Avondale Road was an obscure corner of the suburb--obscure, for it had
just sprung into existence. The scaffolding that had built it now littered
an adjoining field, where in a few months it would rise about Horsely
Gardens, whose red gables and tiled upper walls will correspond
unfailingly with those of Avondale Road. Nowhere in this neighbourhood
could Esther detect signs of eighteen pounds a year. Scanning the Venetian
blinds of the single drawing-room window, she said to herself, "Hot joint
today, cold the next." She noted the trim iron railings and the spare
shrubs, and raising her eyes she saw the tiny gable windows of the
cupboard-like rooms where the single servant kept in these houses slept.
A few steps more brought her to 41, the corner house. The thin passage and
the meagre staircase confirmed Esther in the impression she had received
from the aspect of the street; and she felt that the place was more
suitable to the gaunt woman with iron-grey hair who waited in the passage.
This woman looked apprehensively at Esther, and when Esther said that she
had come after the place a painful change of expression passed over her
face, and she said--
"You'll get it; I'm too old for anything but charing. How much are you
going to ask?"
"I can't take less than sixteen."
"Sixteen! I used to get that once; I'd be glad enough to get twelve now.
You can't think of sixteen once you've turned forty, and I've lost my
teeth, and they means a couple of pound off."
Then the door opened, and a woman's voice called to the gaunt woman to
come in. She went in, and Esther breathed a prayer that she might not be
engaged. A minute intervened, and the gaunt woman came out; there were
tears in her eyes, and she whispered to Esther as she passed, "No good; I
told you so. I'm too old for anything but charing." The abruptness of the
interview suggested a hard mistress, and Esther was surprised to find
herself in the presence of a slim lady, about seven-and-thirty, whose
small grey eyes seemed to express a kind and gentle nature. As she stood
speaking to her, Esther saw a tall glass filled with chrysanthemums and a
large writing-table covered with books and papers. There was a bookcase,
and in place of the usual folding-doors, a bead curtain hung between the
rooms.
The room almost said that the occupant was a spinster and a writer, and
Esther remembered that she had noticed even at the time Miss Rice's
manuscript, it was such a beautiful clear round hand, and it lay on the
table, ready to be continued the moment she should have settled with her.
"I saw your advertisement in the paper, miss; I've come after the
situation."
"You are used to service?"
"Yes, miss, I've had several situations in gentlemen's families, and have
excellent characters from them all." Then Esther related the story of her
situations, and Miss Rice put up her glasses and her grey eyes smiled. She
seemed pleased with the somewhat rugged but pleasant-featured girl before
her.
"I live alone," she said; "the place is an easy one, and if the wages
satisfy you, I think you will suit me very well. My servant, who has been
with me some years, is leaving me to be married."
"What are the wages, miss?"
"Fourteen pounds a year."
"I'm afraid, miss, there would be no use my taking the place; I've so many
calls on my money that I could not manage on fourteen pounds. I'm very
sorry, for I feel sure I should like to live with you, miss."
But what was the good of taking the place? She could not possibly manage
on fourteen, even if Miss Rice did give her a dress occasionally, and that
didn't look likely. All her strength seemed to give way under her
misfortune, and it was with difficulty that she restrained her tears.
"I think we should suit each other," Miss Rice said reflectively.
"I should like to have you for my servant if I could afford it. How much
would you take?"
"Situated, as I am, miss, I could not take less than sixteen. I've been
used to eighteen."
"Sixteen pounds is more than I can afford, but I'll think it over. Give me
your name and address."
"Esther Waters, 13 Poplar Road, Dulwich."
As Esther turned to go she became aware of the kindness of the eyes that
looked at her. Miss Rice said--
"I'm afraid you're in trouble.... Sit down; tell me about it."
"No, miss, what's the use?" But Miss Rice looked at her so kindly that
Esther could not restrain herself. "There's nothing for it," she said,
"but to go back to the workhouse."
"But why should you go to the workhouse? I offer you fourteen pounds a
year and everything found."
"You see, miss, I've a baby; we've been in the workhouse already; I had to
go there the night I left my situation, to get him away from Mrs. Spires;
she wanted to kill him; she'd have done it for five pounds--that's the
price. But, miss, my story is not one that can be told to a lady such as
you."
"I think I'm old enough to listen to your story; sit down, and tell it to
me."
And all the while Miss Rice's eyes were filled with tenderness and pity.
"A very sad story--just such a story as happens every day. But you have
been punished, you have indeed."
"Yes, miss, I think I have; and after all these years of striving it is
hard to have to take him back to the workhouse. Not that I want to give
out that I was badly treated there, but it is the child I'm thinking of.
He was then a little baby and it didn't matter; we was only there a few
months. There's no one that knows of it but me. But he's a growing boy
now, he'll remember the workhouse, and it will be always a disgrace."
"How old is he?"
"He was six last May, miss. It has been a hard job to bring him up. I now
pay six shillings a week for him, that's more than fourteen pounds a year,
and you can't do much in the way of clothes on two pounds a year. And now
that he's growing up he's costing more than ever; but Mrs. Lewis--that's
the woman what has brought him up--is as fond of him as I am myself. She
don't want to make nothing out of his keep, and that's how I've managed up
to the present. But I see well enough that it can't be done; his expense
increases, and the wages remains the same. It was my pride to bring him up
on my earnings, and my hope to see him an honest man earning good money.
But it wasn't to be, miss, it wasn't to be. We must be humble and go back
to the workhouse."
"I can see that it has been a hard fight."
"It has indeed, miss; no one will ever know how hard. I shouldn't mind if
it wasn't going to end by going back to where it started.... They'll take
him from me; I shall never see him while he is there. I wish I was dead,
miss, I can't bear my trouble no longer."
"You shan't go back to the workhouse so long as I can help you. Esther,
I'll give you the wages you ask for. It is more than I can afford.
Eighteen pounds a year! But your child shall not be taken from you. You
shall not go to the workhouse. There aren't many such good women in the
world as you, Esther."