Why, indeed! thought Willoughby, marvelling at his own idiotcy, 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, and 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 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 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-bole 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, and pushed all thoughts of the consequences far from him.
But some of these consequences already called loudly to him as he and Esther reached the last gate on the road to Orton.
“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 such conduct to the mediocre man must appear incredible or at least uncalled for. But to Willoughby it seemed the only course possible. How else justify his kisses, rescue her from her father's brutality, or bring back the smiles to her face?