When she arrived at Victoria it was raining. She picked up her skirt, and
as she stepped across a puddle a wild and watery wind swept up the wet
streets, catching her full in the face.
She had left her box in the cloak-room, for she did not know if her father
would have her at home. Her mother would tell her what she thought, but no
one could say for certain what he would do. If she brought the box he
might fling it after her into the street; better come without it, even if
she had to go back through the wet to fetch it. At that moment another
gust drove the rain violently over her, forcing it through her boots. The
sky was a tint of ashen grey, and all the low brick buildings were veiled
in vapour; the rough roadway was full of pools, and nothing was heard but
the melancholy bell of the tram-car. She hesitated, not wishing to spend a
penny unnecessarily, but remembering that a penny wise is often a pound
foolish she called to the driver and got in. The car passed by the little
brick street where the Saunders lived, and when Esther pushed the door
open she could see into the kitchen and overhear the voices of the
children. Mrs. Saunders was sweeping down the stairs, but at the sound of
footsteps she ceased to bang the broom, and, stooping till her head looked
over the banisters, she cried--
"Who is it?"
"Me, mother."
"What! You, Esther?"
"Yes, mother."
Mrs. Saunders hastened down, and, leaning the broom against the wall, she
took her daughter in her arms and kissed her. "Well, this is nice to see
you again, after this long while. But you are looking a bit poorly,
Esther." Then her face changed expression. "What has happened? Have you
lost your situation?"
"Yes, mother."
"Oh, I am that sorry, for we thought you was so 'appy there and liked your
mistress above all those you 'ad ever met with. Did you lose your temper
and answer her back? They is often trying, I know that, and your own
temper--you was never very sure of it."
"I've no fault to find with my mistress; she is the kindest in the
world--none better,--and my temper--it wasn't that, mother--"
"My own darling, tell me--"
Esther paused. The children had ceased talking in the kitchen, and the
front door was open. "Come into the parlour. We can talk quietly there....
When do you expect father home?"
"Not for the best part of a couple of hours yet."
Mrs. Saunders waited until Esther had closed the front door. Then they
went into the parlour and sat down side by side on the little horsehair
sofa placed against the wall facing the window. The anxiety in their
hearts betrayed itself on their faces.
"I had to leave, mother. I'm seven months gone."
"Oh, Esther, Esther, I cannot believe it!"
"Yes, mother, it is quite true."
Esther hurried through her story, and when her mother questioned her
regarding details she said--
"Oh, mother, what does it matter? I don't care to talk about it more than
I can help."
Tears had begun to roll down Mrs. Saunders' cheeks, and when she wiped
them away with the corner of her apron, Esther heard a sob.
"Don't cry, mother," said Esther. "I have been very wicked, I know, but
God will be good to me. I always pray to him, just as you taught me to do,
and I daresay I shall get through my trouble somehow."
"Your father will never let you stop 'ere; 'e'll say, just as afore, that
there be too many mouths to feed as it is."
"I don't want him to keep me for nothing--I know well enough if I did that
'e'd put me outside quick enough. But I can pay my way. I earned good
money while I was with the Barfields, and though she did tell me I must
go, Mrs. Barfield--the Saint they call her, and she is a saint if ever
there was one--gave me four pounds to see me, as she said, through my
trouble. I've better than eleven pound. Don't cry, mother dear; crying
won't do no good, and I want you to help me. So long as the money holds
out I can get a lodging anywhere, but I'd like to be near you; and father
might be glad to let me have the parlour and my food for ten or eleven
shillings a week--I could afford as much as that, and he never was the man
to turn good money from his door. Do yer think he will?"
"I dunno, dearie; 'tis hard to say what 'e'll do; he's a 'ard man to live
with. I've 'ad a terrible time of it lately, and them babies allus coming.
Ah, we poor women have more than our right to bear with!"
"Poor mother!" said Esther, and, taking her mother's hand in hers, she
passed her arm round her, drew her closer, and kissed her. "I know what he
was; is he any worse now?"
"Well, I think he drinks more, and is even rougher. It was only the other
day, just as I was attending to his dinner--it was a nice piece of steak,
and it looked so nice that I cut off a weany piece to taste. He sees me do
it, and he cries out, 'Now then, guts, what are you interfering with my
dinner for?' I says, 'I only cut off a tiny piece to taste.' 'Well, then,
taste that,' he says, and strikes me clean between the eyes. Ah, yes,
lucky for you to be in service; you've half forgot by now what we've to
put up with 'ere."
"You was always that soft with him, mother; he never touched me since I
dashed the hot water in his face."
"Sometimes I thinks I can bear it no longer, Esther, and long to go and
drown meself. Jenny and Julia--you remember little Julia; she 'as grown up
such a big girl, and is getting on so well--they are both at work now in
the kitchen. Johnnie gives us a deal of trouble; he cannot tell a word of
truth; father took off his strap the other day and beat him dreadful, but
it ain't no use. If it wasn't for Jenny and Julia I don't think we should
ever make both ends meet; but they works all day at the dogs, and at the
warehouse their dogs is said to be neater and more lifelike than any
other. Their poor fingers is worn away cramming the paper into the moulds;
but they never complains, no more shouldn't I if he was a bit gentler and
didn't take more than half of what he earns to the public-'ouse. I was
glad you was away, Esther, for you allus was of an 'asty temper and
couldn't 'ave borne it. I don't want to make my troubles seem worse than
they be, but sometimes I think I will break up, 'special when I get to
thinking what will become of us and all them children, money growing less
and expenses increasing. I haven't told yer, but I daresay you have
noticed that another one is coming. It is the children that breaks us poor
women down altogether. Ah, well, yours be the hardest trouble, but you
must put a brave face on it; we'll do the best we can; none of us can say
no more."
Mrs. Saunders wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; Esther looked
at her with her usual quiet, stubborn stare, and without further words
mother and daughter went into the kitchen where the girls were at work. It
was a long, low room, with one window looking on a small back-yard, at the
back of which was the coal-hole, the dust-bin, and a small outhouse. There
was a long table and a bench ran along the wall. The fireplace was on the
left-hand side; the dresser stood against the opposite wall; and amid the
poor crockery, piled about in every available space, were the toy dogs,
some no larger than your hand, others almost as large as a small poodle.
Jenny and Julia had been working busily for some days, and were now
finishing the last few that remained of the order they had received from
the shop they worked for. Three small children sat on the floor tearing
the brown paper, which they handed as it was wanted to Jenny and Julia.
The big girls leaned over the table in front of iron moulds, filling them
with brown paper, pasting it down, tucking it in with strong and dexterous
fingers.
"Why, it is Esther!" said Jenny, the elder girl. "And, lorks, ain't she
grand!--quite the lady. Why, we hardly knowed ye." And having kissed their
sister circumspectly, careful not to touch the clothes they admired with
their pasty fingers, they stood lost in contemplation, thrilled with
consciousness of the advantage of service.
Esther took Harry, a fine little boy of four, up in her arms, and asked
him if he remembered her.
"Naw, I don't think I do. Will oo put me down?"
"But you do, Lizzie?" she said, addressing a girl of seven, whose bright
red hair shone like a lamp in the gathering twilight.
"Yes, you're my big sister; you've been away this year or more in
service."
"And you, Maggie, do you remember me too?"
Maggie at first seemed doubtful, but after a moment's reflection she
nodded her head vigorously.
"Come, Esther, see how Julia is getting on," said Mrs. Saunders; "she
makes her dogs nearly as fast as Jenny. She is still a bit careless in
drawing the paper into the moulds. Well, just as I was speaking of it:
'ere's a dog with one shoulder just 'arf the size of the other."
"Oh, mother, I'm sure nobody'd never know the difference."
"Wouldn't know the difference! Just look at the hanimal! Is it natural?
Sich carelessness I never seed."
"Esther, just look at Julia's dog," cried Jenny, "'e 'asn't got no more
than 'arf a shoulder. It's lucky mother saw it, for if the manager'd seen
it he'd have found something wrong with I don't know 'ow many more, and
docked us maybe a shilling or more on the week's work."
Julia began to cry.
"Jenny is always down on me. She is jealous just because mother said I
worked as fast as she did. If her work was overhauled--"
"There are all my dogs there on the right-hand side of the dresser--I
always 'as the right for my dogs--and if you find one there with an uneven
shoulder I'll--"
"Jennie is so fat that she likes everything like 'erself; that's why she
stuffs so much paper into her dogs."
It was little Ethel speaking from her corner, and her explanation of the
excellence of Jenny's dogs, given with stolid childish gravity in the
interval of tearing a large sheet of brown paper, made them laugh. But in
the midst of the laughter thought of her great trouble came upon Esther.
Mrs. Saunders noticed this, and a look of pity came into her eyes, and to
make an end of the unseemly gaiety she took Julia's dog and told her that
it must be put into the mould again. She cut the skin away, and helped to
force the stiff paper over the edge of the mould.
"Now," she said, "it is a dog; both shoulders is equal, and if it was a
real dog he could walk."
"Oh, bother!" cried Jenny, "I shan't be able to finish my last dozen this
evening. I 'ave no more buttons for the eyes, and the black pins that
Julia is a-using of for her little one won't do for this size."
"Won't they give yer any at the shop? I was counting on the money they
would bring to finish the week with."
"No, we can't get no buttons in the shop: that's 'ome work, they says; and
even if they 'ad them they wouldn't let us put them in there. That's 'ome
work they says to everything; they is a that disagreeable lot."
"But 'aven't you got sixpence, mother? and I'll run and get them."
"No, I've run short."
"But," said Esther, "I'll give you sixpence to get your buttons with."
"Yes, that's it; give us sixpence, and yer shall have it back to-morrow if
you are 'ere. How long are yer up for? If not, we'll send it."
"I'm not going back just yet."
"What, 'ave yer lost yer situation?"
"No, no," said Mrs. Saunders, "Esther ain't well--she 'as come up for 'er
'ealth; take the sixpence and run along."
"May I go too?" said Julia. "I've been at work since eight, and I've only
a few more dogs to do."
"Yes, you may go with your sister. Run along; don't bother me any more,
I've got to get your father's supper."
When Jenny and Julia had left, Esther and Mrs. Saunders could talk freely;
the other children were too young to understand.
"There is times when 'e is well enough," said Mrs. Saunders, "and others
when 'e is that awful. It is 'ard to know 'ow to get him, but 'e is to be
got if we only knew 'ow. Sometimes 'tis most surprising how easy 'e do
take things, and at others--well, as about that piece of steak that I was
a-telling you of. Should you catch him in that humour 'e's as like as not
to take ye by the shoulder and put you out; but if he be in a good humour
'e's as like as not to say, 'Well, my gal, make yerself at 'ome.'"
"He can but turn me out, I'll leave yer to speak to 'im, mother."
"I'll do my best, but I don't answer for nothing. A nice bit of supper do
make a difference in 'im, and as ill luck will 'ave it, I've nothing but a
rasher, whereas if I only 'ad a bit of steak 'e'd brighten up the moment
he clapt eyes on it and become that cheerful."
"But, mother, if you think it will make a difference I can easily slip
round to the butcher's and----"
"Yes, get half a pound, and when it's nicely cooked and inside him it'll
make all the difference. That will please him. But I don't like to see you
spending your money--money that you'll want badly."
"It can't be helped, mother. I shan't be above a minute or two away, and
I'll bring back a pint of porter with the steak."
Coming back she met Jenny and Julia, and when she told them her purchases
they remarked significantly that they were now quite sure of a pleasant
evening.
"When he's done eating 'e'll go out to smoke his pipe with some of his
chaps," said Jenny, "and we shall have the 'ouse to ourselves, and yer can
tell us all about your situation. They keeps a butler and a footman, don't
they? They must be grand folk. And what was the footman like? Was he very
handsome? I've 'eard that they all is."
"And you'll show us yer dresses, won't you?" said Julia. "How many 'ave
you got, and 'ow did yer manage to save up enough money to buy such
beauties, if they're all like that?"
"This dress was given to me by Miss Mary."
"Was it? She must be a real good 'un. I should like to go to service; I'm
tired of making dogs; we have to work that 'ard, and it nearly all goes to
the public; father drinks worse than ever."
Mrs. Saunders approved of Esther's purchase; it was a beautiful bit of
steak. The fire was raked up, and a few minutes after the meat was
roasting on the gridiron. The clock continued its coarse ticking amid the
rough plates on the dresser. Jenny and Julia hastened with their work,
pressing the paper with nervous fingers into the moulds, calling sharply
to the little group for what sized paper they required. Esther and Mrs.
Saunders waited, full of apprehension, for the sound of a heavy tread in
the passage. At last it came. Mrs. Saunders turned the meat, hoping that
its savoury odour would greet his nostrils from afar, and that he would
come to them mollified and amiable.
"Hullo, Jim; yer are 'ome a bit earlier to-day. I'm not quite ready with
yer supper."
"I dunno that I am. Hullo, Esther! Up for the day? Smells damned nice,
what you're cooking for me, missus. What is it?"
"Bit of steak, Jim. It seems a beautiful piece. Hope it will eat tender."
"That it will. I was afeard you would have nothing more than a rasher, and
I'm that 'ungry."
Jim Saunders was a stout, dark man about forty. He had not shaved for some
days, his face was black with beard; his moustache was cut into bristle;
around his short, bull neck he wore a ragged comforter, and his blue
jacket was shabby and dusty, and the trousers were worn at the heels. He
threw his basket into a corner, and then himself on the rough bench nailed
against the wall, and there, without speaking another word, he lay
sniffing the odour of the meat like an animal going to be fed. Suddenly a
whiff from the beer jug came into his nostrils, and reaching out his rough
hand he looked into the jug to assure himself he was not mistaken.
"What's this?" he exclaimed; "a pint of porter! Yer are doing me pretty
well this evening, I reckon. What's up?"
"Nothing, Jim; nothing, dear, but just as Esther has come up we thought
we'd try to make yer comfortable. It was Esther who fetched it; she 'as
been doing pretty well, and can afford it."
Jim looked at Esther in a sort of vague and brutal astonishment, and
feeling he must say something, and not knowing well what, he said----
"Well, 'ere's to your good health!" and he took a long pull at the jug.
"Where did you get this?"
"In Durham street, at the 'Angel.'"
"I thought as much; they don't sell stuff like this at the 'Rose and
Crown.' Well, much obliged to yer. I shall enjoy my bit of steak now; and
I see a tater in the cinders. How are you getting on, old woman--is it
nearly done? Yer know I don't like all the goodness burnt out of it."
"It isn't quite done yet, Jim; a few minutes more----"
Jim sniffed in eager anticipation, and then addressed himself to Esther.
"Well, they seem to do yer pretty well down there. My word, what a toff
yer are! Quite a lady.... There's nothing like service for a girl; I've
always said so. Eh, Jenny, wouldn't yer like to go into service, like yer
sister? Looks better, don't it, than making toy dogs at three-and-sixpence
the gross?"
"I should just think it was. I wish I could. As soon as Maggie can take my
place, I mean to try."
"It was the young lady of the 'ouse that gave 'er that nice dress," said
Julia. "My eye! she must have been a favourite."
At that moment Mrs. Saunders picked the steak from the gridiron, and
putting it on a nice hot plate she carried it in her apron to Jim, saying,
"Mind yer 'ands, it is burning 'ot."
Jim fed in hungry silence, the children watching, regretting that none of
them ever had suppers like that. He didn't speak until he had put away the
better part of the steak; then, after taking a long pull at the jug of
beer, he said--
"I 'aven't enjoyed a bit of food like that this many a day; I was that
beat when I came in, and it does do one good to put a piece of honest meat
into one's stomach after a 'ard day's work!"
Then, prompted by a sudden thought, he complimented Esther on her looks,
and then, with increasing interest, inquired what kind of people she was
staying with. But Esther was in no humour for conversation, and answered
his questions briefly without entering into details. Her reserve only
increased his curiosity, which fired up at the first mention of the
race-horses.
"I scarcely know much about them. I only used to see them passing through
the yard as they went to exercise on the downs. There was always a lot of
talk about them in the servants' hall, but I didn't notice it. They were a
great trouble to Mrs. Barfield--I told you, mother, that she was one of
ourselves, didn't I?"