Esther Waters | Page 4

wore hoods, and Esther noticed the black round eyes looking through
the eyelet holes. They were ridden by small, ugly boys, who swung
their little legs, and struck them with ash plants when they reached their
heads forward chawing at the bits. When William returned he said,
"Look there, the third one; that's he--that's Silver Braid."
An impatient knocking at the kitchen window interrupted his
admiration, and William, turning quickly, said, "Mind you say the train
was late; don't say I kept you, or you'll get me into the devil of a pickle.
This way." The door let into a wide passage covered with coconut
matting. They walked a few yards; the kitchen was the first door, and
the handsome room she found herself in did not conform to anything
that Esther had seen or heard of kitchens. The range almost filled one
end of the room, and on it a dozen saucepans were simmering; the
dresser reached to the ceiling, and was covered with a multitude of
plates and dishes. Esther thought how she must strive to keep it in its
present beautiful condition, and the elegant white-capped servants
passing round the white table made her feel her own insignificance.
"This is the new kitchen-maid, mother."
"Ah, is it indeed?" said Mrs. Latch looking up from the tray of tartlets
which she had taken from the oven and was filling with jam. Esther

noticed the likeness that Mrs. Latch bore to her son. The hair was iron
grey, and, as in William's face, the nose was the most prominent
feature.
"I suppose you'll tell me the train was late?"
"Yes, mother, the train was a quarter of an hour late," William chimed
in.
"I didn't ask you, you idle, lazy, good-for-nothing vagabond. I suppose
it was you who kept the girl all this time. Six people coming to dinner,
and I've been the whole day without a kitchen-maid. If Margaret Gale
hadn't come down to help me, I don't know where we should be; as it is,
the dinner will be late."
The two housemaids, both in print dresses, stood listening. Esther's face
clouded, and when Mrs. Latch told her to take her things off and set to
and prepare the vegetables, so that she might see what she was made of,
Esther did not answer at once. She turned away, saying under her
breath, "I must change my dress, and my box has not come up from the
station yet."
"You can tuck your dress up, and Margaret Gale will lend you her
apron."
Esther hesitated.
"What you've got on don't look as if it could come to much damage.
Come, now, set to."
The housemaids burst into loud laughter, and then a sullen look of
dogged obstinacy passed over and settled on Esther's face, even to the
point of visibly darkening the white and rose complexion.

II
A sloping roof formed one end of the room, and through a broad, single
pane the early sunlight fell across a wall papered with blue and white
flowers. Print dresses hung over the door. On the wall were two
pictures--a girl with a basket of flowers, the coloured supplement of an
illustrated newspaper, and an old and dilapidated last century print. On
the chimney-piece there were photographs of the Gale family in
Sunday clothes, and the green vases that Sarah had given Margaret on
her birthday.
And in a low, narrow iron bed, pushed close against the wall in the full
glare of the sunlight, Esther lay staring half-awake, her eyes open but

still dim with dreams. She looked at the clock. It was not yet time to get
up, and she raised her arms as if to cross them behind her head, but a
sudden remembrance of yesterday arrested her movement, and a
sudden shadow settled on her face. She had refused to prepare the
vegetables. She hadn't answered, and the cook had turned her out of the
kitchen. She had rushed from the house under the momentary sway of
hope that she might succeed in walking back to London; but William
had overtaken her in the avenue, he had expostulated with her, he had
refused to allow her to pass. She had striven to tear herself from him,
and, failing, had burst into tears. However, he had been kind, and at last
she had allowed him to lead her back, and all the time he had filled her
ears with assurances that he would make it all right with his mother.
But Mrs. Latch had closed her kitchen against her, and she had had to
go to her room. Even if they paid her fare back to London, how was she
to face her mother? What would father say? He would drive her from
the house. But she had