Victorian Short Stories of Troubled Marriages | Page 7

I done to make you cross? Say you forgive me, do!'
'Silly child!' said Willoughby, completely mollified, 'I'm not the least angry. There,
goodbye!' and like a fool he kissed her.
He anathematized his folly in the white light of next morning, and, remembering the kiss
he had given her, repented it very sincerely. He had an uncomfortable suspicion she had
not received it in the same spirit in which it had been bestowed, but, attaching more
serious meaning to it, would build expectations thereon which must be left unfulfilled. It
was best indeed not to meet her again; for he acknowledged to himself that, though he
only half liked, and even slightly feared her, there was a certain attraction about her--was
it in her dark unflinching eyes or in her very red lips?--which might lead him into greater
follies still.
Thus it came about that for two successive evenings Esther waited for him in vain, and on
the third evening he said to himself, with a grudging relief, that by this time she had
probably transferred her affections to someone else.
It was Saturday, the second Saturday since he left town. He spent the day about the farm,
contemplated the pigs, inspected the feeding of the stock, and assisted at the afternoon
milking. Then at evening, with a refilled pipe, he went for a long lean over the west gate,
while he traced fantastic pictures and wove romances in the glories of the sunset clouds.
He watched the colours glow from gold to scarlet, change to crimson, sink at last to sad
purple reefs and isles, when the sudden consciousness of someone being near him made
him turn round. There stood Esther, and her eyes were full of eagerness and anger.
'Why have you never been to the stile again?' she asked him. 'You promised to come
faithful, and you never came. Why have you not kep' your promise? Why? Why?' she
persisted, stamping her foot because Willoughby remained silent.
What could he say? Tell her she had no business to follow him like this; or own, what
was, unfortunately, the truth, he was just a little glad to see her?
'Praps you don't care for me any more?' she said. 'Well, why did you kiss me, then?'
Why, indeed! thought Willoughby, marvelling at his own idiocy, and yet--such is the
inconsistency of man--not wholly without the desire to kiss her again. And while he
looked at her she suddenly flung herself down on the hedge-bank at his feet and burst into
tears. She did not cover up her face, but simply pressed one cheek down upon the grass
while the water poured from her eyes with astonishing abundance. Willoughby saw the

dry earth turn dark and moist as it drank the tears in. This, his first experience of Esther's
powers of weeping, distressed him horribly; never in his life before had he seen anyone
weep like that, he should not have believed such a thing possible; he was alarmed, too,
lest she should be noticed from the house. He opened the gate; 'Esther!' he begged, 'don't
cry. Come out here, like a dear girl, and let us talk sensibly.'
Because she stumbled, unable to see her way through wet eyes, he gave her his hand, and
they found themselves in a field of corn, walking along the narrow grass-path that skirted
it, in the shadow of the hedgerow.
'What is there to cry about because you have not seen me for two days?' he began; 'why,
Esther, we are only strangers, after all. When we have been at home a week or two we
shall scarcely remember each other's names.'
Esther sobbed at intervals, but her tears had ceased. 'It's fine for you to talk of home,' she
said to this. 'You've got something that is a home, I s'pose? But me! my home's like hell,
with nothing but quarrellin' and cursin', and a father who beats us whether sober or drunk.
Yes!' she repeated shrewdly, seeing the lively disgust on Willoughby's face, 'he beat me,
all ill as I was, jus' before I come away. I could show you the bruises on my arms still.
And now to go back there after knowin' you! It'll be worse than ever. I can't endure it, and
I won't! I'll put an end to it or myself somehow, I swear!'
'But my poor Esther, how can I help it? what can I do?' said Willoughby. He was greatly
moved, full of wrath with her father, with all the world which makes women suffer. He
had suffered himself at the hands of a woman and severely, but this, instead of hardening
his heart, had only rendered it the more supple. And yet he had a vivid perception of the
peril in which