It was the beginning of August, and London yawned in every street; the
dust blew unslaked, and a little cloud curled and disappeared over the
crest of the hill at Hyde Park Corner; the streets and St. George's Place
looked out with blind, white eyes; and in the deserted Park the trees
tossed their foliage restlessly, as if they wearied and missed the fashion
of their season. And all through Park Lane and Mayfair, caretakers and
gaunt cats were the traces that the caste on which Esther depended had
left of its departed presence. She was coming from the Alexandra Hotel,
where she had heard a kitchen-maid was wanted. Mrs. Lewis had urged her to
wait until people began to come back to town. Good situations were rarely
obtainable in the summer months; it would be bad policy to take a bad one,
even if it were only for a while. Besides, she had saved a little money,
and, feeling that she required a rest, had determined to take this advice.
But as luck would have it Jackie fell ill before she had been at Dulwich a
week. His illness made a big hole in her savings, and it had become
evident that she would have to set to work and at once.
She turned into the park. She was going north, to a registry office near
Oxford Street, which Mrs. Lewis had recommended. Holborn Row was difficult
to find, and she had to ask the way very often, but she suddenly knew that
she was in the right street by the number of servant-girls going and
coming from the office, and in company with five others Esther ascended a
gloomy little staircase. The office was on the first floor. The doors were
open, and they passed into a special odour of poverty, as it were, into an
atmosphere of mean interests.
Benches covered with red plush were on either side, and these were
occupied by fifteen or twenty poorly-dressed women. A little old woman,
very white and pale, stood near the window recounting her misfortunes to
no one in particular.
"I lived with her more than thirty years; I brought up all the children. I
entered her service as nurse, and when the children grew up I was given
the management of everything. For the last fifteen years my mistress was a
confirmed invalid. She entrusted everything to me. Oftentimes she took my
hand and said, 'You are a good creature, Holmes, you mustn't think of
leaving me; how should I get on without you?' But when she died they had
to part with me; they said they were very sorry, and wouldn't have thought
of doing so, only they were afraid I was getting too old for the work. I
daresay I was wrong to stop so long in one situation. I shouldn't have
done so, but she always used to say, 'You mustn't leave us; we never shall
be able to get on without you.'"
At that moment the secretary, an alert young woman with a decisive voice,
came through the folding doors.
"I will not have all this talking," she said. Her quick eyes fell on the
little old woman, and she came forward a few steps. "What, you here again,
Miss Holmes? I've told you that when I hear of anything that will suit you
I'll write."
"So you said, Miss, but my little savings are running short. I'm being
pressed for my rent."
"I can't help that; when I hear of anything I'll write. But I can't have
you coming here every third day wasting my time; now run along." And
having made casual remarks about the absurdity of people of that age
coming after situations, she called three or four women to her desk, of
whom Esther was one. She examined them critically, and seemed especially
satisfied with Esther's appearance.
"It will be difficult," she said, "to find you the situation you want
before people begin to return to town. If you were only an inch or two
taller I could get you a dozen places as housemaid; tall servants are all
the fashion, and you are the right age--about five-and-twenty."
Esther left a dozen stamps with her, and soon after she began to receive
letters containing the addresses of ladies who required servants. They
were of all sorts, for the secretary seemed to exercise hardly any
discrimination, and Esther was sent on long journeys from Brixton to
Notting Hill to visit poor people who could hardly afford a
maid-of-all-work. These useless journeys were very fatiguing. Sometimes
she was asked to call at a house in Bayswater, and thence she had to go to
High Street, Kensington, or Earl's Court; a third address might be in
Chelsea. She could only guess which was the best chance, and while she was
hesitating the situation might be given away. Very often the ladies were
out, and she was asked to call later in the day. These casual hours she
spent in the parks, mending Jackie's socks or hemming pocket
handkerchiefs, so she was frequently delayed till evening; and in the
mildness of the summer twilight, with some fresh disappointment lying
heavy on her heart, she made her way from the Marble Arch round the barren
Serpentine into Piccadilly, with its stream of light beginning in the
sunset.
And standing at the kerb of Piccadilly Circus, waiting for a 'bus to take
her to Ludgate Hill Station, the girl grew conscious of the moving
multitude that filled the streets. The great restaurants rose up calm and
violet in the evening sky, the Café Monico, with its air of French
newspapers and Italian wines; and before the grey façade of the
fashionable Criterion hansoms stopped and dinner parties walked across the
pavement. The fine weather had brought the women up earlier than usual
from the suburbs. They came up the long road from Fulham, with white
dresses floating from their hips, and feather boas waving a few inches
from the pavement. But through this elegant disguise Esther could pick out
the servant-girls. Their stories were her story. They had been deserted,
as she had been; and perhaps each had a child to support, only they had
not been so lucky as she had been in finding situations.
But now luck seemed to have deserted her. It was the middle of September
and she had not yet been able to find the situation she wanted; and it had
become more and more distressing to her to refuse sixteen pound a year.
She had calculated it all out, and nothing less than eighteen pound was of
any use to her. With eighteen pound and a kind mistress who would give her
an old dress occasionally she could do very well. But if she didn't find
these two pounds she did not know what she should do. She might drag on
for a time on sixteen pound, but such wages would drive her in the end
into the workhouse. If it were not for the child! But she would never
desert her darling boy, who loved her so dearly, come what might. A sudden
imagination let her see him playing in the little street, waiting for her
to come home, and her love for him went to her head like madness. She
wondered at herself; it seemed almost unnatural to love anything as she
did this child.
Then, in a shiver of fear, determined to save her 'bus fare, she made her
way through Leicester Square. She was a good-looking girl, who hastened
her steps when addressed by a passer-by or crossed the roadway in sullen
indignation, and who looked in contempt on the silks and satins which
turned into the Empire, and she seemed to lose heart utterly. She had been
walking all day and had not tasted food since the morning, and the
weakness of the flesh brought a sudden weakness of the spirit. She felt
that she could struggle no more, that the whole world was against her--she
felt that she must have food and drink and rest. All this London tempted
her, and the cup was at her lips. A young man in evening clothes had
spoken to her. His voice was soft, the look in his eyes seemed kindly.
Thinking of the circumstances ten minutes later it seemed to her that she
had intended to answer him. But she was now at Charing Cross. There was a
lightness, an emptiness in her head which she could not overcome, and the
crowd appeared to her like a blurred, noisy dream. And then the dizziness
left her, and she realised the temptation she had escaped. Here, as in
Piccadilly, she could pick out the servant girls; but here their service
was yesterday's lodging-house--poor and dissipated girls, dressed in vague
clothes fixed with hazardous pins. Two young women strolled in front of
her. They hung on each other's arms, talking lazily. They had just come
out of an eating-house, and a happy digestion was in their eyes. The skirt
on the outside was a soiled mauve, and the bodice that went with it was a
soiled chocolate. A broken yellow plume hung out of a battered hat. The
skirt on the inside was a dim green, and little was left of the cotton
velvet jacket but the cotton. A girl of sixteen walking sturdily, like a
little man, crossed the road, her left hand thrust deep into the pocket of
her red cashmere dress. She wore on her shoulders a strip of beaded
mantle; her hair was plaited and tied with a red ribbon. Corpulent women
passed, their eyes liquid with invitation; and the huge bar-loafer, the
man of fifty, the hooked nose and the waxed moustache, stood at the door
of a restaurant, passing the women in review.
A true London of the water's edge--a London of theatres, music-halls,
wine-shops, public-houses--the walls painted various colours, nailed over
with huge gold lettering; the pale air woven with delicate wire, a
gossamer web underneath which the crowd moved like lazy flies, one half
watching the perforated spire of St. Mary's, and all the City spires
behind it now growing cold in the east, the other half seeing the spire of
St. Martin's above the chimney-pots aloft in a sky of cream pink. Stalwart
policemen urged along groups of slattern boys and girls; and after vulgar
remonstrance these took the hint and disappeared down strange passages.
Suddenly Esther came face to face with a woman whom she recognised as
Margaret Gale.
"What, is it you, Margaret?"
"Yes, it is me all right. What are you doing up here? Got tired of
service? Come and have a drink, old gal."
"No, thank you; I'm glad to have seen you, Margaret, but I've a train to
catch."
"That won't do," said Margaret, catching her by the arm; "we must have a
drink and a talk over old times."
Esther felt that if she did not have something she would faint before she
reached Ludgate Hill, and Margaret led the way through the public-house,
opening all the varnished doors, seeking a quiet corner. "What's the
matter?" she said, startled at the pallor of Esther's face.
"Only a little faintness; I've not had anything to eat all day."
"Quick, quick, four of brandy and some water," Margaret cried to the
barman, and a moment after she was holding the glass to her friend's lips.
"Not had anything to eat all day, dear? Then we'll have a bite and a sup
together. I feel a bit peckish myself. Two sausages and two rolls and
butter," she cried. Then the women had a long talk. Margaret told Esther
the story of her misfortune.
The Barfields were all broken up. They had been very unlucky racing, and
when the servants got the sack Margaret had come up to London. She had
been in several situations. Eventually, one of her masters had got her
into trouble, his wife had turned her out neck and crop, and what was she
to do? Then Esther told how Master Harry had lost her her situation.
"And you left like that? Well I never! The better one behaves the worse
one gets treated, and them that goes on with service find themselves in
the end without as much as will buy them a Sunday dinner."
Margaret insisted on accompanying Esther, and they walked together as far
as Wellington Street. "I can't go any further," and pointing to where
London seemed to end in a piece of desolate sky, she said, "I live on the
other side, in Stamford Street. You might come and see me. If you ever get
tired of service you'll get decent rooms there."
Bad weather followed fine, and under a streaming umbrella Esther went from
one address to another, her damp skirts clinging about her and her boots
clogged with mud. She looked upon the change in the weather as
unfortunate, for in getting a situation so much depended on personal
appearance and cheerfulness of manner; and it is difficult to seem a right
and tidy girl after two miles' walk through the rain.
One lady told Esther that she liked tall servants, another said she never
engaged good-looking girls, and another place that would have suited her
was lost through unconsciously answering that she was chapel. The lady
would have nothing in her house but church. Then there were the
disappointments occasioned by the letters which she received from people
who she thought would have engaged her, saying they were sorry, but that
they had seen some one whom they liked better.
Another week passed and Esther had to pawn her clothes to get money for
her train fare to London, and to keep the registry office supplied with
stamps. Her prospects had begun to seem quite hopeless, and she lay awake
thinking that she and Jackie must go back to the workhouse. They could not
stop on at Mrs. Lewis's much longer. Mrs. Lewis had been very good to
them, but Esther owed her two weeks' money. What was to be done? She had
heard of charitable institutions, but she was an ignorant girl and did not
know how to make the necessary inquiries. Oh, the want of a little
money--of a very little money; the thought beat into her brain. For just
enough to hold on till the people came back to town.
One day Mrs. Lewis, who read the newspapers for her, came to her with an
advertisement which she said seemed to read like a very likely chance.
Esther looked at the pence which remained out of the last dress that she
had pawned.
"I'm afraid," she said, "it will turn out like the others; I'm out of my
luck."
"Don't say that," said Mrs. Lewis; "keep your courage up; I'll stick to
you as long as I can."
The women had a good cry in each other's arms, and then Mrs. Lewis advised
Esther to take the situation, even if it were no more than sixteen. "A lot
can be done by constant saving, and if she gives yer 'er dresses and ten
shillings for a Christmas-box, I don't see why you should not pull
through. The baby shan't cost you more than five shillings a week till you
get a situation as plain cook. Here is the address--Miss Rice, Avondale
Road, West Kensington."