Chapter 16

Fred Parsons--that was his name--was a meagre little man about thirty-five. A high and prominent forehead rose above a small pointed face, and a scanty growth of blonde beard and moustache did not conceal the receding chin nor the red sealing-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 an uncontrollable desire to ask every customer who entered into conversation with him if he were 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're 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's breakfast before the shops closed, and coming towards her, walking at a great pace, she saw one whom she thought she recognised, a meagre little man with long reddish hair curling under the brim of a large soft black hat. He nodded, smiling pleasantly as he passed her.

"Lor'," 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 it had been broken off.

"I'm 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 transpired 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--belonged to the Brethren."

"To the Close or 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 avowal seemed 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 bare dogma, in such immediate accordance with her 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 her 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 rapine and carnage to which the world would be delivered up before final absorption in everlasting hell; and a sensation of dreadful awe 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 wholly disassociate them; he had saved her soul. His exaltation moved her to wonder. But her own innate faith, though incapable of these exaltations, had supported her during many a troublous year. Fred would want her to come to meeting with him next Sunday, and she was going to Dulwich. 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 some one 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 pavement 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.

"Will 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'm 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 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."

"Ah, then it wasn't lately?"

"Lately! It's nearly eight year 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 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 repenteth----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 meeting?"

"No, I can't be out morning and 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.

XXIV

Mrs. Humphries, 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. Humphries that she had been to Dulwich with him, and that it was wonderful how he and Jackie had taken to one another.

"You don't say so! Well, it is nice to find them religious folks less 'ard-'earted than they gets the name of."

Mrs. Humphries was of the opinion that henceforth Esther should give herself out as Jackie's aunt. "None believes them stories, but they make one seem more respectable like, and I am sure Mr. Parsons will appreciate the intention." Esther did not answer, but she thought of what Mrs. Humphries had said. Perhaps it would be better if Jackie were to leave off calling her Mummie. Auntie! 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 self."

"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."

"Say next 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 farm-house, 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 farm-house. Fred had just pointed it out, and scenting his stable, the old grey ascended the hill at a trot, and Esther wondered what the farm-house would be like. All the summer they had had a fine show of flowers, Fred said. Now only a few Michaelmas daisies 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 round to the stable, and Fred walked up the red-bricked 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 parlour," said Mary; "she is waiting for you." By the window, in a wide wooden arm-chair, 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 a 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 am 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 am glad to see you. Let me get you a chair. Take off your things, dear; come and sit down."

She insisted on relieving Esther of her hat and jacket, and, having laid them on the sofa, she waddled across the room, drawing over two chairs.

"Come and sit down; you'll tell me everything. I can't get about much now, but I like to have my children round me. Take this chair, Esther." Then turning to Fred, "Tell me, Fred, how you've been getting on. Are you still living at Hackney?"

"Yes, mother; but when we're married we're going to have a cottage at Mortlake. Esther will like it better than Hackney. It is nearer the country."

"Then you've not forgotten the country. Mortlake 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 Mortlake 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're 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 worldly 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 forewoman in a large millinery establishment. She spent Saturday afternoon and Sunday at the farm, but to-day she had got away earlier, and with the view to impressing Esther, she explained how this had come about.

Mrs. Parsons suggested a glass of currant 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 won'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 therefore 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 'appy 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, where 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, yielding 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 sered leaves were blown from the branches. The voices of the gatherers were heard crying that their baskets were full. They crossed the plank bridge, joking the lovers, who stood aside 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 exaltation 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 good-bye 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 mistress of the happy day which her kindness had allowed her to spend in the country. And Miss Rice had laid the book she was reading on her knees, and had listened to Esther's pleasures as if they had been her own.

XXV

But when the spring came Esther put Fred off till the autumn, pleading as an excuse that Miss Rice had not been very well lately, and that she did not like to leave her.

It was one of those long and pallid evenings at the end of July, when the sky seems as if it could not darken. The roadway was very still in its dust and heat, and Esther, her print dress trailing, watched a poor horse striving to pull a four-wheeler through the loose heavy gravel that had just been laid down. So absorbed was she in her pity for the poor animal that she did not see the gaunt, broad-shouldered man coming towards her, looking very long-legged in a pair of light grey trousers and a black jacket a little too short for him. He walked with long, even strides, a small cane in one hand, the other in his trousers pocket; a heavy gold chain showed across his waistcoat. He wore a round hat and a red necktie. The side whiskers and the shaven upper lip gave him the appearance of a gentleman's valet. He did not notice Esther, but a sudden step taken sideways as she lingered, her eyes fixed on the cab-horse, brought her nearly into collision with him.

"Do look where you are going to," he exclaimed, jumping back to avoid the beer-jug, which fell to the ground. "What, Esther, is it you?"

"There, you have made me drop the beer."

"Plenty more in the public; I'll get you another jug."

"It is very kind of you. I can get what I want myself."

They looked at each other, and at the end of a long silence William said: "Just fancy meeting you, and in this way! Well I never! I am glad to see you again."

"Are you really! Well, so much for that--your way and mine aren't the same. I wish you good evening."

"Stop a moment, Esther."

"And my mistress waiting for her dinner. I've to go and get some more beer."

"Shall I wait for you?"

"Wait for me! I should think not, indeed."

Esther ran down the area steps. Her hand paused as it was about to lift the jug down from the dresser, and a number of thoughts fled across her mind. That man would be waiting for her outside. What was she to do? How unfortunate! If he continued to come after her he and Fred would be sure to meet.

"What are you waiting for, I should like to know?" she cried, as she came up the steps.

"That's 'ardly civil, Esther, and after so many years too; one would think--"

"I want none of your thinking; get out of my sight. Do you 'ear? I want no truck with you whatever. Haven't you done me enough mischief already?"

"Be quiet; listen to me. I'll explain."

"I don't want none of your explanation. Go away."

Her whole nature was now in full revolt, and quick with passionate remembrance of the injustice that had been done her, she drew back from him, her eyes flashing. Perhaps it was some passing remembrance of the breakage of the first beer-jug that prevented her from striking him with the second. The spasm passed, and then her rage, instead of venting itself in violent action, assumed the form of dogged silence. He followed her up the street, and into the bar. She handed the jug across the counter, and while the barman filled it searched in her pocket for the money. She had brought none with her. William promptly produced sixpence. Esther answered him with a quick, angry glance, and addressing the barman, she said, "I'll pay you to-morrow; that'll do, I suppose? 41 Avondale Road."

"That will be all right, but what am I to do with this sixpence?"

"I know nothing about that," Esther said, picking up her skirt; "I'll pay you for what I have had."