Esther Waters Part 68

"It's no trouble; I should like some myself. The fire's out in the kitchen. We can boil the kettle here."

They went through the baize door into the long pa.s.sage. Mrs. Barfield told Esther where was the pantry, the kitchen, and the larder. Esther answered that she remembered quite well, and it seemed to her not a little strange that she should know these things. Mrs. Barfield said--

"So you haven't forgotten Woodview, Esther?"

"No, ma'am. It seems like yesterday.... But I'm afraid the damp has got into the kitchen, ma'am, the range is that neglected----"

"Ah, Woodview isn't what it was."

Mrs. Barfield told how she had buried her husband in the old village church. She had taken her daughter to Egypt; she had dwindled there till there was little more than a skeleton to lay in the grave.

"Yes, ma'am, I know how it takes them, inch by inch. My husband died of consumption."

They sat talking for hours. One thing led to another and Esther gradually told Mrs. Barfield the story of her life from the day they bade each other good-bye in the room they were now sitting in.

"It is quite a romance, Esther."

"It was a hard fight, and it isn't over yet, ma'am. It won't be over until I see him settled in some regular work. I hope I shall live to see him settled."

They sat over the fire a long time without speaking. Mrs. Barfield said--

"It must be getting on for bedtime."

"I suppose it must, ma'am."

She asked if she should sleep in the room she had once shared with Margaret Gale. Mrs. Barfield answered with a sigh that as all the bedrooms were empty Esther had better sleep in the room next to hers.

XLVI

Esther seemed to have quite naturally accepted Woodview as a final stage.

Any further change in her life she did not seem to regard as possible or desirable. One of these days her boy would get settled; he would come down now and again to see her. She did not want any more than that. No, she did not find the place lonely. A young girl might, but she was no longer a young girl; she had her work to do, and when it was done she was glad to sit down to rest.

And, dressed in long cloaks, the women went for walks together; sometimes they went up the hill, sometimes into Southwick to make some little purchases. On Sundays they walked to Beeding to attend meeting. And they came home along the winter roads, the peace and happiness of prayer upon their faces, holding their skirts out of the mud, unashamed of their common boots. They made no acquaintances, seeming to find in each other all necessary companionship. Their heads bent a little forward, they trudged home, talking of what they were in the habit of talking, that another tree had been blown down, that Jack was now earning good money--ten shillings a week. Esther hoped it would last. Or else Esther told her mistress that she had heard that one of Mr. Arthur's horses had won a race. He lived in the North of England, where he had a small training stable, and his mother never heard of him except through the sporting papers. "He hasn't been here for four years," Mrs. Barfield said; "he hates the place; he wouldn't care if I were to burn it down to-morrow.... However, I do the best I can, hoping that one day he'll marry and come and live here."

Mr. Arthur--that was how Mrs. Barfield and Esther spoke of him--did not draw any income from the estate. The rents only sufficed to pay the charges and the widow's jointure. All the land was let; the house he had tried to let, but it had been found impossible to find a tenant, unless Mr. Arthur would expend some considerable sum in putting the house and grounds into a state of proper repair. This he did not care to do; he said that he found race-horses a more profitable speculation. Besides, even the park had been let on lease; nothing remained to him but the house and lawn and garden; he could no longer gallop a horse on the hill without somebody's leave, so he didn't care what became of the place. His mother might go on living there, keeping things together as she called it; he did not mind what she did as long as she didn't bother him. So did he express himself regarding Woodview on the rare occasion of his visits, and when he troubled to answer his mother's letters. Mrs. Barfield, whose thoughts were limited to the estate, was pained by his indifference; she gradually ceased to consult him, and when Beeding was too far for her to walk she had the furniture removed from the drawing-room and a long deal table placed there instead. She had not asked herself if Arthur would object to her inviting a few brethren of the neighbourhood to her house for meeting, or publishing the meetings by notices posted on the lodge gate.

One day Mrs. Barfield and Esther were walking in the avenue, when, to their surprise, they saw Mr. Arthur open the white gate and come through.

The mother hastened forward to meet her son, but paused, dismayed by the anger that looked out of his eyes. He did not like the notices, and she was sorry that he was annoyed. She didn't think that he would mind them, and she hastened by his side, pleading her excuses. But to her great sorrow Arthur did not seem to be able to overcome his annoyance. He refused to listen, and continued his reproaches, saying the things that he knew would most pain her.

He did not care whether the trees stood or fell, whether the cement remained upon the walls or dropped from them; he didn't draw a penny of income from the place, and did not care a d.a.m.n what became of it. He allowed her to live there, she got her jointure out of the property, and he didn't want to interfere with her, but what he could not stand was the snuffy little folk from the town coming round his house. The Barfields at least were county, and he wished Woodview to remain county as long as the walls held together. He wasn't a bit ashamed of all this ruin. You could receive the Prince of Wales in a ruin, but he wouldn't care to ask him into a dissenting chapel. Mrs. Barfield answered that she didn't see how the mere a.s.sembling of a few friends in prayer could disgrace a house. She did not know that he objected to her asking them. She would not ask them any more. The only thing was that there was no place nearer than Beeding where they could meet, and she could no longer walk so far. She would have to give up meeting.

"It seems to me a strange taste to want to kneel down with a lot of little shop-keepers.... Is this where you kneel?" he said, pointing to the long deal table. "The place is a regular little Bethel."

"Our Lord said that when a number should gather together for prayer that He would be among them. Those are true words, and as we get old we feel more and more the want of this communion of spirit. It is only then that we feel that we're really with G.o.d.... The folk that you despise are equal in His sight. And living here alone, what should I be without prayer? and Esther, after her life of trouble and strife, what would she be without prayer?... It is our consolation."

"I think one should choose one's company for prayer as for everything else. Besides, what do you get out of it? Miracles don't happen nowadays."

"You're very young, Arthur, and you cannot feel the want of prayer as we do--two old women living in this lonely house. As age and solitude overtake us, the realities of life float away and we become more and more sensible to the mystery which surrounds us. And our Lord Jesus Christ gave us love and prayer so that we might see a little further."

An expression of great beauty came upon her face, that unconscious resignation which, like the twilight, hallows and transforms. In such moments the humblest hearts are at one with nature, and speaks out of the eternal wisdom of things. So even this common racing man was touched, and he said--

"I'm sorry if I said anything to hurt your religious feelings."

Mrs. Barfield did not answer.

"Do you not accept my apologies, mother?"

"My dear boy, what do I care for your apologies; what are they to me? All I think of now is your conversion to Christ. Nothing else matters. I shall always pray for that."

"You may have whom you like up here; I don't mind if it makes you happy.

I'm ashamed of myself. Don't let's say any more about it. I'm only down for the day. I'm going home to-morrow."

"Home, Arthur! this is your home. I can't bear to hear you speak of any other place as your home."

"Well, mother, then I shall say that I'm going back to business to-morrow."

Mrs. Barfield sighed.

XLVII

Days, weeks, months pa.s.sed away, and the two women came to live more and more like friends and less like mistress and maid. Not that Esther ever failed to use the respectful "ma'am" when she addressed her mistress, nor did they ever sit down to a meal at the same table. But these slight social distinctions, which habit naturally preserved, and which it would have been disagreeable to both to forego, were no check on the intimacy of their companionship. In the evening they sat in the library sewing, or Mrs. Barfield read aloud, or they talked of their sons. On Sundays they had their meetings. The folk came from quite a distance, and sometimes as many as five-and-twenty knelt round the deal table in the drawing room, and Esther felt that these days were the happiest of her life. She was content in the peaceful present, and she knew that Mrs. Barfield would not leave her unprovided for. She was almost free from anxiety. But Jack did not seem to be able to obtain regular employment in London, and her wages were so small that she could not help him much. So the sight of his handwriting made her tremble, and she sometimes did not show the letter to Mrs. Barfield for some hours after.

One Sunday morning, after meeting, as the two women were going for their walk up the hill, Esther said--

"I've a letter from my boy, ma'am. I hope it is to tell me that he's got back to work."

"I'm afraid I shan't be able to read it, Esther. I haven't my gla.s.ses with me."

"It don't matter, ma'am--it'll keep."

"Give it to me--his writing is large and legible. I think I can read it.

'My dear mother, the place I told you of in my last letter was given away, so I must go on in the toy-shop till something better turns up. I only get six shillings a week and my tea, and can't quite manage on that.' Then something--something--'pay three and sixpence a week'--something--'bed'

--something--something."

"I know, ma'am; he shares a bed with the eldest boy."

"Yes, that's it; and he wants to know if you can help him. 'I don't like to trouble you, mother; but it is hard for a boy to get his living in London.'"

"But I've sent him all my money. I shan't have any till next quarter."