 Chapter 20 of Esther Waters This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings and the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Peter Abraham Esther Waters by George Moore Chapter 20 Those who came to the workhouse for servants Never offered more than 14 pounds a year And these wages would not pay for her babies keep out at nurse Her friend the matron did all she could But it was always 14 pounds We cannot afford more At last an offer of 16 pounds a year Came from a tradesman in Chelsea And the matron introduced Esther to Mrs. Lewis A lonely widowed woman Who for five shillings a week Would undertake to look after the child This would leave Esther 3 pounds a year for dress 3 pounds a year for herself What luck! The shop was advantageously placed at a street corner 12 feet of fronting on the King's Road And more than half that amount on the side street Exposed to every view, wallpapers and stained glass designs The dwelling house was over the shop The shop entrance faced the curve in the King's Road The Bingley's were dissenters They were ugly and exacted the uttermost fathering From their customers and their work people Mrs. Bingley was a tall, born woman With little grey ringlets on either side of her face She spoke in a sour, resolute voice When she came down in a wrapper To superintendent the cooking On Sundays she wore a black satin Fastened with a cameo brooch And round her neck a long, gold chain Then her manners were lofty And when her husband called mother She answered, ''Testily, don't keep on mothering me'' She frequently stopped him to settle his necktie or collar All the week he wore the same short jacket On Sundays he appeared in an ill-fitting frock coat His long upper lip was clean-shaven But under the chin there grew a ring of discoloured hair Neither brown nor red But the neutral tint that hair which does not turn grey acquires When he spoke he opened his mouth wide And seemed quite unashamed of the empty spaces And the three or four yellow fangs that remained John, the elder of the two brothers Was a silent youth whose one passion seemed to be eavesdropping He hung around doors in hopes of over-hearing his sister's conversation And if he heard Esther and the little girl who helped Esther In her work talking in the kitchen He would steal cautiously half-way down the stairs Esther often thought that his young woman Must be sadly in want of a sweetheart To take on with one such as he Come along Amy, he would cry Passing out before her And not even at the end of a long walk did he offer his arm And they came strolling home just like boy and girl Hubert, John's younger brother, was quite different He had escaped the family temperament As he had escaped the family upper lip He was the one spot of colour in a somewhat somber household And Esther liked to hear him call back to his mother Alright mother, I've got the key No one need to wait up for me I'll make the door fast Oh Hubert, don't be later than eleven You are not going out dancing again are you? Your father will have the electric bell put on the door So that he may know when you come in The four girls were already complexioned and long upper lip The eldest was the plainest She kept her father's books and made the pastry The second and third entertained vague hopes of marriage The youngest was subject to hysterics, fits of some kind The Bingley's own house was representative of their ideas And the taste they had imposed upon the neighbourhood The staircase was covered with white drug it And the white enameled walls had to be kept scrupulously clean There were no flowers in the window But the springs of the blinds were always in perfect order The drawing room was furnished with substantial tables, cabinets and chairs And anti-macassas, long and white And china ornaments and glass vases There was a piano and on this instrument every Sunday evening Hymns were played by one of the young ladies And the entire family sang in the chorus It was into this house that Esther entered as general servant With wages fixed at 16 pounds a year And for 17 long hours a day For 230 hours every fortnight She washed, she scrubbed, she cooked She ran errands with never a moment that she might call her own Every second Sunday she was allowed out for four, perhaps for four and a half hours The time fixed was from three to nine But she was expected to be back in time to get supper ready And if it were many minutes later than nine there were complaints She had no money Her quarters wages would not be due for another fortnight And as they did not coincide with her Sunday out She would not see her baby for another three weeks She had not seen him for a month And a great longing was in her heart to clasp him in her arms again To feel his soft cheek against hers To take his chubby legs and warm fat beat in her hands The four lovely hours of liberty would slip by She would enter on another long fortnight of slavery But no matter, only to get them however quickly they sped from her She designed herself to her fate Her soul rose in revolt And it grew hourly more difficult for her to renounce this pleasure She must pawn her dress, the only decent dress she had left No matter, she must see the child She would be able to get the dress out of pawn when she was paid her wages Then she would have to buy herself a pair of boots And she owed Mrs. Lewis a great deal of money Five shillings a week came to thirteen pounds a year Leaving her three pounds a year for boots and clothes Journeys back and forward and everything the baby might want Oh, it was not to be done She never would be able to pull through She dare not pawn her dress If she did, she'd never be able to get it out again At that moment something bright lying on the floor Under the basin stand caught her eye It was half a crown She looked at it and as the temptation came into her heart to steal She raised her eyes and looked around the room She was in John's room, in the sneak's room No one was about She would have cut off one of her fingers for the coin That half crown meant pleasure and a happiness so tender and seductive That she closed her eyes for a moment The half crown she held between forefinger and thumb Presented a ready solution of the besetting difficulty She threw out the insidious temptation But it came quickly upon her again If she did not take the half crown She would not be able to go to peck him on Sunday She could replace the money when she found it When she was paid her wages No one knew that it was there It had evidently rolled there And having tumbled between the carpet and the wall Had not been discovered It had probably lain there for months Perhaps it was utterly forgotten Besides, she need not take it now It would be quite safe if she put it back in its place On Sunday afternoon she would take it And if she changed it at once It was not marked She examined it all over No, it was not marked Then the desire paused And she wondered how she, an honest girl Who had never harboured a dishonest thought in her life before Could desire to steal A bitter feeling of shame came upon her It was a case of flying from temptation And she left the room so hurriedly That John, who was spying in the passage Had not time either to slip downstairs Or to hide in his brother's room They met face to face Oh, I beg your pardon, sir But I found this half-crown in your room Well, there's nothing wonderful in that What are you so agitated about? I suppose you intend it to return it to me Intend it to return it? Of course An expression of hate and contempt Leaped into her hands and grey eyes And like a dog's, the red lip turned down She suddenly understood that this pasty face Of a despicable chap had placed the coin Where it might have accidentally rolled Where she would be likely to find it He had complained that morning That she did not keep his room sufficiently clean It was a carefully laid plan He was watching her all the while And no doubt thought that it was his own indiscretion That had prevented her from falling into the snare Without a word Esther dropped the half-crown at his feet And returned to her worth And all the time she remained in her present situation She persistently refused to speak to him She brought him what he asked for But never answered him Even with a yes or no It was during the few minutes rest after dinner That the burden of the day Rests heaviest upon her Then a painful weariness grew into her limbs And it seemed impossible to summon strength And will to beat carpets or sweep down the stairs But if she were not moving about before the clock struck Mrs. Bingley came down to the kitchen Now Esther, is there nothing for you to do? And again, about eight o'clock She felt too tired to wear the weight of her own flesh She had passed through fourteen hours of almost Unintermittent toil And it seemed to her that she would never be able To have sufficient courage to get through the last three hours It was this last summit that taxed all her strength And all her will Even the rest that waited her at eleven o'clock Was plighted by the knowledge of the day that was coming And its cruel hours, long and lean and hollow-eyed Stared at her through the darkness She was often too tired to rest And rolled over and over in her miserable garret bed Her whole body aching Toil had crushed all that was human out of her Even her baby was growing indifferent to her If it were to die She did not desire her baby's death But she could not forget what the baby farmer had told her The burden would not become lighter It would become heavier and heavier What would become of her? Was there no hope? She buried her face in her pillow Seeking to escape from the passion of her despair She was an unfortunate girl And missed all her chances In the six months she had spent in the house in Chelsea Her nature had been strained to the uttermost And what we call chance now Came to decide the course of her destiny The fight between circumstances and character Had gone till now in favour of character But circumstances must call up No further forces against character Her hair would turn the scale either way One morning she was startled out of her sleep By a loud talking at the door It was Mrs. Bingley Who had come to ask her if she knew what time it was It was nearly seven o'clock But Mrs. Bingley could not blame her much Having herself forgotten to put on the electric bell And asked the hurried through her dressing But in hurrying she happened to tread on her dress Tearing it right across It was most unfortunate And just when she was most in a hurry She held up the torn skirt It was a poor frayed worn out rag That would hardly bear mending again A mistress was calling her There was nothing for it but to run down and tell her what happened Haven't you got another dress that you can put on? No ma'am Really, I can't have you going to the door in that thing You don't do credit to my house You must get yourself a new dress at once It's the matter that she had no money to buy one Then I don't know what you do with your money What I do with my wages is my affair I have plenty of use for my money I cannot allow any servant of mine to speak to me like that Esther did not answer And Mrs. Bingley continued It is my duty to know what you do with your money And to see that you do not spend it in any wrong way I am responsible for your moral welfare Then ma'am I think I had better leave you Leave me? Because I don't wish you to spend your money wrongfully Because I know the temptations that a younger's life is beset with There ain't much chance of temptation for them who work 17 hours a day Esther, you seem to forget No ma'am There's no use talking about what I do with my money There are other reasons The place is too hard a one I felt it so for some time ma'am My health ain't equal to it Once she had spoken, Esther showed no disposition to retract And she steadily resisted all Mrs. Bingley's Solicitations to remain with her She knew the risk she was running in leaving her situation And yet she felt she must yield to an instinct Like that which impels the hunted animal To leave the cover and seek safety in the open country Her whole body cried out for rest She must have rest That was the thing that must be Mrs. Lewis would keep her and her baby for twelve shillings a week The present was the Christmas quarter And she was richer by five and twenty shillings Than she had been before Mrs. Bingley had given her ten shillings Mr. Hubbard, five And the other ten had been contributed by the four young ladies Out of this money she hoped to be able to buy a dress And a pair of boots And a fortnight's rest with Mrs. Lewis She had determined on her plan some three weeks Before her months' warning would expire And henceforth the mountainous days of her servitude Drew out interminably Seeming more than ever exhausting And the longing in her heart to be free at times Roses to her head And her brain turned as if in delirium Every time she sat down to a meal She remembered she was so many hours nearer to rest A fortnight's rest She could not afford more But in her present slavery That fortnight seemed at once as a paradise And an eternity Her only fear was that her health might give her away And that she would be laid up during the time she intended for rest Personal rest Her baby was lost sight of Even her mother demands something in return for her love And in the last year Jackie had taken much and given nothing But when she opened Mrs. Lewis's door He came running to her Calling her mummy And the immediate preference he showed for her Climbing on her knees Instead of on Mrs. Lewis's Was a fresh sowing of love In the mother's heart They were in the midst of those few days of sunny weather Which come in January Deluding us so with their brightness and warmth That we look around for roses And are astonished to see the earth bare of flowers And these bright afternoons Esther spent entirely with Jackie At the top of the hill There we led through a narrow passage Between a brick wall and a high pailing She had always to carry him through this passage For the ground there was sloppy and dirty And the child wanted to stop To watch the pigs through the chinks in the board But when they came to the smooth wide high roads Overlooking the valley She put him down and he would run on her head crying Turn for a walk mummy Turn around And his little feet went so quickly beneath his frock That it seemed as if he were on wheels She followed Often forced to break into a run Tremulous lest he should fall They descended the hill into the ornamental park And spent happy hours amid geometrically designed flower beds And curving walks She went out with him as far as the old Dulwich village And they strolled through the long street Behind the street were low-lying shipless fields Intersected with broken wedges And when Jackie called to his mother to carry him She rejoiced in the labour of his weight And when he grew too heavy She rested on the farm gate And looked into the vague lowlands And when the chill of the night awoke her from her dream She clasped Jackie to her bosom And turned toward home Very soon to lose herself in another tide of happiness The evenings too were charming When the candles were lighted And tea was on the table Esther sat with the dozing child on her knee Looking into the flickering fire Her mind a reverie Occasionally broken by the homely talk of her companion And when the baby was laid in a scot She took up her sewing She was making herself a new dress Or else the great kettle was steaming on the hob And the women stood over the washing tubs On the following evening They worked on either side of the ironing table The candle burning brightly And their vague women's chatter Sounding pleasant in the hush of the little cottage A little after nine They were in bed And so the days went softly Like happy trivial dreams It was not until the end of the third week That Mrs. Lewis would hear of Esther Looking out for another place And then Esther was surprised at her good fortune A friend of Mrs. Lewis's Knew a servant who was leaving her situation In the west end of London Esther got the address And went next day after the place She was fortunate enough to obtain it And her mistress seemed well satisfied with her But one day in the beginning of her second year of service She was told that her mistress wished to speak to her In the dining room I fancy, said the cook, That it is about that baby of yours They are very strict here Mrs. Trubner was sitting on a low wicker chair By the fire She was a large woman with legal features Her eyesight had been failing for some years And her maid was reading to her The maid closed the book and left the room It has come to my knowledge waters That you have a child You are not a married woman, I believe I've been unfortunate I have a child But that makes no difference So long as I give satisfaction at my work I don't think the cook has complained ma'am The cook hasn't complained But had I known this I don't think I should have engaged you In the character which you showed me Mrs. Barfield said She believed you to be a thoroughly religious girl At heart And I hope I am that ma'am I am truly sorry for my fault I have suffered a great deal So you all say But supposing it were to happen again And in my house Supposing Then don't you think ma'am If there is repentance and forgiveness Our lord said You ought to have told me And as for Mrs. Barfield Her conduct is most reprehensible Then ma'am Would you prevent every poor girl Who has had a misfortune from earning her bread If there was all like you There would be more girls who do away With themselves and their babies You don't know how hard press we are The baby farmer says Give me 5 pounds and I'll find a good woman Who wants a little one And you shall hear no more about it Them very words Were said to me I took him away And hoped to be able to rear him But if I am to lose my situations I should be sorry to prevent anyone From earning their bread You're a mother yourself ma'am And you know what it is Really it's quite different I don't know what you mean what else I mean that if I am to lose my situations On account of my baby I don't know what will become of me If I give satisfaction At that moment Mr. Trubner entered He was a large stout man With his mother's aquiline features He arrived with his glasses on his nose And slightly out of breath Oh oh I didn't know mother He blurted out And was about to withdraw When Mrs. Trubner said This is the new servant whom that lady In Sussex recommended Esther saw a look of instinctive Repulsion come over his face I'll leave you to settle with her mother I must speak to you Harold I must I really can't I know nothing of this matter He tried to leave the room And when his mother stopped him He said testily Well what is it I am very busy just now And Mrs. Trubner told Esther To wait in the passage Well said Mr. Trubner Have you discharged her I'll leave all these things to you She has told me her story She is trying to bring up her child On her wages She said if she were kept From earning her bread She didn't know what would become of her Her position is a very terrible one I know that But we can't have loose women about the place They all can tell a fine story The world is full of imposters I don't think the girl is an imposter Very likely not But everyone has a right to protect themselves Don't speak so loud Harold Said Mrs. Trubner lowering her voice Remember her child is dependent upon her If we send her away We don't know what may happen I'll pay her a month's wages if you like But you must take the responsibility I won't take any responsibility in the matter If she had been here two years She has only been here a year Not so much more And had proved a satisfactory serving I don't say that we'd be justified In sending her away There are plenty of good girls Who want the situation as much as she I don't see why we should have A loose women When there are so many deserving cases That you want me to send her away I don't want to interfere You ought to know how to act Supposing the same thing were to happen again My cousins, young men Coming to the house But she won't see them Do as you like It is your business, not mine It doesn't matter to me So long as I am not interfered with Keep her if you like You ought to have looked into a character More closely before you engaged her I think that the lady who recommended her Ought to be written to very sharply They had forgotten to close the door And as the student the passage Burning and choking would shame It is a strange thing that religion Should make some people so unfeeling As the thought as she left on slow square It was necessary to keep her child secret And in her next situation She shunned intimacy With her fellow servants And was so strict in her conduct That she exposed herself to their snares She dreaded the remark That she always went out alone And often arrived at the cottage Breathless with fear and expectation At a cottage where a little boy Stood by a stout middle aged woman Turning over the pages of the illustrated papers That his mother had brought him She had no money to buy him toys Dropping the illustrated London news He cried Here is mummy and ran to her With outstretched arms What an embrace Louis continued her swing And for an hour or more Esther told her about her fellow servants About the people she lived with The conversation interrupted by the child Calling in his mother's attention To the pictures Or by the delicate intrusion of his little hand Into hers Her clothes were a great difficulty And she often thought That she would rather go back to the slavery Of the house in Chelsea Than bear the humiliation of going out any longer Than things that the servants had seen her in For eight or nine months or more She was made to feel that she was the lowest of the low The servant of servants She had to accept everybody's snare And everybody's bad language And often times Gross familiarity In order to avoid arguments and disputes Which might endanger her situation She had to shut her eyes To the thefts of the cooks She had to fetch them drink And to do their work When they were unable to do it themselves But there was no help for it She could not pick and choose Where she would live and any wages About 16 pounds a year She must always accept And put up with whatever inconvenience she might need Hers is a heroic adventure If one considers it A mother's fight for the life of her child Against all the forces that civilization Arrays against the lowly And the legitimate She is in a situation today But on what security does she hold it She is strangely dependent On her own health And still more upon the fortunes And the personal caprice Of her employers And she realized the perils of her life When an outcast mother at the corner of the street Stretching out of her ags A brown hand and arm Asked for arms for the sake of the little children Esther remembered then That three months out of a situation And she too would be on the street As a plot seller Or it did not seem however That any of these spheres were to be realized Her luck had mended For nearly two years She had been living with some rich people In the West End She liked her mistress And was on good terms with her fellow servants And had it not been for an accident She could have kept the situation The young gentlemen had come home For their summer holidays She had stepped aside to let master Harry Pass on the stairs But he did not go by And there was a strange smile on his face Look here Esther I am awfully fond of you You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen Come out for a walk with me Next Sunday Master Harry I am surprised at you Will you let me go at once There was no one near The house was silent And the boy stood on the step above her He tried to throw his arm around her waist But she shook him off And went up to her room Calm with indignation A few days afterward She suddenly became aware That he was following her in the street She turned sharply upon him Master Harry I know that this is only a little foolishness On your part But if you do not leave off I shall lose my situation And I am sure you do not want to do me An injury Master Harry seemed sorry And he promised not to follow her in the street again And never thinking That it was he who had written the letter She received a few days after She asked Annie The upper housemaid to read it It contained reference to meetings And unalterable affection And it concluded with a promise to marry her If she lost her situation through his fault Esther listened like one stunned A schoolboy's folly The first silly sentimentality Of a boy A thing lighter than the lightest leaf that falls Had brought disaster upon her If Annie had not seen the letter She might have been able to get the boy to listen to reason But Annie had seen the letter And Annie could not be trusted The story would be sure to come out And then she would lose her character As well as her situation It was a great pity A mistress had promised her To marry her A mistress had promised to have her Thought cooking at South Kensington And a cook's wages would secure her And her child Against all ordinary accidents She would never get a chance again And would remain a kitchen maid To the end of her days And acting on the impulse of the moment She went straight to the drawing room Her mistress was alone And Esther handed her the letter I thought you had better see this at once mom I did not want you to think that it was my fault Of course the young gentleman Means no harm Has anyone seen this letter? I showed it to Annie I must call her myself And the writing was difficult You have no reason for supposing How often did master Harry Speak to you in this way? Only twice mom Of course it is only a little foolishness I needn't say that he doesn't mean what he says I told him mom That if he continued I should lose my situation I'm sorry to part with you Esther But I really think that the best way Will be for you to leave I have much obliged to you For showing me this letter Master Harry you see Says he is going away to the country For a week He left this morning So I really think that a month's wages Will settle matters nicely You are an excellent servant And I shall be glad to recommend you Then Esther heard her mistress mutter Something about the dangers of good-looking servants And Esther was paid a month's wages And left that afternoon End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of Esther Waters This is a LibriVox recording Or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information Or to volunteer Please visit the LibriVox website Or visit the LibriVox website Or please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Lars Prolanden Esther Waters by George Moore Chapter 21 It was in the beginning of August And London jawned in every street The dust blew unslaked And a little cloud curled And disappeared over the crest of the hill At Hyde Park Corner The streets and St. George Place traces looked out with blind white eyes, and in the deserted park the trees tossed their foliage restlessly, as if they wearied and missed the fashion of their season. And all through park lane and mayfair, caretakers and gaunt-cats were the traces that the cast on which Esther depended had left of its departed presence. She was coming from the Alexandra Hotel, where she had heard a kitchen maid was wanted. Mrs. Lewis had urged her to wait until people began to come back to town. Good situations were rarely obtainable in the summer months. It would be bad policy to take a bad one, even if it were only for a while. Besides, she had saved a little money, and feeling that she required a rest had determined to take this advice. But as luck would have it, Jackie fell ill before she had been at Dalwich a week. Its illness made a big hole in her savings, and it had become evident that she would have to set to work at once. She turned into the park. She was going north to a registry office near Oxford Street, which Mrs. Lewis had recommended. Hall-Born Rowe was difficult to find, and she had to ask the way very often, but she suddenly knew that she was in the right street, by the number of servant girls going and coming from the office, and in company with five others Esther ascended a gloomy little staircase. The office was on the first floor. The doors were open, and they passed into a special odour of poverty, as it were, into an atmosphere of mean interests. Benches covered with red plush were on either side, and these were occupied by fifteen or twenty poorly dressed women. A little old woman, very white and pale stood near the window, recounting her misfortunes to no one in particular. I lived with her more than thirty years. I brought up all the children. I entered her service as nurse, and when the children grew up I was given the management of everything. For the last fifteen years my mistress was a confirmed invalid. She entrusted everything to me. Oftentimes she took my hand and said, You are a good creature, Holmes. You mustn't think of leaving me. How should I get on without you? But when she died they had to part with me. They said they were very sorry, and wouldn't have thought of doing so. Only they were afraid I was getting too old for the work. I dare say I was wrong to stop so long in one situation. I shouldn't have done so. But she always used to say, You mustn't leave us. We never shall be able to get on without you. At that moment a secretary, an alert young woman with a decisive voice came through the folding doors. I will not have all this talking, she said. Her quick eyes fell on the little old woman, and she came forward a few steps. What, you're here again, Miss Holmes? I've told you that when I hear of anything that will suit you, I'll write. So you said, Miss, but my little savings are running short. I'm being pressed for my rent. I can't help that. When I hear of anything I'll write. But I can't have you coming here every third day wasting my time. Now run along. And having made a casual remark about the absurdity of people of that age coming after situations, she called three or four women to her desk, of whom Esther was one. She examined them critically and seemed especially satisfied with Esther's appearance. It will be difficult, she said, to find you the situation you want before people begin to return to town. If you were only an inch or two tall, I could get you a dozen places as housemaid. Tall servants are all the fashion, and you are the right age about five and twenty. Esther left a dozen stamps with her, and soon after she began to receive letters containing the addresses of ladies who required servants. They were all of a sorts, for the secretary seemed to exercise hardly any discrimination, and Esther was sent on long journeys from Brixton to Notting Hill to visit poor people who could hardly afford a maid of all work. These useless journeys were very fatiguing. Sometimes she was asked to call at a house in base water, and then she had to go to High Street Kensington, or Earls Court. A third address might be in Chelsea. She could only guess which was the best chance, and while she was hesitating, the situation might be given away. Very often the ladies were out, and she was asked to call later in the day. These casual hours she spent in the parks, mending Jackie's socks or hemming pocket handkerchiefs, so she was frequently delayed till evening, and in the mildest of the summer twilight, with some fresh disappointment lying heavy on her heart, she made her way from the marble arch round the barren serpentine into Piccadilly, with its stream of light beginning in the sunset. And standing at the curb of Piccadilly Circus, waiting for a bus to take her to Ladugay Till Station, the girl grew conscious of the moving multitude that filled the streets. The great restaurants rose up calm and violent in the evening sky. The café Monaco, with its air of French newspapers and Italian wines, and before the grave facade of the fashionable criterion, handsome stopped and dinner parties walked across the pavement. The fine weather had brought the women up earlier than usual from the suburbs. They came up the long road from Fulham, with white dresses floating from their hips, and feather boas waving a few inches from the pavement. But through this elegant disguise, Esther could pick out the servant girls. Their stories were her story. They had been deserted as she had been, and perhaps each had a child to support. Only they had not been so lucky as she had been in finding situations. But now luck seemed to have deserted her. It was in the middle of September, and she had not yet been able to find the situation she wanted, and it had become more and more distressing to her to refuse sixteen pounds a year. She had calculated it all out and nothing less than eighteen pound was of any use to her. With eighteen pound and a kind mistress, who would give her an old dress occasionally, she could do very well. But if she didn't find these two pounds, she did not know what she should do. She might drag on for a time on sixteen pound, but such wages would drive her in the end into the workhouse. If it were not for the child, but she would never desert her darling boy, who loved her so dearly, come what might. A sudden imagination let her see him playing in the little street, waiting for her to come home, and her love for him went to her head like madness. She wandered at herself. It seemed almost unnatural to love anything as she did this child. Then in a shiver of fear, determined to save her bus fare, she made her way through Leicester Square. She was a good looking girl, who hastened her steps when a dressed way passed by or crossed the roadway in sullen indignation, and who looked in contempt on the silks and satins which turned into the empire, and she seemed to lose heart utterly. She had been walking all day and had not tasted food since the morning, and the weakness of the flesh brought a sudden weakness of the spirit. She felt that she could struggle no more, that the whole world was against her. She felt that she must have food and drink and rest. All this London tempted her, and the cup was at her lips. A young man in evening clothes had spoken to her. His voice was soft. The look in his eyes seemed kindly. Thinking of the circumstances, ten minutes later it seemed to her that she had intended to answer him. But she was now at Charing Cross. There was a lightness, an emptiness in her head, which she could not overcome, and the crowd appeared to her like a blurred, noisy dream. And then the dissonance left her, and she realized the temptation she had escaped. Here, as in Piccadilly, she could pick out the servant-girls, but here their service was yesterday's lodging-house. Poor and dissipated girls dressed in vague clothes fixed with hazardous pins. Two young women strolled in front of her. They hung on each other's arms, talking lazily. They had just come out of an eating-house, and a happy digestion was in their eyes. The skirt on the outside was a soiled morph, and the bodice that went with it was a soiled chocolate. A broken jello plume hanged out of a battered hat. The skirt on the inside was a dim green, and little was left of the cotton velvet jacket but the cotton. A girl of sixteen walking sturdily, like a little man, crossed the road. Her left hand thrust deep into the pocket of a red cashmere dress. She wore on her shoulders a strip of beaded mantle. Her hair was plaited and tied with a red ribbon. Corpulent women passed their eyes liquid with imitation. And the huge barloafer, the man of fifty, the hooked nose, and the waxed moustache stood at the door of a restaurant, passing the women in review. A true London of the watersedge. A London of theatres, music halls, wine shops, public houses. The walls painted various colors, nailed over with huge gold lettering. The pale air woven with delicate wire. A gossamer web underneath which the crowd moved like lacy flies. One half watching the perforated spire of St. Mary's. And all the city spires behind it now growing cold in the east. The other half seeing the spire of St. Martin's, about the chimney pots aloft in a sky of cream pink. Storward policemen urged along groups of slat and voice and girls. And after vulgar remonstrance these took the hint and disappeared down strange passages. Suddenly Esther came face to face with a woman whom she recognized as Margaret Gale. What? Is it you, Margaret? Yes, it's me all right. What are you doing up here? Got tired of service? Come and have a drink, old girl. No, thank you. I'm glad to have seen you, Margaret. But I have a train to catch. That won't do, said Margaret, catching her by the arm. We must have a drink and a talk over old times. Esther felt that if she did not have something she would faint before she reached Ludget Hill. And Margaret led the way through the public house, opening all the varnish doors, seeking a quiet corner. What's the matter, she said, startled at the pallor of Esther's face. Only a little faintness. I've not had anything to eat all day. Quick, quick, four of brandy and some water, Mary cried to the barman, and a moment after she was holding the glass to her friend's lips. Not had anything to eat all day, dear? Then we'll have a bite and a sub together. I feel a bit peckish myself. Two sausages and two rolls on butter, she cried. Then the women had a long talk. Margaret told Esther the story of her misfortune. The barfields were all broken up. They had been very unlucky racing, and when the servants got the sack, Margaret had come up to London. She had been in several situations. Eventually one of her masters had got her into trouble. His wife had turned her out, neck and crop, and what was she to do? Then Esther told how Master Harry had lost her her situation. And she left like that? Well, I never. The better one behaves, the worse one gets treated, and them that goes on with service find themselves in the end without as much as will buy them a Sunday dinner. Margaret insisted on accompanying Esther, and they walked together as far as Wellington Street. I can't go any further, and pointing to where London seemed to end in a piece of desolate sky, she said. I live on the other side, in Stamford Street. You might come and see me. If you ever get tired of service, you'll get decent rooms there. Bad weather followed fine, and under a streaming umbrella Esther went from one address to another. Her damp skirts clinging about her, and her boots clogged with mud. She looked upon the change in the weather as unfortunate, for in getting a situation, so much depended on personal appearance and cheerfulness of manner. And it is difficult to seem a right and tidy girl after two miles walk through the rain. One lady told Esther that she liked tall servants. Another said she never engaged good-looking girls, and another place that would have suited her was lost through unconsciously answering that she was chapel. The lady would have nothing in her house but church. Then there were the disappointments occasioned by the letters which she received from people who she thought would have engaged her, saying they were sorry, but that they had seen someone whom they liked better. Another week passed, and Esther had to pawn her clothes to get money for her train fare to London, and to keep the registry office supplied with stamps. Her prospects had begun to seem quite hopeless, and she lay awake thinking that she and Jackie must go back to the workhouse. They could not stop on at Mr. Lewis's much longer. Mrs. Lewis had been very good to them, but Esther owed her two weeks' money. What was to be done? She had heard of charitable institutions, but she was an ignorant girl and did not know how to make the necessary inquiries. Oh, the want of a little money, of a very little money, the thought beat into her brain, for just enough to hold on till the people came back to town. One day Mrs. Lewis, who read the newspapers for her, came to her with an advertisement, which she said seemed to read like a very likely chance. Esther looked at the pens which remained out of the last dress she had pawned. I'm afraid, she said, it will turn out like the others. I'm out of my luck. Don't say that, said Mrs. Lewis. Keep your courage up. I'll stick to you as long as I can. The women had a good cry in each other's arms, and then Mrs. Lewis advised Esther to take the situation, even if it were no more than sixteen. A lot can be done by constant saving, and if she gives her her dresses and ten shillings for a Christmas box, I don't see why you should not pull through. The baby shan't cost you more than five shillings a week till you get a situation as plain cook. Here is the address, Ms. Rice, Avondale Road, West Kensington. End of Chapter 21, Read by Lars Rolander. Chapter 22 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, reading by Lars Rolander. Esther Waters by George Moore, Chapter 22 Avondale Road was an obscure corner of the suburb, obscure for it had just sprung into existence. The scaffolding that had built it now littered an adjoining field, where in a few months it would rise about hoarsely gardens, whose red gables and tiled upper walls will correspond unfailingly with those of Avondale Road. Nowhere in this neighborhood could Esther detect signs of 18 pounds a year. Scanning the Venetian blinds of the single drawing room window, she said to herself, Hot joint today, cold the next. She noted the trim iron railings and the spare shrubs, and raising her eyes she saw the tiny gavel windows of the covered light rooms, where the single servant kept in these houses slept. A few steps more brought her to 41, the corner house. The thin passage and the meagre staircase confirmed Esther in the impression she had received from the aspect on the street, and she felt that the place was more suitable to the gaunt woman with iron gray hair who waited in the passage. The woman looked apprehensively at Esther, and when Esther said that she had come after the place, a painful change of expression passed over her face, and she said, You all get it, arm too old for anything but charring. How much are you going to ask? I can't take less than sixteen. Sixteen? I used to get that once. I'd be glad enough to get twelve now. You can't think of sixteen once you've turned forty, and I've lost my teeth, and they mean a couple of pounds off. Then the door opened, and a woman's voice called to the gaunt woman to come in. She went in, and Esther breathed the prayer that she might not be engaged. A minute intervened, and the gaunt woman came out. There were tears in her eyes, and she whispered to Esther as she passed, No good! I told you so. Arm too old for anything but charring. The abruptness of the interview suggested a hard mistress, and Esther was surprised to find herself in the presence of a slim lady, about seven and thirty, whose small gray eyes seemed to express a kind and gentle nature. As she stood speaking to her, Esther saw a tall glass filled with chrysanthemums, and a large writing table covered with books and papers. There was a bookcase, and in place of the usual folding doors, a bead curtain hung between the rooms. The room almost said that the occupant was a spinster and a writer, and Esther remembered that she had noticed even at the time Mrs. Rice's manuscript. It was such a beautiful clear round hand, and it lay on the table, ready to be continued the moment she should have settled with her. I saw your advertisement in the paper, Miss. I've come after the situation. You are used to service? Yes, Miss. I've had several situations in gentlemen's families and have excellent characters from them all. Then Esther related the story of a situation, and Mrs. Rice put up her glasses and her gray eyes mined. She seemed pleased with the sumptrugged but pleasant featured girl before her. I live alone, she said. The place is an easy one, and if the wages satisfy you, I think you will suit me very well. My servant who has been with me some years is leaving me to be married. What are the wages, Miss? Fourteen pounds a year. I'm afraid, Miss, there would be no use my taking the place. I've so many calls on my money that I could not manage on fourteen pounds. I'm very sorry, for I feel sure I would like to live with you, Miss. But what was the good of taking the place? She could not possibly manage on fourteen, even if Mrs. Rice did give her a dress occasionally, and that didn't look likely. All her strength seemed to give way under her misfortune, and it was with difficulty that she restrained her tears. I think we should suit each other, Miss. Rice said reflectively. I should like to have you for my servant, if I could afford it. How much would you take? Situated as I am, Miss, I could not take less than sixteen. I've been used to eighteen. Sixteen pounds is more than I can afford, but I'll think it over. Give me your name and address. Esther Waters, 13, Poplar Road, Dulwich. As Esther turned to go, she became aware of the kindness of the eyes that looked at her. Miss Rice said, I'm afraid you are in trouble. Sit down. Tell me about it. No, Miss, what's the use? But Miss Rice looked at her so kindly that Esther could not restrain herself. There's nothing for it, she said, but to go back to the workhouse. But why should you go to the workhouse? I offer you fourteen pounds a year and everything found. You see, Miss, I'm a baby. We've been in the workhouse already. I had to go there the night I left my situation to get him away from Mrs. Pires. She wanted to kill him. She'd have done it for five pounds. That's the price. But, Miss, my story is not one that can be told to a lady such as you. I think I am old enough to listen to your story. Sit down and tell it to me. And all the while, Miss Rice's eyes were filled with tenderness and pity. A very sad story. Just such a story as happens every day. But you've been punished. You have indeed. Yes, Miss, I think I have. And after all these years of striving, it is hard to have to take him back to the workhouse. Not that I want to give out that I was badly treated there. But it is the child I'm thinking of. He was then a little baby, and it didn't matter. We was only there a few months. There's no one that knows of it but me. But he's a growing boy now. He'll remember the workhouse, and it will be always a disgrace. How old, you see? He was six last May, Miss. It has been a hard job to bring him up. I now pay six shillings a week for him. That's more than fourteen pounds a year. And you can't do much in the way of clothes on two pounds a year. And now that he's growing up, he's costing more than ever. But, Mrs. Lewis, that's the woman what has brought him up. It's as fond of him as I am myself. She don't want to make nothing out of his key, and that's how I've managed up to the present. What I see well enough that it can't be done. His expense increases, and the wages remains the same. It was my pride to bring him up on my earnings, and my hope to see him an honest man earning good money. But it wasn't to be, Miss. It wasn't to be. We must be humble and go back to the workhouse. I can see that it has been a hard fight. It has indeed, Miss. No one will ever know how hard. I shouldn't mind if it wasn't going to end by going back to where it started. They'll take him from me. I shall never see him while he's there. I wish I was dead, Miss. I can't bear my trouble no longer. You shan't go back to the workhouse so long as I can help you, Esther. I will give you the wages you ask for. It is more than I can afford, 18 pounds a year. But your child shall not be taken from you. You shall not go to the workhouse. There aren't many such good women in the world as you, Esther. Esther Waters by George Moore, Chapter 23 From the first, Miss. Rice was interested in her servant, and encouraged her confidences. But it was some time before either was able to put aside her natural reserve. They were not unlike quite instinctive English women, strong, warm natures, under an appearance of formality and reserve. The instincts of the watchdogs soon began to develop in Esther, and she extended her supervision of all the household expenses, likewise over her mistress' health. Now, Miss, I must have you take your soup while it's hot. You'd better put away your writing. You've been at it all the morning. You'll make yourself ill, and then I shall have the nursing of you. If Miss. Rice were going out in the evening, she would find herself stopped in the passage. Now, Miss, I really can't see you go out like that. You'll catch your death of cold. You must put on your warm cloak. Miss. Rice's friends were principally middle-aged ladies. Her sisters, large, stout women, used to come and see her, and there was a fashionably dressed young man, whom her mistress seemed to like very much. Mr. Alden was his name, and Miss. Rice told Esther that he too wrote novels. They used to talk about each other's books for hours, and Esther feared that Miss. Rice was giving her heart away to one who did not care for her. But perhaps she was satisfied to see Mr. Alden once a week and talk for an hour with him about books. Esther didn't think she'd care if she had a young man to see him come and go like a shadow. But she hadn't a young man, and did not want one. All she now wanted was to awake in the morning and know that her child was safe. Her ambition was to make her mistress's life comfortable, and for more than a year she pursued her plan of life unswervingly. She declined an offer of marriage and was rarely persuaded into a promise to walk out with any of her admirers. One of these was a stationer's foreman, and almost every day Esther went to the stationers for the sermon paper on which her mistress wrote her novels, for blotting paper, for stamps, to post letters, that shopcedoned the center of their lives. Fred Parsons, that was his name, was a meager little man about thirty-five. A high and prominent forehead rose above a small pointed face, and a scantic growth of blonde beard and moustache did not conceal the receding chin, nor the red-ceiling wax lips. His faded yellow hair was beginning to grow thin, and his threadbare frock coat hung limp from sloping shoulders. But these disadvantages were compensated by a clear bell-like voice into which no trace of doubt ever seemed to come, and his mind was neatly packed with a few religious and political ideas. He had been in business in the West End, but uncontrollable desire to ask every customer who entered into conversation with him, if he was sure that he believed in the second coming of Christ had been the cause of severance between him and his employers. He had been at West Kensington a fortnight, had served Esther once with sermon paper, and had already begun to wonder what were her religious beliefs, but bearing in mind his recent dismissal, he refrained for the present. At the end of the week, they were alone in the shop. Esther had come for a packet of note paper. Fred was sorry she had not come for sermon paper. If she had, it would have been easier to inquire her opinions regarding the second coming, but the opportunity such as it was was not to be resisted. He said, Your mistress seems to use a great deal of paper. It was only a day or two ago that I served you with four quires. That was for her books, what she now wants is note paper. So your mistress writes books. Yes? I hope they are good books, books that are helpful. He paused to see that no one was within earshot, books that bring sinners back to the Lord. I don't know what she writes. I only know she writes books. I think I've heard she writes novels. Fred did not approve of novels. Esther could see that, and she was sorry, for he seemed a nice, clear-spoken young man, and she would have liked to tell him that her mistress was the last person who would write anything that could do harm to anyone. But her mistress was waiting for her paper, and she took leave of him hastily. The next time they met was in the evening. She was going to see if she could get some fresh eggs for her mistress' breakfast before the shops closed, and coming towards her, walking at a great pace, she saw one whom she thought she recognized, a meager little man with long reddish hair curling under the brim of a large, soft black hat. He nodded, smiling pleasantly, as he passed her. Lord, she thought, I didn't know him. It's the stationer's foreman. And the very next evening they met in the same street. She was out for a little walk. He was hurrying to catch his train. They stopped to pass the time of day, and three days after they met at the same time, and as nearly as possible at the same place. We're always meeting, he said. Yes, isn't it strange? You come this way from business, she said. Yes, about eight o'clock is my time. It was the end of August. The stars caught fire slowly in the murky London sunset, and vaguely conscious of a feeling of surprise at the pleasure they took in each other's company, they wandered round a little bleak square in which a few shrubs had just been planted. They took up the conversation exactly at the point where he had been broken off. I am sorry, Fred said, that the paper isn't going to be put to better use. You don't know, my mistress, or you wouldn't say that. Perhaps you don't know that novels are very often stories about the loves of men for other men's wives. Such books can serve no good purpose. I'm sure my mistress don't write about such things. How could she, poor, dear, innocent lamb? It is easy to see you don't know her. In the course of their argument, it inspired that Miss Rice went to neither church nor chapel. Fred was much shocked. I hope, he said, you do not follow your mistress's example. Esther admitted she had for some time past neglected her religion. Fred went so far as to suggest that she ought to leave her present situation and enter a truly religious family. I owe her too much ever to think of leaving her, and it has nothing to do with her if I haven't thought as much about the Lord as I ought to have. It's the first place I've been in where there was time for religion. This answer seemed to satisfy Fred. Where used you to go? My people, father and mother, belong to the brethren. To the close or to the open? I don't remember. I was only a little child at the time. I'm a Plymouth brother. Well, that is strange. Remember that it is only through belief in our Lord in the sacrifice of the cross that we can be saved. Yes, I believe that. The Avavals seem to have brought them strangely near to each other, and on the following Sunday Fred took Esther to meeting and introduced her as one who had strayed, but who had never ceased to be one of them. She had not been to meeting since she was a little child, and the bare room and the bare dogma in such immediate accordance with their own nature. Were they not associated with memories of home, of father and mother, of all that had gone? Touched her with a human delight that seemed to reach to the roots of our nature. It was Fred who preached, and he spoke of the second coming of Christ, when the faithful would be carried away in clouds of glory, of the wrapping and carnage to which the world would be delivered up before final absorption in the everlasting hell. And a sensation of dreadful av, passed over the listening faces. A young girl who sat with closed eyes put out her hand to assure herself that Esther was still there, that she had not been carried away in glory. As they walked home, Esther told Fred that she had not been so happy for a long time. He pressed her hand and thanked her with a look in which appeared all his soul. She was his for ever and ever. Nothing could fully disassociate them. He had saved her soul. His exaltation moved her to wonder, but her own innate face, though incapable of these exaltations, had supported her during many a troubler's year. Fred would want her to come to meeting with him next Sunday, and she was going to Dalwich. Sooner or later he would find out that she had a child. Then she would see him no more. It were better that she should tell him than that he should hear it from others. But she felt she could not bear the humiliation, the shame, and she wished they had never met. That child came between her and every possible happiness. It were better to break off with Fred. But what excuse could she give? Everything went wrong with her. He might ask her to marry him. Then she would have to tell him. Towards the end of the week she heard someone tap at the window. It was Fred. He asked her why he had not seen her. She answered that she had not had time. Can you come out this evening? Yes, if you like. She put on her hat and they went out. Neither spoke, but their feet took instinctively the payment that led to the little square where they had walked the first time they went out together. I've been thinking of you a good deal, Esther, in the last few days. I want to ask you to marry me. Esther did not answer. Well, you, he said. I can't. I'm very sorry. Don't ask me. Why can't you? If I told you I don't think you'd want to marry me, I suppose I'd better tell you. I am not the good woman you think me. I've got a child. There you have it now, and you can take your hook when you like. It was her blunt, sullen nature that had spoken. She didn't care if he had left her on the spot. Now he knew all and could do as he liked. At last he said, But you've repented, Esther. I should think I had, and been punished too, enough for a dozen children. And then it wasn't lately? Lately? It's nearly eight years ago. And all that time you've been a good woman? Yes, I think I've been that. Then if? I don't want no ifs. If I am not good enough for you, you can go elsewhere and get better. I've had enough of reproaches. I did not mean to reproach you. I know that a woman's path is more difficult to walk in than ours. It may not be a woman's fault if she falls, but it is always a man's. He can always fly from temptation. Yet there isn't a man that can say he hasn't gone wrong. No, not at all, Esther. Esther looked him full in the face. I understand what you mean, Esther, but I can honestly say that I never have. Esther did not like him any better for his purity, and was irritated by the clear tones of his icy voice. But that is no reason why I should be hard on those who have not been so fortunate. I didn't mean to reproach you just now, Esther. I only meant to say that I wish you had told me this before I took you to meeting. So you're ashamed of me, is that it? Well, you can keep your shame to yourself. No, not that, Esther. Then you'd like to see me humiliated before the others, as if I haven't had enough of that already. No, Esther, listen to me. Those who transgress the moral law may not kneel at the table for a time, until they have repented. But those who believe in the sacrifice of the cross are acquitted, and I believe you do that. Yes, a sinner that repented. I will speak about this at our next meeting. You will come with me there? Next Sunday I'm going to Dulwich to see the child. Can't you go after the meeting? No, I can't be out mourning an afternoon both. May I go with you? To Dulwich? You won't go until after meeting. I can meet you at the railway station, if you like. As they walked home, Esther told Fred the story of her betrayal. He was interested in the story, and was very sorry for her. I love you, Esther. It is easy to forgive those we love. You're very good. I never thought to find a man so good. She looked up in his face, her hand was on the gate, and in that moment she felt that she almost loved him. End of chapter 23, read by Lars Rolander, chapter 24 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 24 Mrs. Humphrys, an elderly person who looked after a bachelor's establishment two doors up, and generally slipped in about tea time, soon began to speak of Fred as a very nice young man who would be likely to make a woman happy. But Esther moved about the kitchen in her taciturn way, hardly answering. Suddenly she told Mrs. Humphrys that she had been to Dulwich with him, and that it was wonderful how he and Jackie had taken to one another. Yo, don't say so. Well, it's nice to find them religious folks less hard-hearted than they get the name of. Mrs. Humphrys was of the opinion that henceforth Esther should give herself out as Jackie's aunt. None believes them stories, but they make one say more respectable, like, and I'm sure Mr. Parsons will appreciate the intention. Esther did not answer, but she thought of what Mrs. Humphrys had said. Perhaps it would be better if Jackie were to leave off calling her mummy. Aunty? But no, she could not bear it. Fred must take her as she was, or not at all. They seemed to understand each other. He was earning good money, thirty shillings a week, and she was now going on for eight and twenty. If she was ever going to be married, it was time to think about it. I don't know how that dear soul will get on without me, she said one October morning, as they jogged out of London by a slow train from St. Paul's. Fred was taking her into Kent to see his people. How do you expect me to get on without you, Esther laughed? Trust you to manage somehow. There ain't much fear of a man not looking after his little son. But the old folk will want to know when. What shall I tell them? This time next year, that'll be soon enough. Perhaps you'll get tired of me before then. Cynex spring, Esther, the train stopped. There's father waiting for us in the spring cart. Father, he don't hear us. He's gone a bit deaf of late years. Father, ah, so here you are. Train late. This is Esther, father. They were going to spend the day at the farmhouse, and she was going to be introduced to Fred's sisters and to his brother. But these did not concern her much. Her thoughts were set on Mrs. Parsons, for Fred had spoken a great deal about his mother. When she had been told about Jackie, she was of course very sorry, but when she had heard the whole of Esther's story, she had said, We are all born into temptation, and if your Esther has really repented and prayed to be forgiven, we must not say no to her. Nevertheless, Esther was not quite easy in her mind, and half regretted that she had consented to see Fred's people until he had made her his wife. But it was too late to think of such things. There was the farmhouse. Fred had just pointed it out, and, senting his stable, the old gray ascended the hill at a trot, and Esther wondered what the farmhouse would be like. All the summer they had had a fine show of flowers, Fred said. Now only a few Mikkelma stasis withered in the garden, and the Virginia creeper covered one side of the house with a crimson mantle. The old man said he would take the trap ground to the stable. And Fred walked up to the red brick pavement and lifted the latch. As they passed through the kitchen, Fred introduced Esther to his two sisters, Mary and Lily, but they were busy cooking. Mother is in the parlor, said Mary. She's waiting for you. By the window in a white wooden armchair, sat a large woman about sixty, dressed in black. She wore on either side of her long white face two corkscrew curls, which gave her somewhat ridiculous appearance. But she ceased to be ridiculous or grotesque when she rose from her chair to greet her son. Her face beamed, and she held out her hands in a beautiful gesture of welcome. Oh, how do you do, dear Fred? I'm that glad to see you. How good of you to come all this way. Come and sit down here. Mother, this is Esther. How do you do, Esther? It was good of you to come. I'm glad to see you. Let me get you a chair. Take off your things, dear. Come and sit down. She insisted on relieving Esther over hat and jacket, and having laid them on the sofa, she waddled across the room, drawing over two chairs. Come and sit down. You tell me everything. I can't get about much now, but I like to have my children round me. Take this chair, Esther, then turn into Fred. Tell me, Fred, how you've been getting on. Are you still living at Hackney? Yes, Mother, but when we are married, we're going to have a cottage at Mortley. Esther will like it better than Hackney. It is nearer the country. Then you've not forgotten the country. Mortley is on the river, I think. I hope you won't find it too damp. No, Mother, there are some nice cottages there. I think we shall find that Mortley suits us. There are many friends there, more than fifty meet together every Sunday, and there's a lot of political work to be done there. I know that you are against politics, but men can't stand aside nowadays. Times change, Mother. So long as we have God in our hearts, my dear boy, all that we do is well, but you must want something after your journey. Fred, dear, knock at that door. Your sister Clara's dressing there. Tell her to make haste. All right, Mother, cried a voice from behind the partition, which separated the rooms. And a moment after the door opened, and a young woman about thirty entered. She was better looking than the other sisters, and the fashion of her skirt, and the world in manner with which she kissed her brother and gave her hand to Esther, marked her off at once from the rest of the family. She was four women in a large millinery establishment. She spent Saturday afternoon and Sunday at the farm, but today she had got away earlier, and with a view to impressing Esther, she explained how this had come about. Mrs. Parsons suggested a glass of current wine, and Lily came in with a tray and glasses. Clara said she was starving. Mary said she would have to wait, and Lily whispered, in about half an hour. After dinner the old man said that they must be getting on with their work in the orchard. Esther said she would be glad to help, but as she was about to follow the others, Mrs. Parsons detained her. You don't mind staying with me a few minutes, do you, dear? I shan't keep you long. She drew over a chair for Esther. I shan't perhaps see you again for some time. I am getting an old woman, and the Lord may be pleased to take me at any moment. I wanted to tell you, dear, that I put my trust in you. You will make a good wife to Fred, I feel sure, and he will make a good father to your child, and if God blesses you with other children, he'll treat your first no different than the others. He's told me so, and my Fred is a man of his word. You were led into sin, but you've repented. We was all born into temptation, and we must trust to the Lord to lead us out, lest we should dash our foot against a stone. I was to blame, I don't say I wasn't, but we don't say no more about that. We're all sinners the best of us. You're going to be my son's wife, you're there for my daughter, and this house is your home, whenever you please to come to see us, and I hope that that will be often. I like to have my children about me. I can't get about much now, so they must come to me. It is very sad not to be able to go to meeting. I've not been to meeting since Christmas, but I can see them going there from the kitchen window, and how happy they look coming back from prayer. It is easy to see that they have been with God. The salvationists come this way sometimes. They stopped in the lane to sing. I could not hear the words, but I could see by their faces that they was with God. Now I've told you all that was on my mind. I must not keep you. Fred is waiting. Esther kissed the old woman, and went into the orchard, when she found Fred on a ladder shaking the branches. He came down when he saw Esther, and Harry, his brother, took his place. Esther and Fred filled one basket. Then, dealing to a mutual inclination, they wandered about the orchard, stopping on the little plank bridge. They hardly spoke at all. Words seemed unnecessary. Each felt happiness to be in the other's presence. They heard the water trickling through the weeds, and as the light waned, the sound of the falling apples grew more distinct. Then a breeze shivered among the tops of the apple trees, and the seared leaves were blown from the branches. The voices of the gatherers were heard crying that their baskets were full. They crossed the plank bridge, doking the lovers as to decide to let them pass. When they entered the house, they saw the old farmer, who had slipped in before them, sitting by his wife holding her hand, patting it in a curious old time way. And the attitude of the old couple was so pregnant with significance that it fixed itself on Esther's mind. It seemed to her that she had never seen anything so beautiful, so they had lived for forty years faithful to each other, and she wondered if Fred, forty years hence, would be sitting by her side holding her hand. The old man lighted a lantern and went round to the stable to get a trap out. Driving through the dark country, seeing village lights shining out of the distant solitudes, was a thrilling adventure. A peasant came like a ghost out of the darkness. He stepped aside and called good night, which the old farmer answered somewhat gruffly, while Fred answered in a ringing cheery tone. Never had Esther spent so long and happy a day. Everything had combined to produce a strange exultation of the spirit in her, and she listened to Fred more tenderly than she had done before. The train rattled on through suburbs beginning far away in the country, rattled on through suburbs that thickened at every mile, rattled on through a brick entanglement, rattled over iron bridges, passed over deep streets, over endless lines of lights. He bade her goodbye at the area gate, and she had promised him that they should be married in the spring. He had gone away with a light heart, and she had run upstairs to tell her dear mysteries with a happy day which her kindness had allowed her to spend in the country. And Mistress had laid the book she was reading on her knees, and had listened to Esther's pleasures as if they had been her own.