you not see the shy figure of the Puritan maiden tripping through the gorse, hastening the hoofs of the squire's cob? And furnished with some pretext of a state business, he often rode to the farm that lay under the shaws at the end of the comb. The squire had to promise to become one of the Brethren, and he had to promise never to bet again, before Fanny Elliot agreed to become Mrs. Barfield. The ambitious members of the Barfield family declared that the marriage was a social rune, but more dispassionate critics called it a very suitable match, for it is not forgotten that three generations ago the Barfields were livery stablekeepers. They had risen in the late squire's time to the level of county families, and the envious were now saying that the Barfield family was sinking back whence it came. He was faithful to his promises for a time. Racehorses disappeared from the wood-view stables. It was not until after the birth of both his children that he entered one of his hunters in the Hunt Steeple Chase. Soon after the racing stable was again in full swing at wood-view. Tears there were, and some family disunion, but time extorts concessions from all of us. Mrs. Barfield had ceased to crawl with her husband on the subject of his racehorses, and he and his turn did not attempt to restrict her in the exercise of her religion. She attended prayer meetings when her soul moved her, and read the scriptures when and where she pleased. It was one of her practices to have the woman servants for half an hour every Sunday afternoon in the library, and instruct them in the life of Christ. Mrs. Barfield's goodness was even as the light upon her little oval face, reddish hair growing thin at the parting, and smoothed back above the ears, as in an old engraving. Although nearly fifty, her figure was slight as a young girl's. Esther was attracted by the magnetism of racial and religious affinities, and when their eyes met at prayers there was acknowledgement of religious kinship. A glow of happiness filled Esther's soul, for she knew she was no longer holy among strangers. She knew they were united, she and her mistress, under the sweet dominion of Christ. To look at Mrs. Barfield filled her somehow, with recollections of her pious childhood. She saw herself in the old shop, moving again in an atmosphere of prayer, listening to the beautiful story, in the enunciation of which her life had grown up. She answered her mistress's questions in sweet light-heartedness of spirit, pleasing her with her knowledge of the holy book. But in turn the servants had begun to read verses allowed from the New Testament, and Esther saw that her secret would be torn from her. Sarah had read a verse, and Mrs. Barfield had explained it. And now Margaret was reading. Esther listened, thinking if she might plead illness and escape from the brim. But she could not summon sufficient presence of mind, and while she was still agitated and debating with herself, Mrs. Barfield called to her to continue. She hung down her head, suffocated with the shame of the exposure. And when Mrs. Barfield told her again to continue the reading, Esther shook her head. Can you not read, Esther? She heard a kind voice sing, and the sound of this voice loosed the feelings long pent up, and the girl, giving way utterly, burst into passionate weeping. She was alone with her suffering, conscious of nothing else, until a kind hand led her from the room, and this hand soothed away the bitterness of the tittering which reached her ears as the door closed. It was hard to persuade her to speak, but even the first words showed that there was more in the girl's heart than could be told in a few minutes. Mrs. Barfield determined to take the matter at once in hand. She dismissed the other servants and returned to the library with Esther. And in that dim room of little green sofas, bookless shelves, and bird cages, the woman, mistress and maid, sealed the bond of a friendship, which was to last for life. Esther told her mistress everything, the work that Mrs. Latch required of her, the persecution she received from the other servants, principally because of her religion. In the course of the narrative, allusion was made to the resources, and Esther saw on Mrs. Barfield's face a look of grief, and it was clear to what cause Mrs. Barfield attributed the demoralization of her household. I will teach you how to read, Esther. Every Sunday after her Bible instruction, you shall remain when the others have left for a half an hour. It is not difficult. You will soon learn. Henceforth, every Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Barfield devoted half an hour to the instruction of her kitchen maid. These half hours were bright spots of happiness in the servant girl's weeks of work, happiness that had been and would be again. But although possessing a clear intelligence, Esther did not make much progress, nor did her diligence seem to help her. Mrs. Barfield was puzzled by her pupil's slowness. She ascribed it to her own inaptitude to teach, and the little time for lessons. Esther's powerlessness to put syllables together, to grasp the meaning of words, was very marked. Strange it was, no doubt. But all that concerned the printed page seemed to embarrass and elude her. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Esther Waters This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bridget Esther's position in Woodview was now assured, and her fellow servants recognized the fact, though they liked her none the better for it. Mrs. Latch still did what she could to prevent her from learning her trade, but she no longer attempted to overburden her with work. Of Mr. Leopold, she saw almost as little as she did of the people upstairs. He passed along the passages, or remained shut up in his pantry. Ginger used to go there to smoke, and when the door stood ajar, Esther saw his narrow person seated on the edge of the table, his leg swinging. Among the pantry people, Mr. Leopold's eurodition was a constant subject of admiration. His reminences of the races of thirty years ago were full of interest. He had seen the great horses whose names live in the stud-book, the horses the gaffer had owned, had trained, had ridden, and he was full of anecdote concerning them and the gaffer. Praise of his father's horsemanship always caused a cloud to gather on Ginger's face, and when he left the pantry, swindles chuckled. Whenever I want to get a rise out of Ginger, I says, we shall never see another gentleman jock who can use the whip at a finish like the governor in his best days. Everyone delighted in the pantry, and to make Mr. Leopold comfortable, Mr. Swindles used to bring in the wolfskin rug that went out with the carriage, and wrap it round Mr. Leopold's wooden armchair, and the sallow little man would curl himself up, and, smoking his long clay, discussed the weights of the next big handicap. If Ginger contradicted him, he would go to the press and extract from its obscurity a package of Bell's Life or a file of the sportsman. Mr. Leopold's press. For forty years no one had looked into that press. Mr. Leopold guarded it from every gaze, but it seemed to be a much varied repository from which, if he chose, he could produce almost any trifle that might be required. It seemed to combine the usefulness of a hardware shop and a drug store. The pantry had its etiquette and its discipline. Jackie boys were rarely admitted, unless with the intention of securing their services for the cleaning of boots or knives. William was very proud of his right of entry. For that half hour in the pantry he would willingly surrender the pleasure of walking in the driveway with Sarah. But when Mrs. Latch learned that he was there, her face darkened, and the noise she then made about the range with her saucepans was alarming. Mrs. Barfield shared her cook's horror of the pantry, and often spoke of Mr. Leopold as that little man. Although outwardly the family butler, he had never ceased to be the gaffer's private servant. He represented the old days of bachelorhood. Mrs. Barfield and Mrs. Latch both disliked him. Had it not been for his influence, Mrs. Barfield felt sure her husband would never have returned to his vice. Had it not been for Mr. Leopold, Mrs. Latch felt that her husband would never had taken to bedding. Legends and mystery had formed around Mr. Leopold and his pantry. And in Esther's unsophisticated mind, this little rum, with its tobacco smoke and glasses on the table, became a symbol of all that was wicked and dangerous. And when she passed the door, she closed her ears to the loud talk, and instinctively lowered her eyes. The simplest human sentiments were abiding principles in Esther—love of God and love of God in the home. But above this Protestantism was human nature, and at this time Esther was, above all else, a young girl. Her twentieth year thrilled within her. She was no longer weary with work, and new, rich blood filled her veins. She sang at her work, gladdened by the sights and sounds of the yard, the young rooks calling lustily in the evergreens, the gardener passing to and fro with plants in his hands, the white cats licking themselves in the sun, or running to meet the young ladies who brought them plates of milk. Then the race-horses were always going to or coming from the downs. Sometimes they came in so covered with white mud that part of their toilette was accomplished in the yard, and from her kitchen window she could see the beautiful creature haltered to the hook fixed in the high wall, and the little boy in his shirt-sleeves and hitched up trousers—not a bit afraid—but shouting and quieting him into submission with a stick when he kicked in bit, tickled by the washing-brush passing under the belly. Then the wrestling-sparring ball-playing of the lads when the work was done, the pale, pathetic figure of the demon watching them. He was about to start for ports laid in back, wrapped, as he would put it, in a red-hot scorcher of an overcoat. Esther often longed for a romp with these boys. She was now prime favorite with them. Once they caught her in the hay-yard, and fine sport it was in the warm hay throwing each other over. Sometimes her wayward temper would get the better of her, but her momentary rage vanished at the sound of laughter. And after their tussling they would walk a little while pensively, until perhaps one, within a droid trip, would send the other rolling over on the grass, and then with wild cries they would run down the drove-way. Then there was a day when the wool-gatherer told her he was in love, and what fun they had had, and how well she had led him into belief that she was jealous. She had taken a rope as if she were going to hang herself, and having fastened it to a branch she had knelt down as if she were saying her prayers. The poor wool-gatherer could stand it no longer. He had rushed to her side, swearing that if she would promise not to hang herself he would never look at another girl again. The other boys, who had been crouching in the drove-way rose up, how they did chaff the wool-gatherer. He had burst into tears, and Esther had felt sorry for him, and almost inclined to marry him out of pity for his forelorn condition. Her life grew happier and happier. She forgot that Mrs. Latch would not teach her how to make jellies, and had grown somewhat used to Sarah's illusions to her ignorance. She was still very poor, had not sufficient clothes, and her life was full of little troubles, but there were compensations. It was to her that Mrs. Barfield always came when she wanted anything in a hurry, and Miss Mary, too, seemed to prefer to apply to Esther when she wanted milk for her cats or brand-and-oats for her rabbits. The gaffer and his race-horses, the saint in her greenhouse, so went the stream of life it would view. What few visitors came were entertained by Miss Mary in the drawing-room, or on the tennis- lawn. Mrs. Barfield saw no one. She desired to remain in her old gown, an old thing that her daughter had discarded long ago, pinned up around her, and on her head an old bonnet, with a faded poppy hanging from the crown. In such attire she wished to be allowed to trot about to and fro from her greenhouse to her potting-shed, watering, pruning, and syringing her plants. These plants were dearer than all things to her except her children. She seemed, indeed, to treat them as if they were children, and with the sun pouring through the glass down on her back she would set freeing them from devouring insects all the day long. She would carry can after can of water up the long path and never complain of fatigue. She broke into complaint only when Miss Mary forgot to feed her pets, of which she had a great number, rabbits and cats and rooks, and all the work devolved upon her. She could not see these poor dumb creatures hungry, and would trudge to the staples, coming back laden with trusses of hay. But it was sometimes more than a pair of hands could do, and she would send Esther with scraps of meat and bread and milk to the unfortunate rooks that Mary had so unmercifully forgotten. I'll have no more pets, she'd say. Miss Mary won't look after them, and all the trouble falls upon me. See these poor cats how they come mewing round my skirts? She loved to expatiate on her inexhaustible affection for dumb animals, and she continued an anecdotal discourse till, suddenly wearing of it, she would break off and speak to Esther about barn staple and the brethren. The saint loved to hear Esther tell of her father and the little shop in barn staple, of the prayer meetings and the simple earnestness and narrowness of the faith of those good brethren. Circumstances had he faced, though they had not obliterated, the once sharply marked confines of her religious habits. Her religion was like a garden, a little less sedulously tended than a viewer, but no wit less fondly loved, and while listening to Esther's story, she dreamed her own early life over again, and paused laying down her watering can, penetrated with the happiness of gentle memories. So Esther's life grew and was fashioned. So amid the ceaseless frown of simple daily occupations, mistress and maid learned to know and to love one another, and became united and strengthful in the tender and ineffable sympathies of race and religion. CHAPTER V. The summer drowsed, baking the turf on the hills, and after every gallop the gaffer passed his fingers along the fine legs of the crack, in fear and apprehension lest he should detect any swelling. William came every day for news. He had five shillings on. He stood to win five pounds ten, quite a little fortune, and he often stopped to ask Esther if there was any news as he made his way to the pantry. She told him that so far as she knew silver braid was all right, and continued shaking the rug. You'll never get the dust out of that rug, he said at last. Here, give it to me. She hesitated, then gave it to him, and he beat it against the brick wall. There, he said, handing it back to her. That's how I beat some at. You won't find much dust in it now. Thank you. Sarah went by an hour and a half ago. She must have gone to the gardens. You have never been to those gardens, have you? Dancing hall, theater, sorcerers, every blessed thing. But you're that religious. I suppose you wouldn't come. It is only the way you were brought up. Well, will you come? I don't think I should like those gardens, but I dare say they are no worse than any other place. I've heard so much since I was here that really—that really what? That sometimes it seems useless like to be particular. Of course, all right. Well, will you come next Sunday? Certainly not on Sunday. The gaffer had engaged him as a footman. His livery would be ready by Saturday, and he would enter service on Monday week. This reminded them that henceforth they would see each other every day, and speaking of the pain it would give his mother when he came running downstairs to go out with the carriage, he said. It was always her idea that I shouldn't be a servant, but I believe in doing what you get's most coin for doing. I should like to have been a jockey, and I could have ridden well enough. The gaffer thought better at one time of my writing than he did of gingers. But I never had any luck. When I was about fifteen I began to grow. If I could have remained like the demon. After looked at him, wondering if he were speaking seriously, and really wished away his splendid height and shoulders. A few days later he tried to persuade her to take a ticket and a shilling sweepstakes which he was getting up among the out-and-indoor servants. She pleaded poverty. Her wages would not be due till the end of August. But William offered to lend her the money, and he pressed the hat containing the bits of paper on which were written the horse's names so insinuatingly upon her that a sudden impulse to oblige him came over her, and even before she had time to think she had put her hand in the hat and taken a number. Come, none of your bedding and gambling in my kitchen, said Mrs. Latch, turning from her work. Why can't you leave the innocent girl alone? Don't be disagreeable, mother. It ain't a bedding. It's a sweepstakes. It is all the same, muttered Mrs. Latch. It always begins that way, and it goes on from bad to worse. I never saw any good come from it, and heaven knows I've seen enough misfortune. Margaret and Sarah paused, looking at her open mouth, a little perplexed, holding the numbers they had drawn in both hands. Esther had not unfolded hers. She looked at Mrs. Latch and regretted having taken the ticket in the lottery. She feared jeers from Sarah or from Grover, who had just come in, for her inability to read the name of the horse she had drawn. Seeing her dilemma, William took the paper from her. Silver braid, by Jingo, she has got the right one. At that moment the sound of hoofs was heard in the yard, and the servants flew to the window. The wind cried William, leaning over the woman's backs, and waving his bony hand to the demon, who rode past on silver braid. The gaffer will bring him to the post, as fit as a fiddle. I think he will, said Mr. Leopold. The rain has done us a lot of good. Who is beginning to go a bit short a week ago? We shall want some more rain. I should like to see it come down for the next week or more. Mr. Leopold's desires looked as if they were going to be fulfilled. The heaven seemed to have taken the fortunes of the stable in hand. Rain fell generally in the afternoon and night, leaving the mornings fine, and silver braid went the mild galey, becoming harder and stronger, and in the intermittent swish of showers blown up from the sea, wood-few grew joyous, and a conviction of ultimate triumph gathered and settled on every face, except Mrs. Barfield's and Mrs. Latch's, and a skence they looked at the triumphant little butler. He became more and more the topic of conversation. He seemed to hold the thread of their destiny in his press. Peggy was especially afraid of him. And continuing her confidences to the underhousemaid, the young lady said, I like to know things for the pleasure of talking about them, but he for the pleasure of holding his tongue. Peggy was Miss Margaret Barfield, a cousin, the daughter of a rich brewer. If he brings in your letters in the morning, he hands them to you just as if he knew whom they are from. Ugly little beast, it irritates me when he comes into the room. He hates woman, Miss. He never lets us near his pantry, and he keeps William there talking racing. Ah, William is very different. He ought never to have been a servant. His family was once quite as good as the Barfield's. So I have heard, Miss, but the world is that full of ups and downs you never can tell who is who. But we all likes William, and aides that little man in his pantry. Mrs. Latch calls him the evil genius. A furtive and clandestine little man, ashamed of his womanfolk, and keeping them out of sight as much as possible. His wife, a pale dim woman, tall as he was short, preserving still some of the graces of the ladies' maid, shy either by nature or by the severe rule of her Lord. Always anxious to obliterate herself against the hedges when you met her in the lane or against the pantry door when any of the family knocked to ask for hot water, or came with a letter for the post. By nature a bachelor. He was instinctively ashamed of his family, and when the weary-looking wife, the thin, shy girl, or the corpulent, stupid-faced son, were with him, and he heard steps outside. He would come out like a little wasp, and unmistakably resenting the intrusion, would ask what was wanted. If it were ginger, Mr. Leopold would say, Can I do anything for you, Mr. Arthur? Oh, nothing, thank you. I only thought that. And ginger would invent some peltry excuse, and slink away to smoke elsewhere. Every day, a little before twelve, Mr. Leopold went out for his morning walk. Every day, if it were fine, you would meet him at that hour in the lane either coming from or going to shore him. For thirty years he had done his little constitutional, always taking the same road, always starting within a few minutes of twelve, always returning in time to lay the cloth for lunch at half past one. The hour between twelve and one he spent in the little cottage which he rented from the squire for his wife and children, or in the red lion, where he had a glass of beer and talked with Watkins, the bookmaker. There he goes, off to the red lion, said Mrs. Latch. They tried to get some information out of him, but he's too sharp for them, and he knows it. That's what he goes there for, just for the pleasure of seeing them swallow the lies he tells them. He has been telling them lies about the horses for the last twenty years, and still he get them to believe what he says. It's a cruel shame. It was the lies he told poor Jackson about Bluebeard that made the poor man back the horse for all he was worth. And the horse didn't win? Win! The master didn't even intend to run him, and Jackson lost all he had and more. He went down to the river and drowned himself. John Randall has that man's death on his conscience. But his conscience don't trouble him much. If it did, he'd be in his grave long ago. Lies, lies, nothing but lies. But I dare say I'm too hard on him. Isn't lies or natural lot? What is servants for but to lie when it's in their master's interest? And to be a confidential servant is to be the prince of liars. Perhaps he didn't know the horse was scratched. I see you are falling in nicely with the lingo of the train. Oh! replied Esther, laughing. One never hears anything else. One picks it up without knowing. Mr. Leopold is very rich, so they say. The boys tell me that he won a pile over the city in suburban and has thousands in the bank. So some says, but who knows what he has? One hears of the winnings, but they say very little about the losings. CHAPTER VI The boys were playing ball in the stables, but she did not feel as if she wanted to romp with them. There was a stillness and a sweetness abroad which penetrated and absorbed her. She moved towards the paddock gate, the pony and the donkey came towards her, and she rubbed their muzzles in turn. It was a pleasure to touch anything, especially anything alive. She even noticed that the elm trees were strangely tall and still against the calm sky, and the rich odor of some carnations which came through the bushes from the pleasure-ground excited her. The scent of earth and leaves tingled in her, and the calling of the rooks coming home took her soul away skyward in an exquisite longing. She was, at the same time, full of romantic love for the earth, and of a desire to mix herself with the innermost essence of things. The beauty of the evening and the sea breeze instilled a sensation of immortal health, and she wondered if a young man came to her as young men came to the great ladies in Sarah's books, how it would be to talk in the dusk, seeing the bats flitting and the moon rising through the branches. The family was absent from wood-view, and she was free to enjoy the beauty of every twilight and every rising moon for still another week. But she weiried for a companion. Sarah and Grover were far too grand to walk out with her, and Margaret had a young man who came to fetch her, and in their rummet night she related all he had said. But for Esther there was nothing to do all the long summer evenings, but to sit at the kitchen window-sewing. Her hands fell on her lap, and her heart heaved a sigh of weariness. In all this world there is nothing for her to do but to continue her sewing, or to go for a walk on the hill. She was tired of that weary hill, but she could not sit in the kitchen till bedtime. She might meet the old shepherd coming home with his sheep, and she put a piece of bread in her pockets for his dogs, and strolled up the hillside. Margaret had gone down to the gardens. One of these days a young man would come to take her out. What would he be like? She laughed the thought away. She did not think that any young man would bother much about her. Happening at that moment to look round, she saw a man coming through the hunting-gate. His height in shoulders told her that he was William. Trying to find Sarah, she thought, I must not let him think I am waiting for him. She continued her walk, wondering if he were following, afraid to look round. At last she fancied she could hear footsteps. Her heart beat faster. He called to her. I think Sarah has gone to the gardens, she said, turning round. You always keep reminding me of Sarah. There's nothing between us. Anything there ever was is all off long ago. Are you going for a walk? She was glad of the chance to get a mouthful of fresh air, and they went towards the hunting-gate. William held it open, and she passed through. The plantations were enclosed by a wooden fence, and beyond them the bear-downs rose hill after hill. On the left the land sloped into a shallow valley sewn with various crops, and the shaws about Elliot's farm were the last trees. Beyond the farmhouse the downs ascended higher and higher, treeless, irreclaimable, scooped into long patriarchal solitudes, thrown into wild crests. There was a smell of sheep in the air, and the flock trotted past them in good order, followed by the shepherd, a huge hat and a crook in his hand, and two shaggy dogs at his heels. A brace of partridges rose out of the sandfoil and flew down the hills, and watching their curving flight Esther and William saw the sea under the sun-setting and the string of coast towns. A lovely evening, isn't it? Esther acquiesced, and tempted by the warmth of the grass they sat down, and the mystery of the twilight found way into their consciousness. We shan't have any rain yet awhile. How do you know? I'll tell you, William answered, eager to show his superior knowledge. Look due southwest, straight through that last dip in the line of hills. Do you see anything? No, I can see nothing, said Esther, after straining her eyes for a few moments. I thought not. Well, if it was going to rain, you would see the isle of white. For something to say, and hoping to please, Esther asked him where the race-course was. There, over yonder, I can't show you the start, a long way behind that hill, Port Sladeway. Then they come right along by that gorse, and finish up by Truly Barn. You can't see Truly Barn from here. That's Thunder's Barrow Barn. They go quite half a mile farther. And does all that land belong to the gaffer? Yes, and a great deal more, too, but this downland isn't worth much, not more than about ten shillings and acre. And how many acres are there? Do you mean all that we can see? Yes, the gaffer's property reaches to Southwick Hill, and it goes north a long way. I suppose you don't know that all this piece, all that lies between us and that barn yonder, once belonged to my family. To your family? Yes, the latches were once big swells, and the time of my great-grandfather, the barfields could not hold their heads as high as the latches. My great-grandfather had a pot of money, but it all went. Racing? A good bit, I've no doubt. A rare-hard liver, cock-fighting, hunting, horse-racing from one year's end to the other. Then after him came my grandfather. He went to the law, and a sad mess he made of it. Went stony-broke, and left my father without a sixpence. That is why mother didn't want me to go into the livery. The family had been coming down for generations, and mother thought that I was born to restore it, and so I was, but not as she thought, by carrying parcels up and down the King's Road. Uster looked at William in silent admiration, and feeling that he had secured an appreciative listener, he continued his monologue regarding the wealth and rank his family had formerly held, till a heavy dew forced them to their feet. In front of them was the moon, and out of the forlorn sky looked down the misted valleys. The crests of the hills were still touched with light, and lights flew from coast-town to coast-town, weaving a luminous garland. The sheep had been folded, and seeing them lying in the grayness of this hillside, and beyond them the massive moon-lit landscape and the vague sea, Uster suddenly became aware, as she had never done before, of the exceeding beauty of the world. Looking up into William's face, she said, Oh, how beautiful! As they descended the droveway, their feet raised the chalk, and William said, This is bad for silver braid. We shall want some more rain in a day or two. Let's come for a walk round the farm, he said suddenly. The farm belongs to the gaffer, but he's let the lodge to a young fellow called Johnson. He's the chap that Peggy used to go after. There was awful rose about that, and worse when he forestalled the gaffer about Iqumont. The conversation wandered agreeably, and they became more conscious of each other. He told her all he knew about the chap who jilted Miss Mary, and the various burlesque actresses at the Shoreham Gardens, who had captivated Ginger's susceptible heart. While listening, she suddenly became aware that she had never been so happy before. Now all she had endured seemed accidental. She felt that she had entered into the permanent, and in the midst of vague but intense sensations William showed her the pigeon house, with all the bluebirds dozing on the tiles, a white one here and there. They visited the workshop, the forge, and the old cottages, where the balliff and the shepherd lived. And all this inanimate nature, the most insignificant objects, seemed inspired, seemed like symbols of her emotion. They left the farm and wandered on the high road, until a style leading to a cornfield beguiled them, and then delayed their steps. The silence of the moonlight was clear and immense, and they listened to the trilling of the nightingale and the cops hard by. First they sought to discover the brown bird in the branches of the poor hedge, and then the reason of the extraordinary emotion in their hearts. It seemed that all life was beating in that moment, and they were as it were inflamed to reach out their hands to life and to grasp it together. Even William noticed that, and the moon shone on the mist that had gathered on the long, marsh lands of the foreshore. Beyond the trees the land wavered out into downland, the river gleamed and intensely. This moment was all the poetry of their lives. The striking of a match to light his pipe which had gone out, put the music to flight, and all along the white road he continued his monologue, interrupted only by the necessity of puffing at his pipe. Mother says that if I had two pence worth of pride in me, I wouldn't have consented to put on the livery. But what I says to mother is, what's the use of having pride if you haven't money? I tells her that I am rotten with pride, but my pride is to make money. I can't see that the man would as willing to remain poor all his life has any pride at all. But Lord, I have argued with mother till I'm sick. She can see nothing further than the livery. That's what women are. They're that short-sighted. A lot of good it would have done me to have carried parcels all my life, and when I could do four mile an hour no more, to be turned out to die in the ditch, and be buried by the parish. Not good enough, says I. If that's your pride, mother, you may put it in your pipe and smoke it, and as you haven't got a pipe, perhaps behind the oven will do as well. That's what I said to her. I saw well enough there is nothing for me but service, and I mean to stop here until I can get on three or four good things and then retire into a nice comfortable public house and do my own bedding. You would give up bedding, then? I'd give up backing horses if you mean that. What I should like would be to get on a dozen good things at long prices, half a dozen like silver braid would do it. For a thousand or fifteen hundred pounds I could have the red lion, and just inside my own bar I could do a hundred pound book on all the big races. Esther listened, hearing interminable references to jockeys, publicans, weights, odds, and the certainty, if he had the red lion, of being able to get all Joe Walker's bedding business away from him. Allusions to the police and the care that must be taken not to bet with anyone who had not been properly introduced, frightened her, but her fears died in the sensation of his arm about her waist, and the music that the striking of a match had put to flight had begun again in the next plantation, and it began again in their hearts. But if he were going to marry Sarah, the idea amused him. He laughed loudly, and they walked up the avenue. His face bent over hers. CHAPTER 7 Bafi Calculation was that they had a stone in hand. Bayleaf, Mr. Leopold argued, would be back to win a million of money if he were handicapped in the race at Seven Stone, and Silver Grade, who had been tried again with Bayleaf, and with the same result as before, had been let off with only six stone. More rain had fallen. The hay crop had been irrevertibly ruined. The prospects of the wheat harvest were jeopardized. But what did a few bushels of wheat matter? Another pound of muscle in those superb hindquarters was worth all the corn that could be grown between here and Henfield. Let the rain come down. Let every year of wheat be destroyed, so long as those delicate forelegs remained sound. These were the ethics that obtained at Woodview, and within the last few days showed signs of adoption by the little town and not a few of the farmers, grown tired of seeing their crops rotting on the hillsides. The fever of the gamble was in eruption, breaking out in unexpected places. The station master, the porters, the flymen, all had their bit on, and notwithstanding the enormous favoritism of two other horses in the race, prisoner and Stoke Newington, Silver Grade had advanced considerably in the betting. Reports of trials one had reached Brighton, and not more than five and twenty to one could now be obtained. The discovery that the demon had gone up several pounds in weight had introduced the necessary alloy into the mintage of their happiness. The most real consternation prevailed, and the strictest investigation was made as to when and how he had obtained the quantities of food required to produce such a mass of adipose tissue. Then the gaffer had the boy upstairs and administered to him a huge dose of salts, seeing him swallow every drop. And when the effects of the medicine had worn off, he was sent for a walk to Port Slade in two large overcoats, and was accompanied by William, whose long legs led the way so effectively. On his return, a couple of nice feather beds were ready, and Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles themselves laid him between them, and when they noticed that he was beginning to cease to aspire, Mr. Leopold made him a nice cup of hot tea. That's the way the gaffer used to get the flesh off in the old days when he rode the winner at Liverpool. It's the demon's own fault, said Mr. Swindles. If he hadn't been so greedy, he wouldn't have had to sweat, and we would have been spared a great deal of bother and anxiety. Greedy, murmured the little boy, in whom the warm tea had induced a new perspiration. I haven't had what you might call a dinner for the last three months. I think I'll chuck the whole thing. Not until this race is over, said Mr. Swindles. Supposing I was to pass the warming pan down these year's sheets, what do you say, Mr. Leopold? They are beginning to feel a bit cold. Cold? I hope you'll never go to a hotter place. For God's sake, Mr. Leopold, don't let him come near me with the warming pan, or else he'll melt the little flesh that's left of me. You had better not make such a fuss, said Mr. Leopold. If you don't do what you're told, you'll have to take salts again and go for another walk with William. If we don't warm up them sheets, he'll dry up, said Mr. Swindles. No, I won't. I'm teeming. Be a good boy, and you shall have a nice cut of mutton when you get up, said Mr. Leopold. How much? Two slices? Well, you see, we can't promise. It all depends on how much has come off, and having once got it off, we don't want to put it on again. I never did hear such rock, said Swindles. In my time, a boy's feelings weren't considered. One did what one considered, good for them. Mr. Leopold strove to engage the demon's attention with compliments regarding his horsemanship in the city and sub, while Mr. Swindles raised the bedclubs. Oh, Mr. Swindles, you are burning me. For heaven's sake, don't let him start out from under the bed like that. Can't you hold him? Burning you. I never even touched you with it. It was the sheet that you fell. Then the sheet is as hot as the bloody fire. Will you leave off? What? A demon like you afraid of a little touch of heat? Wouldn't have believed it unless I had heard it with my own ears, said Mr. Leopold. Come now. Do you want to ride the crack at Goodwood or DNR? If you do, remain quiet and let us finish taking off the last couple of pounds. It is the last couple of pounds that takes it out of one. The first lot comes off just like butter, said the boy, rolling out of the way of the pen. I know what it will be. I shall be so weak that I shall just ride a stinking bad race. Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles exchanged glances. It was clear they thought that there was something in the last words of the fainting demon, and the pan was withdrawn. But when the boy got into the scale again, it was found that he was not yet nearly the right weight, and the gaffer ordered another effort to be made. The demon pleaded that his feet were sore, but he was sent off to Port Slade in charge of the redoubtable William, and as the last pounds came off the demon's little carcass, Mr. Leopold's face resumed a more tranquil expression. It began to be whispered that instead of hedging any part of his money, he would stand it all out, and one day a market gardener brought up word that he had seen Mr. Leopold going into Brighton. Old Watkins isn't good enough for him. That's about it. If Silver Grade wins, Woodview will see very little more of Mr. Leopold. He'll be for buying one of them big houses on the sea road, and keeping his own track. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Esther Waters This is a library box recording. All library box recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit librarybox.org. Recording by Peter Abraham Esther Waters by George Moore Chapter 8 The great day was now fast approaching, and the gaffer had promised to drive his spoke in a drag to Goodwood. No more rain was required. The cold slag's remained sound, and three days of sunshine would make all the difference in their sum of happiness. In the kitchen, Mrs. Latch and Esther had been busy for some time with chickens and pies and jellies, and in the passage there were cases packed with fruit and wine. The dressmaker had come from Worthing, and for several days the young ladies had not left her. And one fine morning very early, about eight o'clock, the wheelers were back into the drag that had come from Brighton, and the yard resounded with the blaring of the horn. Ginger was practicing under his sister's window. You'll be late! You'll be late! With the exception of two young gentlemen who had come at the invitation of the young ladies, it was quite a family party. Miss Mary sat beside her father on the box, and looked very charming in white and blue. Peggy's black hair seemed blacker than ever under a white silk parasol, which she waved negligently above her as she stood up calling and talking to everyone until the gaffer told her angrily to sit down, as he was going to start. Then William and the coachman let go the leaders' heads, and running side by side swung themselves into their seats. At the same moment a glimpse was caught of Mr. Leopold's saddle profile amid the boxes and the macintoshes that filled the inside of the coach. Oh, William did look that handsome in those beautiful new clothes. Everyone said so, Sarah and Margaret and Miss Grover. I'm sorry you did not come out to see him. Mrs. Latch made no answer, and Esther remembered how she hated her son to her livery, and thought that she had perhaps made a mistake in saying that Mrs. Latch should have come out to see him. Perhaps this will make her dislike me again, thought the girl. Mrs. Latch moved about rapidly, and she opened and closed the oven. Then, raising her eyes to the window, and seeing the other women was still standing in the yard and safely out of hearing, she said, do you think that he has bet much on this race? Oh, how should I know Mrs. Latch? But the horse is certain to win. Certain to win? I've heard that tale before. They are always certain to win. So they have one new round to their way of thinking, have they? Said Mrs. Latch, straightening her back. I know very well indeed that it is not right to bet. But what can I do, a poor girl like me? If it hadn't been for William, I never would have taken a number in that sweepstakes. Do you like him very much, then? He has been very kind to me. He was kind when, yes I know, when I was unkind. I was unkind to you when you first came. You don't know all. I was much troubled at the time, and somehow I did not. But there is no ill-feeling. I'll make it up to you. I'll teach you how to be a cook. Oh Mrs. Latch, I'm sure, never mind that. When you went out to walk with him the other night, did he tell you that he had many bets on the race? He talked about the race, like everyone else. But he did not tell me what bets he had on. No, they never do do that. But you'll not tell him that I asked you. No Mrs. Latch, I promise. It would do no good. He'd only be angry. It would only set him against me. I'm afraid that nothing will stop him now. Once they get a taste for it, it is like drink. I wish he was married. That might get him out of it. Some woman would have an influence over him. Some strong-minded woman. I thought once that you were strong-minded. At that moment, Sarah and Grover entered the kitchen talking loudly. They asked Mrs. Latch how soon they could have dinner. The sooner the better. For the saint had told them that they were free to go out for the day. They were to try to be back before 8. That was all. Ah! The saint was a first-rate sort. She had said that she did not want anyone to attend on her. She would get herself a bit of lunch in the dining room. Mrs. Latch allowed Esther to hurry on the dinner. And by one o'clock, they had all finished. Sarah and Margaret were going into Brighton to do some shopping. Grover was going to Worthing to spend the afternoon with the wife of one of the guards of the Brighton and South Coast Railway. Mrs. Latch went upstairs to lie down. So it grew lonelier and lonelier in the kitchen. Esther's sewing fell out of her hands. And she wondered what she would do. She thought she might go down to the beach. And soon after, she put on her hat and stood thinking, remembering that she had not been by the sea, that she had not seen the sea since she was a little girl. But she remembered the tall ships that came into the harbor, sail falling over sail, and the tall ships that floated out of the harbor, sail rising over sail, catching the breeze as they went aloft. She remembered them. A suspension bridge ornamented with straight tail lines took her over the Weedy River. And having crossed some pieces of rough grass, she climbed the shingle bank. The heat tripled the blue air, and the sea, like an exhausted caged beast, licked the shingle. Sea poppies bloomed under the wheels of a decaying bathing machine. And Esther wondered, But the sea here was lonely as a prison. And seeing the treeless coast with its chain of towns, her thoughts suddenly reverted to William. She wished he were with her. And for pleasant contemplation, she thought of that happy evening when she saw him coming through the hunting gate. When his arm about her, William had explained that if the horse won, she would take seven shillings out of the sweepstakes. She knew now that William did not care about Sarah, and that he cared for her had given a sudden and unexpected meaning to her existence. She lay on the shingle, her daydream becoming softer and more delicate, as it rounded into summer sleep. And when the light awoke her, she saw flights of white clouds, white up above, rose-colored as they approached the west. And when she turned, a tall, melancholy woman, Good evening, Mrs Randall, said Esther, glad to find someone to speak to. I have been asleep. Good evening, Miss. You're from Woodview, I think. Yes, I am the kitchen maid. They've gone to the races. There was nothing to do, so I came down here. Mrs Randall's lips moved as if they were going to say something. But she did not speak. Soon after, she rose to her feet. I think that it must be getting near tea time. I must be going. You might come in and have a cup of tea with me, if you're not in a hurry, talk to Woodview. Esther was surprised at so much condescension, and then silenced the two women across the meadows that lay between the shingle bank and the river. Trains were passing all the while, scattering, it seemed, in their noisy passage over the spider-leg bridge, the news from Goodwood. The news seemed to be born along shore in the dust. As if troubled by prescience of the news, Mrs Randall said, as she unlocked the cottage door. It is all over now. The people in those trains know well enough which is one. Yes, I suppose they know, and somehow I feel, as if I knew too. I feel as if Silverbrain had won. Mrs Randall's home was gone as herself. Everything looked as if it had been scraped, and this past furniture expressed a meager, lonely life. She dropped a plate as she laid the table, and stood pathetically looking at the pieces. When Esther asked for a teaspoon, she gave way utterly. I haven't won to give you. I had forgotten that they were gone. I should have remembered and not asked you to tea. It doesn't matter, Mrs Randall. I can stir up my tea with anything. A knitting needle will do very well. I should have remembered and not asked you back to tea, but I was so miserable, and it is so lonely sitting in this house that I could stand it no longer. Talking to you saved me from thinking, and I did not want to think until this race was over. If Silverbrain is beaten, we are ruined. Indeed, I do not know what will become of us. For 15 years I have borne up. I have lived on little at the best of times, and very often have gone without. With that is nothing compared to the anxiety, to see him come in with a white face, to see him drop into a chair and hear him say, beaten ahead on the post, or broken down, otherwise he would have won in a canter. I have always tried to be a good wife, and tried to console him, and to do the best when he said, I have lost half a year's wage. I don't know how we shall pull through. I have borne with 10,000 times more than I can tell you. The sufferings of a gambler's wife cannot be told. Tell me, what do you think my feelings must have been when one night I heard him calling me out of my sleep, when I heard him say, I can't die any, without bidding you goodbye? I can only hope you will be able to pull through, and I know that the jaffa will do all he can for you. But he has been hit awful hard too. You mustn't think too badly of me any, but I have had such a bad time that I couldn't put up with it any longer, and I thought the best thing I could do would be to go. That's just how we talked. Nice words to hear your husband speaking in your through the darkness. There was no time to send for the doctor. So I jumped out of bed, put the kettle on, and made him drink glass after glass of salt and water. At last, he brought up the lordnum. As they listened to the melancholy woman, and remembered the little man whom she saw every day so orderly, so precise, so sedate, so methodical, so unemotional, into whose life she thought no faintest emotion had ever entered. And this was the truth. So long as I only had myself to think of, I didn't mind. But now there are the children growing up. He should think of them. Heaven only knows what will become of them. John is as kind a husband as ever was if it weren't for that one fault, but he cannot resist having something on any more than a drunkard can resist the bar room. Winner, winner, winner of the Stuart's Cup! The women started to their feet. When they got into the street, the boy was far away. Besides, neither had a penny to pay for the paper, and they wandered about town hearing and seeing nothing. So nervous were they. At last Esther proposed to ask at the red line who had won. Mrs. Randall begged her to refrain, urging that she was unable to bear the tidings. Should it be evil? Silver braid, the barber unanswered. The girl rushed through the doors. It is all right. It is all right. He has won. Soon after, the little children in the lane were calling forth. Silver braid won, and overcome by the excitement Esther walked along the sea road to meet the drag. She walked on and on until the sound of the horn came through the crimson evening, and she saw the leaders trotting in a cloud of dust. Ginger was driving, and he shouted to her, He won! The caffer waved the horn and shouted, He won! Peggy waved her broken parasol and shouted, He won! Esther looked at William. He leaned over the back seat and shouted, He won! She had forgotten all about late dinner. What would Mrs. Latt say? On such a day as this, she would say nothing. End of chapter 8