Esther Waters — Chapter 34

London: Walter Scott, Ltd., 1 March 1894, pages 271-274, 1,658 words

XXXIV.

Three men followed out of the bar-room. They were agreed regarding the worthlessness of life. One said, "I don’t think much of it; all I live for is beer and women." The phrase caught on William’s ear, and he said, "Quite right, old mate," and he held out his hand to Bill Evans. "Beer and women, it always comes round to that in the end, but we mustn’t let them hear us say it." The men shook hands, and Bill promised to see Sarah safely home. Esther tried to interpose, but William could not be made to understand, and Sarah and Bill drove away together in a hansom. Sarah dozed off immediately on his shoulder, and it was difficult to awaken her when the cab stopped before a house whose respectability took Bill by surprise. He looked into the basement and up at the attic, and was particularly impressed by the palms in the drawing-room windows.

“You seem well set up here," he said; “have you got the key?"

"Father won’t let me have one; we must ring him up.... Oh, I’m so tired, Bill, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

"There’s my place, if you don’t like to ring him up.”

"No, Bill, I couldn’t, I’m feeling that bad.”

Bill rang again and again.

"Father’ll be that wild — you’ll wake up the lodgers...."

"I can’t help that; I can’t wake one without the other."

At last a tall man in shirt and trousers opened the door.

“What’s all this noise about? Oh, it’s you, Sarah.”

“Yes, father.”

"What’s the matter?" he said, taking her by the shoulders.

"Drunk, by God!”

"She ain’t drunk; it is the ’eat of the day that done it."

“Who’re you, bringing back my daughter at this hour?"

"Who’re you, if it comes to that? If I hadn’t brought her back she’d have been in the street.”

“Oh, father, don’t.... It was Mr. Latch who sent me home with him. We’ve been dining at the ‘Criterion.’"

"Dining at the ‘Criterion,’ and coming back at one o’clock in the morning in a ’ansom cab. Yer sister, I should ’ave thought, ought to have been a warning to you.”

“It wasn’t my fault, father. We’ve been dining with Mr. and Mrs. Latch." Mr. Tucker took a step forward to catch better sight of the man’s face, and Sarah availed herself of the opportunity to slip past her father into the house.

"And you, ’ave you been dining too with the Latches? Nice company they seem to keep.... I think we’ve met before.”

“Not what I can remember of. And I don’t much care if we don’t meet again. A nice sort of way to thank a fellow for the trouble ’e ’as taken. Next time I’ll leave your daughter where I find her." Bill went away cursing, and Mr. Tucker remained on the doorstep looking after him and repeating, "I’m sure I’ve seen ’im before.”

The Tuckers had just come to live in Bloomsbury. Tucker was an ex-policeman. He and his wife had owned a house in Portugal Street, which they had let out in unfurnished rooms. When the street was rebuilt they had received compensation, and with this money they had furnished their present house, and their rooms were let principally to medical students. Mrs. Tucker and a general servant looked after the cooking; Lizzie, their second daughter, did the housework. One of the results of the house in Bloomsbury was a child by one of the medical students. The young man had made an allowance which had been considered adequate, and Mr. and Mrs. Tucker had undertaken the bringing up of their grandchild. But Mr. and Mrs. Tucker would have nothing to do with Lizzie’s second child, although the father, a waiter in a neighbouring restaurant, had been prosecuted and forced to subscribe towards its support. "A misfortune may happen to any girl," said Mrs. Tucker, “and my daughter’s my daughter, but I’ll have nothing to do with second children." And when it became apparent that Lizzie was a third time with child Mr. Tucker said he’d have no more to do with her. "To see her come waddling in as big as a house was a disgrace; quite enough," he said, "to get the place a bad name,” and to save the reputation of his house he turned her out of doors."Her work might very well go to Sarah, who had just come home from situation. Sarah had always been able to get her own living; she had put a bit of money by, and Mr. Tucker was full of admiration for his second daughter. So it was a sore grief to him to see her brought home at one o’clock in the morning decidedly the worse for liquor. Mrs. Tucker excused Sarah as she had excused Lizzie. Mr. Tucker did not answer, but he seemed disposed to accept this view of the matter. And Sarah’s offence would have been easily forgiven her if she had not shown so much determination in sticking up for Bill Evans when her father said he was a bad lot if ever there was one. Not a word would she hear said against him, and for a week the Tucker family lived in fierce words and passionate expostulation. Lizzie, who slipped in one day when her father was out, was very wroth when she found that her sister had taken her place, and had it not been for her condition of body Sarah might have fared badly at her rude hands. One evening Mr. Tucker warned Bill Evans never to set his foot on his doorstep again, and the altercations were very violent.

"We don’t want none of your sort about here....”

"What do you know about my sort?”

“Plenty; leastways I ought to after twenty years in the E division.”

"So you’re a copper, are you? I might ’ave known it.... My sort don’t know nothing of yer E division, but I knows your sort, them that pays ’alf-a-crown a week to be let alone.... Yer pension, it is out of their pockets.”

"That’s enough; don’t you set your foot on my doorstep again, that’s all.”

Mr. Tucker came down to the kitchen declaring that daughters was a curse: "Illegitimate children and gin, that was about all they was good for." Beer or gin, which was it? Sarah admitted that she had had a little of both, and her mother had to help her upstairs. Next morning she was ill and repentant. Her father came up to her room and gave her a good talking to. She pleaded that it was not her fault, she did not care for the beastly stuff. It was that beast Bill that forced it upon her. She believed that he had made her drunk on purpose, and promised that she would see him no more. It was easy for her to promise, for Bill had seriously frightened her. She had been struck by the number of appointments he had with particular friends in public-houses. He was always whispering across the bar, and he left messages with the potman or the vagrant outside who looked after the cabs. Yesterday he and one of his chaps had gone off together in a cab with a young fellow with whom they had just scraped acquaintance, and Sarah had been left to make her way home as best she could. There were many other things she did not like about Bill, and she promised her father to see him no more. But at odd moments remembrance, like a sob, caught her in the throat, and then she closed her eyes in a little sickness of desire. The mood passed, but it came again and again until she wearied of the irritation of her life.

One day her father and mother had to go down to the country on business. They would not return until late in the evening. Sarah thought instantly of Bill. Her face must have betrayed her, for her father said he would not leave her the key. He wished her to remain within doors and look after the house. Sarah promised to do this. She did not want to see Bill again, and she thought that it was just as well that the father had taken the key with him. Now there was no temptation to resist; she’d have to remain in. But Sarah did not reckon the ache of desire that would fill a lonely afternoon, with no real work to do, only the mending of a dress to distract her thoughts. Remembrance pressed upon her, and she put the skirt aside and walked to the open door; she laid her hand upon it; for the room seemed to go round, and there came upon her a sudden withdrawal of all will. She hadn’t the key, she wouldn’t be able to get back, but she must see Bill. She’d wait on the stairs, she wouldn’t think about how she was to get back. She must see him. So she wrote telling him where to meet her. Once the letter had been sent off she seemed easier. She dressed quickly and went out, her thoughts anticipating eagerly the pleasure of a long afternoon with him.

And it turned out a pleasant afternoon, only a little spoilt by the constantly recurring thought of her meeting with her father on the doorstep. She didn’t believe that he’d take her in.... If anything happened — if the house were robbed in her absence, what would she say or do? Bill suggested that her father would never believe that she was concerned in a robbery. Such a possibility had not occurred to her. She was now seriously frightened, and Bill had little difficulty in persuading her to leave her home and come and live with him.