Esther Waters — Chapter 10

London: Walter Scott, Ltd., 1 March 1894, pages 63-68, 2,136 words

X.

But it had been found impossible to restrict the ball to those who possessed or could obtain an evening suit, and plenty of check trousers and red neckties were hopping about. Among the villagers many a touch suggested costume. A young girl had borrowed her grandmother’s wedding dress, and a young man wore a canary-coloured waistcoat and a blue coastguards-man coat of old time. These touches of fancy and personal taste divided the villagers from the household servants. The butlers seemed on the watch for side dishes, and the valets suggested hair-brushes and hot water. Cooks trailed black silk dresses adorned with wide collars and fastened with gold brooches containing portraits of their late husbands. At the end of the room there was a circular buffet, around which the men had gathered. They turned, however, from the buffet when Esther entered. Miss Mary had given her a white muslin, a square-cut bodice with sleeves reaching to the elbows and a blue sash tied round the waist. Many remarked as she passed, “A nice, pretty girl." William was waiting, and she went away with him on the hop of a vigorous polka.

Many of the dancers had gone to get cool in the gardens, but a few couples had begun to whirl, the women borne along by force, the men poising their legs into curious geometrical positions.

Mr. Leopold was very busy dragging men away from the circular buffet — they must dance whether they knew how or not, “the Gaffer has told me particlar to see that the ‘gals’ all had partners, and just look down that ’ere room, ’alf of that lot ’aven’t been on their legs yet. ’Ere’s a partner for you," and the butler pulled a young gamekeeper towards a young girl who had just arrived. She entered slowly, her hands clasped across her bosom, her eyes fixed on the ground, and the strangeness of the spectacle caused Mr. Leopold to pause. Presently it was whispered that she had never worn a low dress before. Grover came to the rescue of her modesty with a pocket handkerchief.

"’Ow do you manage to keep dry this weather?" asked a young woman.

"Dry!" said her young man. “I’m soaking." And drawing a red handkerchief from his velvet coat he mopped his face.

"May I have the pleasure of this dance?" said young Mr. Preston, Sir George’s eldest son.

“Lor’, Mr. Preston, I’m that ’ot!... but I don’t mind a turn with you.”

The fine shirt fronts set off with rich pearls, the lavendei gloved hands, the delicate faces so expressive of ease and leisure, made Ginger’s two friends — young Mr. Preston and young Mr. Northcote — noticeable among this menial, work-a-day crowd. Ginger loved the upper circles, and now he romped the polka in the most approved London fashion, his elbows advanced like a yacht’s bowsprit, and, his coat-tails flying, he dashed through a group of tradespeople who were bobbing up and down hardly advancing at all.

The young man in the velvet coat shrugged his shoulders: “They’re all alike, nothing’ll do them but a swell. Look at your kitchen-maid, she is with Ginger; they know more of each other than we think for.”

Before William had time to reply Sarah pointed to Esther, who was coming back on Ginger’s arm. Didn’t William think they were just enjoying their little selves?... With a loud laugh she passed away. The dance had ended and the crowd pressed towards the doorways, Ginger touched young Northcote on the shoulder, and taking a ceremonious leave of his partner, left her to William.

“A nice way you are getting yourself talked of!”

"What do you mean? ”

"Why, the way you have been carrying on with Ginger.”

"Who has been talking about me — Sarah?”

"She is not the only one.”

"And you believe them?”

“I tell you straight, I don’t want to have to do with a girl who goes after gentlemen.”

Esther’s face changed expression, but she continued to defend herself for a few moments longer. Then she said —

“Very well, then, I don’t want to have to do with those who think such wickedness.... I wish I hadn’t come here, and I shall dance no more with you or anybody else.”

As Esther was being spoken of as the belle of the ball and had danced with young Mr. Preston, Grover called her and asked her why she was not dancing. Esther answered that she was tired, and lapsed into morose contemplation of the scene.

"Come, the next polka, just to show there is no ill feeling." Half-a-dozen times William repeated his demand. At last she said —

"You’ve spoilt all my pleasure in the dancing.”

"I’m sorry if I’ve done that, Esther. I was jealous, that’s all.”

“Jealous! What was you jealous for? What do it matter what people think, so long as I know I am doing no wrong?”

William did not answer, and in silence they walked into the garden. The night was warm, even oppressive, and the moon hung like a balloon above the trees, and often the straying revellers stopped to consider the markings now so plain upon its disc. There were arbours, artificial ruins, darkling pathways; and the mysterious light streaming through the open spaces made the garden seem as if enchanted. William showed Esther the theatre and explained its purpose. And she could not believe that she was not dreaming when they suddenly stood on the borders of a beautiful lake full of the shadows of tall trees. At one part, the narrowest end, it was crossed by a wooden bridge. Esther and William stopped to admire.

"How still the water is; and the stars they is that lovely!”

“You should see the gardens about three o’clock on Saturday afternoons when the excursion comes in from Brighton.”

They walked on a little further and Esther said, “What’s these places? Ain’t they dark?”

"These are arbours, where we ’as shrimps and tea. I’ll take you next Saturday, if you’ll come.”

A noisy band of young men, followed by three or four girls, ran across the bridge. Suddenly they stopped to argue on which side the boat was to be found. Some chose the left, some the right; those who went to the right sent up a yell of triumph, and paddled into the middle of the water. They first addressed remarks to their companions, and having admired the moon and stars, a song was demanded. At the end of the second verse William threw his arm round Esther.

"Oh, Esther, I do love you.”

She looked at him, her grey eyes all luminous with love, and said —

"I wonder if that is true.... What is there to love in me?"

He squeezed her tightly, and continued his protestations. "I do, I do, I do love you, Esther.”

She did not answer, and they walked slowly on. A holly bush threw a black shadow on the gravel path. The dusk of the garden was full of persuasion, and the ornamental tin roof of the dancing-room appeared between the trees.

Even in their short absence a change had come upon the ball. About the circular buffet numbers of men called for drink, and talked loudly of horse-racing. Many were away at supper, and those that remained were amusing themselves in a desultory fashion. A tall, lean woman dressed like Sarah in white muslin, wearing amber beads round her neck, was dancing the lancers with the Demon, and every one shook with laughter when she whirled the little fellow round or took him in her arms and carried him across. William wanted to dance, but Esther was hungry and led him away to an adjoining building where cold beef, chicken, and beer might be had by the strong and the adventurous. As they struggled through the crowd Esther spied three young gentlemen at the other end of the room.

“Now tell me if they ask me, the young gents yonder, to dance, am I to look them straight in the face and say no?”

William considered a moment, and then he said, "I think you had better dance with them if they asks you; if you refuse, Sarah will say it was I who put you up to it.”

"Let’s have another bottle," cried Ginger. "Come, what do you say, Mr. Thomas?”

Mr. Thomas coughed, smiled, and said that Mr. Arthur wished to see him in the hands of the police. However, he promised to drink his share. Two more bottles were sent for, and, stimulated by the wine, the weights that would probably be assigned to certain horses in the autumn handicap were discussed. William was very proud of being admitted into such company, and he listened, a cigar which he did not like between his teeth, and a glass of champagne in his hand.... Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by the cornet sounding the

first phrase of a favourite waltz, and the tipsy and the sober hastened away.

Neither Esther nor William knew how to waltz, but they tumbled round the room, enjoying themselves immensely. In the polka and mazurka they got on better; and there were quadrilles and lancers in which the gentlemen joined and all were gay and pleasant, even Sarah’s usually sour face glowed with cordiality when they joined hands and raced round the men standing in the middle. In the chain they lost themselves as in a labyrinth and found their partners unexpectedly. But the dance of the evening was Sir Roger de Coverley, and Esther’s usually sober little brain evaporated in the folly of running up the room, then turning and running backwards, getting into her place as best she could and then starting again. It always appeared to be her turn, and it was so sweet to see her dear William, and such a strange excitement to run forward to meet young Mr. Preston, to curtsey to him, and then run away; and this over and over again.

Suddenly some one cried, "There’s the dawn," and in the whitening doorways Esther saw the little jockey staggering about helplessly drunk. Then she felt that all this dancing, drinking, and kissing in the arbours was very wicked and that she ought not to have allowed herself to have been persuaded into going to the ball. But Miss Mary had sent for her and told her that she would give her one of her dresses. She did not know how to refuse Miss Mary. At that moment sounds of loud voices were heard in the garden, and the lean woman in the white muslin repeated some charge which young Mr. Preston denied. Esther heard William tell some one that he was mistaken, that he and his pals didn’t want no rowing at this ’ere ball, and what was more they don’t mean to have none.

Esther watched the scene and her heart filled with love for her big William. What a fine fellow he was! how handsome were his shoulders beside that round-shouldered little man whom he so easily pulled aside! And the quarrel over he helped her on with her jacket, and, hanging on his arm, they returned home through the little town. Margaret followed with the railway porter; Sarah was with her faithful admirer, a man with a red beard, whom she had picked up at the ball; Grover waddled in the rear, embarrassed with the green silk which she held high out of the dust of the road.

When they reached the station the sky was stained with rose, and the barren downs — more tin-like than ever in the shadowless light of dawn — stretched across the sunrise from Lancing to Brighton. The little birds sat ruffling their feathers, and, awaking to the responsibilities of the day, flew away into the corn. The night had been close and sultry, and even at this hour there was hardly any freshness in the air. Esther looked at the hills, examining the landscape intently. She was thinking of the first time she saw it. Some vague association of idea — the likeness that the morning landscape bore to the evening landscape, or the wish to prolong the sweetness of these, the last moments of her happiness, impelled her to linger and to ask William if the woods and fields were not beautiful. The too familiar landscape awoke in William neither idea nor sensation; Esther interested him more, and while she gazed dreamily on the hills he admired the white curve of her neck which showed beneath the unbuttoned jacket. She never looked prettier than she did that morning, standing on the dusty road, her white dress crumpled, the ends of the blue sash hanging beneath the black cloth jacket.