by George Moore
“Well, it all amounts to this, Esther; if I get a divorce we might come together again. What do you think?”
“I think you’d much better make it up with her. I daresay she’s very sorry for what she’s done.”
“That’s all rot, Esther. She ain’t sorry, and wouldn’t live with me no more than I with her. We could not get on; what’s the use? You’d better let bygones be bygones. You know what I mean — marry me.”
“I don’t think I could do that.”
“You like some other chap. You like some chap, and don’t want me interfering in your life. That’s why you wants me to go back and live with my wife. You don’t think of what I’ve gone through with her already.”
“You’ve not been through half of what I have. I’ll be bound that you never wanted a dinner. I have.”
“Esther, think of the child.”
“You’re a nice one to tell me to think of the child, I who worked and slaved for him all these years.”
“Then I’m to take no for an answer?”
“I don’t want to have nothing to do with you.”
“And you won’t let me see the child?”
A moment later Esther answered, “You can see the child, if you like.”
“Where is he?”
“You can come with me to see him next Sunday, if you like. Now let me go in.”
“What time shall I come for you?”
“About three — a little after.”
XXVI
WILLIAM WAS WAITING for her in the area; and while pinning on her hat she thought of what she should say, and how she should act. Should she tell him that she wanted to marry Fred? Then the long black pin that was to hold her hat to her hair went through the straw with a little sharp sound, and she decided that when the time came she would know what to say.
As he stepped aside to let her go up the area steps, she noticed how beautifully dressed he was. He wore a pair of grey trousers, and in his spick and span morning coat there was a bunch of carnations.
They walked some half-dozen yards up the street in silence.
“But why do you want to see the boy? You never thought of him all these years.”
“I’ll tell you, Esther…. But it is nice to be walking out with you again. If you’d only let bygones be bygones we might settle down together yet. What do you think?”
She did not answer, and he continued, “It do seem strange to be walking out with you again, meeting you after all these years, and I’m never in your neighbourhood. I just happened to have a bit of business with a friend who lives your way, and was coming along from his ‘ouse, turning over in my mind what he had told me about Rising Sun for the Stewards’ Cup, when I saw you coming along with the jug in your ‘and. I said, ‘That’s the prettiest girl I’ve seen this many a day; that’s the sort of girl I’d like to see behind the bar of the “King’s Head.”’ You always keeps your figure — you know you ain’t a bit changed; and when I caught sight of those white teeth I said, ‘Lor’, why, it’s Esther.’”
“I thought it was about the child you was going to speak to me.”
“So I am, but you came first in my estimation. The moment I looked into your eyes I felt it had been a mistake all along, and that you was the only one I had cared about.”
“Then all about wanting to see the child was a pack of lies?”
“No, they weren’t lies. I wanted both mother and child — if I could get ’em, ye know. I’m telling you the unvarnished truth, Esther. I thought of the child as a way of getting you back; but little by little I began to take an interest in him, to wonder what he was like, and with thoughts of the boy came different thoughts of you, Esther, who is the mother of my boy. Then I wanted you both back; and I’ve thought of nothing else ever since.”
At that moment they reached the Metropolitan Railway, and William pressed forward to get the tickets. A subterraneous rumbling was heard, and they ran down the steps as fast as they could, and seeing them so near the ticket-collector held the door open for them, and just as the train was moving from the platform William pushed Esther into a second-class compartment.
“We’re in the wrong class,” she cried.
“No, we ain’t; get in, get in,” he shouted. And with the guard crying to him to desist, he hopped in after her, saying, “You very nearly made me miss the train. What ‘ud you’ve done if the train had taken you away and left me behind?”
The remark was not altogether a happy one.
“Then you travel second-class?” Esther said.
“Yes, I always travel second-class now; Peggy never would, but second seems to me quite good enough. I don’t care about third, unless one is with a lot of pals, and can keep the carriage to ourselves. That’s the way we manage it when we go down to Newmarket or Doncaster.”
They were alone in the compartment. William leaned forward and took her hand.
“Try to forgive me, Esther.”
She drew her hand away; he got up, and sat down beside her, and put his arm around her waist.
“No, no. I’ll have none of that. All that sort of thing is over between us.”
He looked at her inquisitively, not knowing how to act.
“I know you’ve had a hard time, Esther. Tell me about it. What did you do when you left Woodview?” He unfortunately added, “Did you ever meet any one since that you cared for?”
The question irritated her, and she said, “It don’t matter to you who I met or what I went through.”
The conversation paused. William spoke about the Barfields, and Esther could not but listen to the tale of what had happened at Woodview during the last eight years.
Woodview had been all her unhappiness and all her misfortune. She had gone there when the sap of life was flowing fastest in her, and Woodview had become the most precise and distinct vision she had gathered from life. She remembered that wholesome and ample country house, with its park and its down lands, and the valley farm, sheltered by the long lines of elms. She remembered the race-horses, their slight forms showing under the grey clothing, the round black eyes looking out through the eyelet holes in the hanging hoods, the odd little boys astride — a string of six or seven passing always before the kitchen windows, going through the paddock gate under the bunched evergreens. She remembered the rejoicings when the horse won at Goodwood, and the ball at the Shoreham Gardens. Woodview had meant too much in her life to be forgotten; its hillside and its people were drawn out in sharp outline on her mind. Something in William’s voice recalled her from her reverie, and she heard him say —
“The poor Gaffer, ’e never got over it; it regular broke ’im up. I forgot to tell you, it was Ginger who was riding. It appears that he did all he knew; he lost start, he tried to get shut in, but it warn’t no go, luck was against them; the ‘orse was full of running, and, of course, he couldn’t sit down and saw his blooming ‘ead off, right in th’ middle of the course, with Sir Thomas’s (that’s the ‘andicapper) field-glasses on him. He’d have been warned off the blooming ‘eath, and he couldn’t afford that, even to save his own father. The ‘orse won in a canter: they clapped eight stun on him for the Cambridgeshire. It broke the Gaffer’s ‘eart. He had to sell off his ‘orses, and he died soon after the sale. He died of consumption. It generally takes them off earlier; but they say it is in the family. Miss May — —”
“Oh, tell me about her,” said Esther, who had been thinking all the while of Mrs. Barfield and of Miss Mary. “Tell me, there’s nothing the matter with Miss Mary?”
“Yes, there is: she can’t live no more in England; she has to go to winter, I think it is, in Algeria.”
At that moment the train screeched along the rails, and vibrating under the force of the brakes, it passed out of the tunnel into Blackfriars.
“We shall just be able to catch the ten minutes past four to Peckham,” she said, and they ran up the high steps. William strode along so fast that Esther was obliged to cry out, “There’s no use, William; train or no tr
ain, I can’t walk at that rate.”
There was just time for them to get their tickets at Ludgate Hill. They were in a carriage by themselves, and he proposed to draw up the windows so that they might be able to talk more easily. He was interested in the ill-luck that had attended certain horses, and Esther wanted to hear about Mrs. Barfield.
“You seem to be very fond of her; what did she do for you?”
“Everything — that was after you went away. She was kind.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said William.
“So they spends the summer at Woodview and goes to foreign parts for the winter?”
“Yes, that’s it. Most of the estate was sold; but Mrs. Barfield, the Saint — you remember we used to call her the Saint — well, she has her fortune, about five hundred a year, and they just manage to live there in a sort of hole-and-corner sort of way. They can’t afford to keep a trap, and towards the end of October they go off and don’t return till the beginning of May. Woodview ain’t what it was. You remember the stables they were putting up when Silver Braid won the two cups? Well, they are just as when you last saw them — rafters and walls.”
“Racing don’t seem to bring no luck to any one. It ain’t my affair, but if I was you I’d give it up and get to some honest work.”
“Racing has been a good friend to me. I don’t know where I should be without it to-day.”
“So all the servants have left Woodview? I wonder what has become of them.”
“You remember my mother, the cook? She died a couple of years ago.”
“Mrs. Latch! Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“She was an old woman. You remember John Randal, the butler? He’s in a situation in Cumberland Place, near the Marble Arch. He sometimes comes round and has a glass in the ‘King’s Head.’ Sarah Tucker — she’s in a situation somewhere in town. I don’t know what has become of Margaret Gale.”
“I met her one day in the Strand. I’d had nothing to eat all day. I was almost fainting, and she took me into a public-house and gave me a sausage.”
The train began to slacken speed, and William said, “This is Peckham.”
They handed up their tickets, and passed into the air of an irregular little street — low disjointed shops and houses, where the tramcars tinkled through a slacker tide of humanity than the Londoners were accustomed to.
“This way,” said Esther. “This is the way to the Rye.”
“Then Jackie lives at the Rye?”
“Not far from the Rye. Do you know East Dulwich?”
“No, I never was here before.”
“Mrs. Lewis (that’s the woman who looks after him) lives at East Dulwich, but it ain’t very far. I always gets out here. I suppose you don’t mind a quarter of an hour’s walk.”
“Not when I’m with you,” William replied gallantly, and he followed her through the passers-by.
The Rye opened up like a large park, beginning in the town and wending far away into a country prospect. At the Peckham end there were a dozen handsome trees, and under them a piece of artificial water where boys were sailing toy boats, and a poodle was swimming. Two old ladies in black came out of a garden full of hollyhocks; they walked towards a seat and sat down in the autumn landscape. And as William and Esther pursued their way the Rye seemed to grow longer and longer. It opened up into a vast expanse full of the last days of cricket; it was charming with slender trees and a Japanese pavilion quaintly placed on a little mound. An upland background in gradations, interspaced with villas, terraces, and gardens, and steep hillside, showing fields and hayricks, brought the Rye to a picturesque and abrupt end.
“But it ain’t nearly so big as Chester race-course. A regular cockpit of a place is the Chester course; and not every horse can get round it.”
Turning to the right and leaving the Rye behind them, they ascended a long, monotonous, and very ugly road composed of artificial little houses, each set in a portion of very metallic garden. These continued all the way to the top of a long hill, straggling into a piece of waste ground where there were some trees and a few rough cottages. A little boy came running towards them, stumbling over the cinder heaps and the tin canisters with which the place was strewn, and William felt that that child was his.
“That child will break ’is blooming little neck if ’e don’t take care,” he remarked tentatively.
She hated him to see the child, and to assert her complete ownership she clasped Jackie to her bosom without a word of explanation, and she questioned the child on matters about which William knew nothing.
William stood looking tenderly on his son, waiting for Esther to introduce them. Mother and child were both so glad in each other that they forgot the fine gentleman standing by. Suddenly the boy looked towards his father, and she repented a little of her cruelty.
“Jackie,” she said, “do you know who this gentleman is who has come to see you?”
“No, I don’t.”
She did not care that Jackie should love his father, and yet she could not help feeling sorry for William.
“I’m your father,” said William.
“No, you ain’t. I ain’t got no father.”
“How do you know, Jackie?”
“Father died before I was born; mother told me.”
“But mother may be mistaken.”
“If my father hadn’t died before I was born he’d ‘ve been to see us before this. Come, mother, come to tea. Mrs. Lewis ‘as got hot cakes, and they’ll be burnt if we stand talking.”
“Yes, dear, but what the gentleman says is quite true; he is your father.”
Jackie made no answer, and Esther said, “I told you your father was dead, but I was mistaken.”
“Won’t you come and walk with me?” said William.
“No, thank you; I like to walk with mother.”
“He’s always like that with strangers,” said Esther; “it is shyness; but he’ll come and talk to you presently, if you leave him alone.”
Each cottage had a rough piece of garden, the yellow crowns of sunflowers showed over the broken palings, and Mrs. Lewis’s large face came into the windowpane. A moment later she was at the front door welcoming her visitors. The affection of her welcome was checked when she saw that William was with Esther, and she drew aside respectfully to let this fine gentleman pass. When they were in the kitchen Esther said ——
“This is Jackie’s father.”
“What, never! I thought — but I’m sure we’re very glad to see you.” Then noticing the fine gold chain that hung across his waistcoat, the cut of his clothes, and the air of money which his whole bearing seemed to represent, she became a little obsequious in her welcome.
“I’m sure, sir, we’re very glad to see you. Won’t you sit down?” and dusting a chair with her apron, she handed it to him. Then turning to Esther, she said —
“Sit yourself down, dear; tea’ll be ready in a moment.” She was one of those women who, although their apron-strings are a good yard in length, preserve a strange agility of movement and a pleasant vivacity of speech. “I ‘ope, sir, we’ve brought ’im up to your satisfaction; we’ve done the best we could. He’s a dear boy. There’s been a bit of jealousy between us on his account, but for all that we ‘aven’t spoilt him. I don’t want to praise him, but he’s as well behaved a boy as I knows of. Maybe a bit wilful, but there ain’t much fault to find with him, and I ought to know, for it is I that ‘ad the bringing up of him since he was a baby of two months old. Jackie, dear, why don’t you go to your father?”
He stood by his mother’s chair, twisting his slight legs in a manner that was peculiar to him. His dark hair fell in thick, heavy locks over his small face, and from under the shadow of his locks his great luminous eyes glanced furtively at his father. Mrs. Lewis told him to take his finger out of his mouth, and thus encouraged he went towards William, still twisting his legs and looking curiously dejected. He did not speak for some time, but he allowed William to put his arm round him and draw him
against his knees. Then fixing his eyes on the toes of his shoes he said somewhat abruptly, but confidentially —
“Are you really my father? No humbug, you know,” he added, raising his eyes, and for a moment looking William searchingly in the face.
“I’m not humbugging, Jack. I’m your father right enough. Don’t you like me? But I think you said you didn’t want to have a father?”
Jackie did not answer this question. After a moment’s reflection, he said, “If you be father, why didn’t you come to see us before?”
William glanced at Esther, who, in her turn, glanced at Mrs. Lewis.
“I’m afraid that’s rather a long story, Jackie. I was away in foreign parts.”
Jackie looked as if he would like to hear about “foreign parts,” and William awaited the question that seemed to tremble on the child’s lips. But, instead, he turned suddenly to Mrs. Lewis and said —
“The cakes aren’t burnt, are they? I ran as fast as I could the moment I saw them coming.”
The childish abruptness of the transition made them laugh, and an unpleasant moment passed away. Mrs. Lewis took the plate of cakes from the fender and poured out their tea. The door and window were open, and the dying light lent a tenderness to the tea table, to the quiet solicitude of the mother watching her son, knowing him in all his intimate habits; to the eager curiosity of the father on the other side, leaning forward delighted at every look and word, thinking it all astonishing, wonderful. Jackie sat between the women. He seemed to understand that his chance of eating as many tea-cakes as he pleased had come, and he ate with his eyes fixed on the plate, considering which piece he would have when he had finished the piece he had in his hand. Little was said — a few remarks about the fine weather, and offers to put out another cup of tea. By their silence Mrs. Lewis began to understand that they had differences to settle, and that she had better leave them. She took her shawl from the peg, and pleaded that she had an appointment with a neighbour. But she wouldn’t be more than half-an-hour; would they look after the house till her return? And William watched her, thinking of what he would say when she was out of hearing. “That boy of ours is a dear little fellow; you’ve been a good mother, I can see that. If I had only known.”