"It is my duty to know what you do with your money, and to see that you do
not spend it in any wrong way. I am responsible for your moral welfare."
"Then, ma'am, I think I had better leave you."
"Leave me, because I don't wish you to spend your money wrongfully,
because I know the temptations that a young girl's life is beset with?"
"There ain't much chance of temptation for them who work seventeen hours a
day."
"Esther, you seem to forget--"
"No, ma'am; but there's no use talking about what I do with my
money--there are other reasons; the place is too hard a one. I've felt it
so for some time, ma'am. My health ain't equal to it."
Once she had spoken, Esther showed no disposition to retract, and she
steadily resisted all Mrs. Bingley's solicitations to remain with her. She
knew the risk she was running in leaving her situation, and yet she felt
she must yield to an instinct like that which impels the hunted animal to
leave the cover and seek safety in the open country. Her whole body cried
out for rest, she must have rest; that was the thing that must be. Mrs.
Lewis would keep her and her baby for twelve shillings a week; the present
was the Christmas quarter, and she was richer by five and twenty shillings
than she had been before. Mrs. Bingley had given her ten shillings, Mr.
Hubert five, and the other ten had been contributed by the four young
ladies. Out of this money she hoped to be able to buy a dress and a pair
of boots, as well as a fortnight's rest with Mrs. Lewis. She had
determined on her plans some three weeks before her month's warning would
expire, and henceforth the mountainous days of her servitude drew out
interminably, seeming more than ever exhausting, and the longing in her
heart to be free at times rose to her head, and her brain turned as if in
delirium. Every time she sat down to a meal she remembered she was so many
hours nearer to rest--a fortnight's rest--she could not afford more; but
in her present slavery that fortnight seemed at once as a paradise and an
eternity. Her only fear was that her health might give way, and that she
would be laid up during the time she intended for rest--personal rest. Her
baby was lost sight of. Even a mother demands something in return for her
love, and in the last year Jackie had taken much and given nothing. But
when she opened Mrs. Lewis's door he came running to her, calling her
Mummie; and the immediate preference he showed for her, climbing on her
knees instead of on Mrs. Lewis's, was a fresh sowing of love in the
mother's heart.
They were in the midst of those few days of sunny weather which come in
January, deluding us so with their brightness and warmth that we look
round for roses and are astonished to see the earth bare of flowers. And
these bright afternoons Esther spent entirely with Jackie. At the top of
the hill their way led through a narrow passage between a brick wall and a
high paling. She had always to carry him through this passage, for the
ground there was sloppy and dirty, and the child wanted to stop to watch
the pigs through the chinks in the boards. But when they came to the
smooth, wide, high roads overlooking the valley, she put him down, and he
would run on ahead, crying, "Turn for a walk, Mummie, turn along," and his
little feet went so quickly beneath his frock that it seemed as if he were
on wheels. She followed, often forced to break into a run, tremulous lest
he should fall. They descended the hill into the ornamental park, and
spent happy hours amid geometrically-designed flower-beds and curving
walks. She ventured with him as far as the old Dulwich village, and they
strolled through the long street. Behind the street were low-lying,
shiftless fields, intersected with broken hedges. And when Jackie called
to his mother to carry him, she rejoiced in the labour of his weight; and
when he grew too heavy, she rested on the farm-gate, and looked into the
vague lowlands. And when the chill of night awoke her from her dream she
clasped Jackie to her bosom and turned towards home, very soon to lose
herself again in another tide of happiness.
The evenings, too, were charming. When the candles were lighted, and tea
was on the table, Esther sat with the dozing child on her knee, looking
into the flickering fire, her mind a reverie, occasionally broken by the
homely talk of her companion; and when the baby was laid in his cot she
took up her sewing--she was making herself a new dress; or else the great
kettle was steaming on the hob, and the women stood over the washing-tubs.
On the following evening they worked on either side of the ironing-table,
the candle burning brightly and their vague woman's chatter sounding
pleasant in the hush of the little cottage. A little after nine they were
in bed, and so the days went softly, like happy, trivial dreams. It was
not till the end of the third week that Mrs. Lewis would hear of Esther
looking out for another place. And then Esther was surprised at her good
fortune. A friend of Mrs. Lewis's knew a servant who was leaving her
situation in the West End of London. Esther got the address, and went next
day after the place. She was fortunate enough to obtain it, and her
mistress seemed well satisfied with her. But one day in the beginning of
her second year of service she was told that her mistress wished to speak
to her in the dining-room.
"I fancy," said the cook, "that it is about that baby of yours; they're
very strict here."
Mrs. Trubner was sitting on a low wicker chair by the fire. She was a
large woman with eagle features. Her eyesight had been failing for some
years, and her maid was reading to her. The maid closed the book and left
the room.
"It has come to my knowledge, Waters, that you have a child. You're not a
married woman, I believe?"
"I've been unfortunate; I've a child, but that don't make no difference so
long as I gives satisfaction in my work. I don't think that the cook has
complained, ma'am."
"No, the cook hasn't complained, but had I known this I don't think I
should have engaged you. In the character which you showed me, Mrs.
Barfield said that she believed you to be a thoroughly religious girl at
heart."
"And I hope I am that, ma'am. I'm truly sorry for my fault. I've suffered
a great deal."
"So you all say; but supposing it were to happen again, and in my house?
Supposing----"
"Then don't you think, ma'am, there is repentance and forgiveness? Our
Lord said----"
"You ought to have told me; and as for Mrs. Barfield, her conduct is most
reprehensible."
"Then, ma'am, would you prevent every poor girl who has had a misfortune
from earning her bread? If they was all like you there would be more girls
who'd do away with themselves and their babies. You don't know how hard
pressed we are. The baby-farmer says, 'Give me five pounds and I'll find a
good woman who wants a little one, and you shall hear no more about it.'
Them very words were said to me. I took him away and hoped to be able to
rear him, but if I'm to lose my situations----"
"I should be sorry to prevent anyone from earning their bread----"
"You're a mother yourself, ma'am, and you know what it is."
"Really, it's quite different.... I don't know what you mean, Waters."
"I mean that if I am to lose my situations on account of my baby, I don't
know what will become of me. If I give satisfaction--"
At that moment Mr. Trubner entered. He was a large, stout man, with his
mother's aquiline features. He arrived with his glasses on his nose, and
slightly out of breath.
"Oh, oh, I didn't know, mother," he blurted out, and was about to withdraw
when Mrs. Trubner said--
"This is the new servant whom that lady in Sussex recommended."
Esther saw a look of instinctive repulsion come over his face.
"I'll leave you to settle with her, mother."
"I must speak to you, Harold--I must."
"I really can't; I know nothing of this matter."
He tried to leave the room, and when his mother stopped him he said
testily, "Well, what is it? I am very busy just now, and--" Mrs. Trubner
told Esther to wait in the passage.
"Well," said Mr. Trubner, "have you discharged her? I leave all these
things to you."
"She has told me her story; she is trying to bring up her child on her
wages.... She said if she was kept from earning her bread she didn't know
what would become of her. Her position is a very terrible one."
"I know that.... But we can't have loose women about the place. They all
can tell a fine story; the world is full of impostors."
"I don't think the girl is an impostor."
"Very likely not, but everyone has a right to protect themselves."
"Don't speak so loud, Harold," said Mrs. Trubner, lowering her voice.
"Remember her child is dependent upon her; if we send her away we don't
know what may happen. I'll pay her a month's wages if you like, but you
must take the responsibility."
"I won't take any responsibility in the matter. If she had been here two
years--she has only been here a year--not so much more--and had proved a
satisfactory servant, I don't say that we'd be justified in sending her
away.... There are plenty of good girls who want a situation as much as
she. I don't see why we should harbour loose women when there are so many
deserving cases."
"Then you want me to send her away?"
"I don't want to interfere; you ought to know how to act. Supposing the
same thing were to happen again? My cousins, young men, coming to the
house--"
"But she won't see them."
"Do as you like; it is your business, not mine. It doesn't matter to me,
so long as I'm not interfered with; keep her if you like. You ought to
have looked into her character more closely before you engaged her. I
think that the lady who recommended her ought to be written to very
sharply."
They had forgotten to close the door, and Esther stood in the passage
burning and choking with shame.
"It is a strange thing that religion should make some people so
unfeeling," Esther thought as she left Onslow Square.
It was necessary to keep her child secret, and in her next situation she
shunned intimacy with her fellow-servants, and was so strict in her
conduct that she exposed herself to their sneers. She dreaded the remark
that she always went out alone, and often arrived at the cottage
breathless with fear and expectation--at a cottage where a little boy
stood by a stout middle-aged woman, turning over the pages of the
illustrated papers that his mother had brought him; she had no money to
buy him toys. Dropping the Illustrated London News, he cried, "Here is
Mummie," and ran to her with outstretched arms. Ah, what an embrace! Mrs.
Lewis continued her sewing, and for an hour or more Esther told about her
fellow-servants, about the people she lived with, the conversation
interrupted by the child calling his mother's attention to the pictures,
or by the delicate intrusion of his little hand into hers.
Her clothes were her great difficulty, and she often thought that she
would rather go back to the slavery of the house in Chelsea than bear the
humiliation of going out any longer on Sunday in the old things that the
servants had seen her in for eight or nine months or more. She was made to
feel that she was the lowest of the low--the servant of servants. She had
to accept everybody's sneer and everybody's bad language, and oftentimes
gross familiarity, in order to avoid arguments and disputes which might
endanger her situation. She had to shut her eyes to the thefts of cooks;
she had to fetch them drink, and to do their work when they were unable to
do it themselves. But there was no help for it. She could not pick and
choose where she would live, and any wages above sixteen pound a year she
must always accept, and put up with whatever inconvenience she might meet.
Hers is an heroic adventure if one considers it--a mother's fight for the
life of her child against all the forces that civilisation arrays against
the lowly and the illegitimate. She is in a situation to-day, but on what
security does she hold it? She is strangely dependent on her own health,
and still more upon the fortunes and the personal caprice of her
employers; and she realised the perils of her life when an outcast mother
at the corner of the street, stretching out of her rags a brown hand and
arm, asked alms for the sake of the little children. Esther remembered
then that three months out of a situation and she too would be on the
street as a flower-seller, match-seller, or----
It did not seem, however, that any of these fears were to be realised. Her
luck had mended; for nearly two years she had been living with some rich
people in the West End; she liked her mistress and was on good terms with
her fellow servants, and had it not been for an accident she could have
kept this situation. The young gentlemen had come home for their summer
holidays; she had stepped aside to let Master Harry pass on the stairs.
But he did not go by, and there was a strange smile on his face.
"Look here, Esther, I'm awfully fond of you. You are the prettiest girl
I've ever seen. Come out for a walk with me next Sunday."
"Master Harry, I'm surprised at you; will you let me go by at once?"
There was no one near, the house was silent, and the boy stood on the step
above her. He tried to throw his arm round her waist, but she shook him
off and went up to her room calm with indignation. A few days afterward
she suddenly became aware that he was following her in the street. She
turned sharply upon him.
"Master Harry, I know that this is only a little foolishness on your part,
but if you don't leave off I shall lose my situation, and I'm sure you
don't want to do me an injury."
Master Harry seemed sorry, and he promised not to follow her in the street
again. And never thinking that it was he who had written the letter she
received a few days after, she asked Annie, the upper housemaid, to read
it. It contained reference to meetings and unalterable affection, and it
concluded with a promise to marry her if she lost her situation through
his fault. Esther listened like one stunned. A schoolboy's folly, the
first silly sentimentality of a boy, a thing lighter than the lightest
leaf that falls, had brought disaster upon her.
If Annie had not seen the letter she might have been able to get the boy
to listen to reason; but Annie had seen the letter, and Annie could not be
trusted. The story would be sure to come out, and then she would lose her
character as well as her situation. It was a great pity. Her mistress had
promised to have her taught cooking at South Kensington, and a cook's
wages would secure her and her child against all ordinary accidents. She
would never get such a chance again, and would remain a kitchen-maid to
the end of her days. And acting on the impulse of the moment she went
straight to the drawing-room. Her mistress was alone, and Esther handed
her the letter. "I thought you had better see this at once, ma'am. I did
not want you to think it was my fault. Of course the young gentleman means
no harm."
"Has anyone seen this letter?"
"I showed it to Annie. I'm no scholar myself, and the writing was
difficult."
"You have no reason for supposing----How often did Master Harry speak to
you in this way?"
"Only twice, ma'am."
"Of course it is only a little foolishness. I needn't say that he doesn't
mean what he says."
"I told him, ma'am, that if he continued I should lose my situation."
"I'm sorry to part with you, Esther, but I really think that the best way
will be for you to leave. I am much obliged to you for showing me this
letter. Master Harry, you see, says that he is going away to the country
for a week. He left this morning. So I really think that a month's wages
will settle matters nicely. You are an excellent servant, and I shall be
glad to recommend you."
Then Esther heard her mistress mutter something about the danger of
good-looking servants. And Esther was paid a month's wages, and left that
afternoon.