 CHAPTER 47 OF ESTHER WATERS Days, weeks, months passed away, and the two women came to live more and more like friends, and less like mistress and maid. Not that Esther ever failed to use the respectful ma'am when she addressed her mistress, nor did they ever sit down to a meal at the same table. But these slight social distinctions, which have it naturally preserved and which it would have been disagreeable to both to forego, were no check on the intimacy of their companionship. In the evening, they sat in the library, suing, or Mrs. Barfield read aloud, for they talked of their sons. On Sundays they had their meetings, the four came from quite a distance, and sometimes as many as five and twenty knelt round the deal-table in the drawing-room. And Esther felt that these days were the happiest of her life. She was content in the peaceful present, and she knew that Mrs. Barfield would not leave her unprovided for. She was almost free from anxiety, but Jack did not seem to be able to obtain regular employment in London, and her wages were so small that she could not help him much. So the sight of his handwriting made her tremble, and she sometimes did not show the letter to Mrs. Barfield for some hours after. One Sunday morning, after meeting, as the two women were going for their walk up the hill, Esther said, I've a letter from my boy, ma'am. I hope it is to tell me that he's got back to work. I'm afraid I shan't be able to read it, Esther. I haven't my glasses with me. It don't matter, ma'am. It'll keep. Give it to me. His writing is large and legible. I think I can read it. My dear mother, the place I told you of in my last letter was given away, so I must go on in the toy shop till something better turns up. I only get six shillings a week and my tea, and can't quite manage on that. Then something, something, pay three and six months a week, something, bed, something, something. I know, ma'am. He shares a bed with the oldest boy. Yes, that's it, and he wants to know if you can help him. I don't like to trouble you, mother, but it is hard for a boy to get his living in London. But I've sent him all my money. I shan't have any till next quarter. I'll lend you some, Esther. We can't leave the boy to stop. He can't live on two and six months a week. You're very good, ma'am, but I don't like to take your money. We shan't be able to get the garden cleared this winter. We shall manage somehow, Esther. The garden must wait. The first thing to do is to see that your boy doesn't want for food. The women resumed their walk up the hill. When they reached the top, Mrs. Barfield said, I haven't heard from Mr. Arthur for months. I envy you, Esther, those letters asking for a little money. What's the use of money to us except to give it to our children? Helping others, that is the only happiness. At the end of the coomb under the shores stood the old red-tiled farmhouse in which Mrs. Barfield had been born. Beyond it, downlands rolled on and on, reaching halfway up the northern sky. Mrs. Barfield was thinking of the days when her husband used to jump off his cop and walk beside her through those gore patches on his way to the farmhouse. She had come from the farmhouse beneath the shores to go to live in an Italian house sheltered by a fringe of trees. That was her adventure. She knew it, and she turned from the view of the downs to the view of the sea. The plantations of wood view touched the horizon. Then the line dipped, and between the top branches of a row of elms appeared the roofs of the town. Over a long spider-leg bridge a train wriggled like a snake. The bleak river flowed into the harbour, and the shingle banks saved the low land from inundation. Then the train passed behind the square dogmatic tower of the village church. Her husband lay beneath the chounsel. Her father, mother, all her relations lay in the churchyard. She would go up there in a few years. Her daughter lay far away, far away in Egypt. Upon this downland all her life had been passed, all her life except the few months she had spent by her daughter's bedside in Egypt. She had come down from that comb, from that farmhouse beneath the shores, and had only crossed the down. And this barren landscape meant as much to Esther as to her mistress. It was on these towns that she had walked with William. He had been born and bred on these towns, but he lay far away in Brompton's cemetery. It was she who had come back, and in her simple way she too wandered at the mystery of destiny. As they descended the hill Mrs. Barfield asked Esther if she ever heard of Fred Parsons. No, ma'am. I don't know what's become of him. And if you were to meet him again, would you care to marry him? Marry? And begin life all over again? All the worry and bother over again? Why should I marry? All I live for now is to see my boy settled in life. The women walked on in silence, passing by long ruins of stables, coach houses, granaries, rickyards, all in ruin and decay. The women paused and went towards the garden, and removing some pieces of the broken gate, they entered a miniature wilderness. The espelier apple trees had disappeared beneath climbing weeds, and long briars had shot out from the bushes, leaving few traces of the former walks, a damp, dismal place that the birds seemed to have abandoned. Of the greenhouse only some broken glass and a black broken chimney remained. A great elm had carried away a large portion of the southern wall, and under the dripping trees an aged peacock screamed for his lost mate. I don't suppose that Jack will be able to find any more paying employment this winter. We must send him six chillings a week, that with what he's earning will make twelve. He'll be able to live nicely on that. I should think he would indeed, but then what about the wages of them who was to have cleared the garden for us? We shan't be able to get the whole garden cleared, but him will be able to get a piece ready for us to sow some spring vegetables. Not a large piece, but enough for us. The first thing to do will be to cut down those apple trees. I'm afraid we shall have to cut down that walnut. Nothing could grow beneath it. Did anyone ever see such a mass of weed and briar? Yes, it is only about ten years since we left Woodview, and the garden was let run to waste. Nature does not take long, a few years, a very few years. End of Chapter 47 Redd by Lars Rolander Chapter 48 of Esther Waters This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Lars Rolander Esther Waters by George Moore, Chapter 48 All the winter, the north wind roamed on the hills. Many trees fell in the park, and at the end of February Woodview seemed bareer and more desolate than ever. Broken branches littered the roadway, and the tall trunks showed their wounds. The women sat over their fire in the evening listening to the blast, cogitating the work that awaited them as soon as the weather showed signs of breaking. Mrs. Porfield had laid by a few pounds during the winter, and the day that Tim cleared out the first piece of espalier trees, she spent entirely in the garden, hardly able to take her eyes off him. But the pleasure of the day was in a measure spoiled for her by the knowledge that on that day her son was riding in the great steeplechase. She was full of fear for his safety. She did not sleep that night, and hurried down at an early hour to the garden to ask Tim for the newspaper which he had told him to bring her. He took some time to extract the paper from his torn pocket. He isn't in the first three, said Mrs. Porfield. I always know that he is safe if he is in the first three. We must turn to the account of the race to see if there were any accidents. She turned over the paper. Thank God he is safe, she said. His horse ran forth. You worry yourself without cause, ma'am. A good rider like him don't meet with accidents. The best riders are often killed, Esther. I never have any easy moment when I hear he's going to ride in these races. Supposing one day I were to read that he was carried back on a shutter. We mustn't let our thoughts run on such things, ma'am. If the war was to break out tomorrow, what should I do? His regiment would be ordered out. It is sad to think that he had to enlist. But, as he said, he couldn't go on living on me any longer, poor boy. We must keep on working, doing the best we can for them. There are all sorts of chances, and we can only pray that God may spare them. Yes, Esther, that's all we can do. Work on, work on to the end. But your boy is coming to see you today. Yes, ma'am. He'll be here by twelve o'clock. You're luckier than I am. I wonder if I shall ever see my boy again. Yes, ma'am. Of course you will. He'll come back to you right enough, one of these days. There's a good time coming. That's what I always says. And now I've got work to do in the house. Are you going to stop here, or are you coming in with me? It'll do you no good standing about in the wet clay. Mrs. Barfield smiled and nodded. An Esther paused at the broken gate to watch her mistress, who stood superintending the clearing away of ten years' growth of weeds, as much interested in the prospect of a few peas and cabbages, as in former days she had been in the culture of expensive flowers. She stood on what remained of a gravel walk. The heavy clay clinging to her boots, watching Jim piling weeds upon his barrel. Would he be able to finish the plot of ground by the end of the week? What should they do with that grave walnut tree? Nothing would grow underneath it. Jim was afraid that he would not be able to cut it down and remove it without help. Mrs. Barfield suggested sewing away some of the branches, but Jim was not sure that the expedient would prove of much avail. In his opinion, the tree took all the goodness out of the soil, and that while it stood they could not expect a very great show of vegetables. Mrs. Barfield asked if the sale of the tree trunk would indemnify her for the cost of cutting it down. Jim paused in his work and, leaning on his spade, considered if there was anyone in the town who for the sake of the timber would cut the tree down and take it away for nothing. There ought to be some such person in town if it came to that. Mrs. Barfield ought to receive something for the tree. Walnut was a valuable wood, was extensively used by cabinet makers and so on, until Mrs. Barfield begged him to get on with the stinging. At twelve o'clock Esther and Mrs. Barfield walked out on the lawn. A loud wind came up from the sea, and it shook the evergreens as if it were angry with them. A rook carried a stick to the tops of the tall trees, and the women drew their cloaks above them. The train passed across the vista, and the women wondered how long it would take Jack to walk from the station. Then another rook stooped to the edge of the plantation, gathered a twig, and carried it away. The wind was rough. It caught the evergreens underneath and blew them out like umbrellas. The grass had not yet begun to grow, and the grey sea harmonized with the grey green land. The women waited on the windy lawn, their skirts blown against their legs, keeping their hats on with difficulty. It was too cold for standing still. They turned and walked a few steps towards the house, and then looked round. A tall soldier came through the gate. He wore a long red cloak, and a small cap gently set on the side of his closed clipped head. Esther uttered a little exclamation, and ran to meet him. He took his mother in his arms, kissed her, and they walked towards Mrs. Barfield together. All was forgotten in the happiness of the moment, the long fight for his life, and the possibility that any moment might declare him to be mere food for powder and shot. She was only conscious that she had accomplished her woman's work. She had brought him up to Mans estate, and that was her sufficient reward. What a fine fellow he was! She did not know he was so handsome, and blushing with pleasure and pride, she glanced shyly at him out of the corners of her eyes as she introduced him to her mistress. This is my son, ma'am! Mrs. Barfield held out her hand to the young soldier. I have heard a great deal about you from your mother, and I of you, ma'am, you've been very kind to my mother. I don't know how to thank you. And in silence they walked towards the house. End of Chapter 48 and End of the Book Esther Waters by George Moore read by Lars Rulander. Thank you for listening.