Victorian Short Stories of Troubled Marriages | Page 8

he stood. An interior voice urged him to break away, to seek safety in
flight even at the cost of appearing cruel or ridiculous; so, coming to a point in the field
where an elm-hole jutted out across the path, he saw with relief he could now withdraw
his hand from the girl's, since they must walk singly to skirt round it.
Esther took a step in advance, stopped and suddenly turned to face him; she held out her
two hands and her face was very near his own.
'Don't you care for me one little bit?' she said wistfully, and surely sudden madness fell
upon him. For he kissed her again, he kissed her many times, he took her in his arms, and
pushed all thoughts of the consequences far from him.
But when, an hour later, he and Esther stood by the last gate on the road to Orton, some
of these consequences were already calling loudly to him.
'You know I have only £130 a year?' he told her; 'it's no very brilliant prospect for you to
marry me on that.'
For he had actually offered her marriage, although to the mediocre man such a
proceeding must appear incredible, uncalled for. But to Willoughby, overwhelmed with
sadness and remorse, it seemed the only atonement possible.

Sudden exultation leaped at Esther's heart.
'Oh! I'm used to managing' she told him confidently, and mentally resolved to buy herself,
so soon as she was married, a black feather boa, such as she had coveted last winter.
Willoughby spent the remaining days of his holiday in thinking out and planning with
Esther the details of his return to London and her own, the secrecy to be observed, the
necessary legal steps to be taken, and the quiet suburb in which they would set up
housekeeping. And, so successfully did he carry out his arrangements, that within five
weeks from the day on which he had first met Esther Stables, he and she came out one
morning from a church in Highbury, husband and wife. It was a mellow September day,
the streets were filled with sunshine, and Willoughby, in reckless high spirits, imagined
he saw a reflection of his own gaiety on the indifferent faces of the passersby. There
being no one else to perform the office, he congratulated himself very warmly, and
Esther's frequent laughter filled in the pauses of the day.
* * * * *
Three months later Willoughby was dining with a friend, and the hour-hand of the clock
nearing ten, the host no longer resisted the guest's growing anxiety to be gone. He arose
and exchanged with him good wishes and goodbyes.
'Marriage is evidently a most successful institution,' said he, half-jesting, half-sincere;
'you almost make me inclined to go and get married myself. Confess now your thoughts
have been at home the whole evening.'
Willoughby thus addressed turned red to the roots of his hair, but did not deny it.
The other laughed. 'And very commendable they should be,' he continued, 'since you are
scarcely, so to speak, out of your honeymoon.'
With a social smile on his lips, Willoughby calculated a moment before replying, 'I have
been married exactly three months and three days.' Then, after a few words respecting
their next meeting, the two shook hands and parted--the young host to finish the evening
with books and pipe, the young husband to set out on a twenty minutes' walk to his home.
It was a cold, clear December night following a day of rain. A touch of frost in the air had
dried the pavements, and Willoughby's footfall ringing upon the stones re-echoed down
the empty suburban street. Above his head was a dark, remote sky thickly powdered with
stars, and as he turned westward Alpherat hung for a moment 'comme le point sur un i',
over the slender spire of St John's. But he was insensible to the worlds about him; he was
absorbed in his own thoughts, and these, as his friend had surmised, were entirely with
his wife. For Esther's face was always before his eyes, her voice was always in his ears,
she filled the universe for him; yet only four months ago he had never seen her, had never
heard her name. This was the curious part of it--here in December he found himself the
husband of a girl who was completely dependent upon him not only for food, clothes, and
lodging, but for her present happiness, her whole future life; and last July he had been
scarcely more than a boy himself, with no greater care on his mind than the pleasant

difficulty of deciding where he should spend his annual three weeks' holiday.
But it is events, not months or years, which age. Willoughby, who was only twenty-six,