She stood on the platform watching the receding train. A few bushes hid
the curve of the line; the white vapour rose above them, evaporating in
the grey evening. A moment more and the last carriage would pass out of
sight. The white gates swung slowly forward and closed over the line.
An oblong box painted reddish brown lay on the seat beside her. A woman of
seven or eight and thirty, stout and strongly built, short arms and
hard-worked hands, dressed in dingy black skirt and a threadbare jacket
too thin for the dampness of a November day. Her face was a blunt outline,
and the grey eyes reflected all the natural prose of the Saxon.
The porter told her that he would try to send her box up to Woodview
to-morrow.... That was the way to Woodview, right up the lane. She could
not miss it. She would find the lodge gate behind that clump of trees. And
thinking how she could get her box to Woodview that evening, she looked at
the barren strip of country lying between the downs and the shingle beach.
The little town clamped about its deserted harbour seemed more than ever
like falling to pieces like a derelict vessel, and when Esther passed over
the level crossing she noticed that the line of little villas had not
increased; they were as she had left them eighteen years ago, laurels,
iron railing, antimacassars. It was about eighteen years ago, on a
beautiful June day, that she had passed up this lane for the first time.
At the very spot she was now passing she had stopped to wonder if she
would be able to keep the place of kitchen-maid. She remembered regretting
that she had not a new dress; she had hoped to be able to brighten up the
best of her cotton prints with a bit of red ribbon. The sun was shining,
and she had met William leaning over the paling in the avenue smoking his
pipe. Eighteen years had gone by, eighteen years of labour, suffering,
disappointment. A great deal had happened, so much that she could not
remember it all. The situations she had been in; her life with that dear
good soul, Miss Rice, then Fred Parsons, then William again; her marriage,
the life in the public-house, money lost and money won, heart-breakings,
death, everything that could happen had happened to her. Now it all seemed
like a dream. But her boy remained to her. She had brought up her boy,
thank God, she had been able to do that. But how had she done it? How
often had she found herself within sight of the workhouse? The last time
was no later than last week. Last week it had seemed to her that she would
have to accept the workhouse. But she had escaped, and now here she was
back at the very point from which she started, going back to Woodview,
going back to Mrs. Barfield's service.
William's illness and his funeral had taken Esther's last few pounds away
from her, and when she and Jack came back from the cemetery she found that
she had broken into her last sovereign. She clasped him to her bosom--he
was a tall boy of fifteen--and burst into tears. But she did not tell him
what she was crying for. She did not say, "God only knows how we shall
find bread to eat next week;" she merely said, wiping away her tears, "We
can't afford to live here any longer. It's too expensive for us now that
father's gone." And they went to live in a slum for three-and-sixpence a
week. If she had been alone in the world she would have gone into a
situation, but she could not leave the boy, and so she had to look out for
charing. It was hard to have to come down to this, particularly when she
remembered that she had had a house and a servant of her own; but there
was nothing for it but to look out for some charing, and get along as best
she could until Jack was able to look after himself. But the various
scrubbings and general cleaning that had come her way had been so badly
paid that she soon found that she could not make both ends meet. She would
have to leave her boy and go out as a general servant. And as her
necessities were pressing, she accepted a situation in a coffee-shop in
the London Road. She would give all her wages to Jack, seven shillings a
week, and he would have to live on that. So long as she had her health she
did not mind.
It was a squat brick building with four windows that looked down on the
pavement with a short-sighted stare. On each window was written in letters
of white enamel, "Well-aired beds." A board nailed to a post by the
side-door announced that tea and coffee were always ready. On the other
side of the sign was an upholsterer's, and the vulgar brightness of the
Brussels carpets seemed in keeping with the slop-like appearance of the
coffeehouse.
Sometimes a workman came in the morning; a couple more might come in about
dinner-time. Sometimes they took rashers and bits of steak out of their
pockets.
"Won't you cook this for me, missis?"
But it was not until about nine in the evening that the real business of
the house began, and it continued till one, when the last straggler
knocked for admittance. The house lived on its beds. The best rooms were
sometimes let for eight shillings a night, and there were four beds which
were let at fourpence a night in the cellar under the area where Esther
stood by the great copper washing sheets, blankets, and counterpanes, when
she was not cleaning the rooms upstairs. There was a double-bedded room
underneath the kitchen, and over the landings, wherever a space could be
found, the landlord, who was clever at carpentering work, had fitted up
some sort of closet place that could be let as a bedroom. The house was a
honeycomb. The landlord slept under the roof, and a corner had been found
for his housekeeper, a handsome young woman, at the end of the passage.
Esther and the children--the landlord was a widower--slept in the
coffee-room upon planks laid across the tops of the high backs of the
benches where the customers mealed. Mattresses and bedding were laid on
these planks and the sleepers lay, their faces hardly two feet from the
ceiling. Esther slept with the baby, a little boy of five; the two big
boys slept at the other end of the room by the front door. The eldest was
about fifteen, but he was only half-witted; and he helped in the
housework, and could turn down the beds and see quicker than any one if
the occupant had stolen sheet or blanket. Esther always remembered how he
would raise himself up in bed in the early morning, rub the glass, and
light a candle so that he could be seen from below. He shook his head if
every bed was occupied, or signed with his fingers the prices of the beds
if they had any to let.
The landlord was a tall, thin man, with long features and hair turning
grey. He was very quiet, and Esther was surprised one night at the
abruptness with which he stopped a couple who were going upstairs.
"Is that your wife?" he said.
"Yes, she's my wife all right."
"She don't look very old."
"She's older than she looks."
Then he said, half to Esther, half to his housekeeper, that it was hard to
know what to do. If you asked them for their marriage certificates they'd
be sure to show you something. The housekeeper answered that they paid
well, and that was the principal thing. But when an attempt was made to
steal the bedclothes the landlord and his housekeeper were more severe. As
Esther was about to let a most respectable woman out of the front door,
the idiot boy called down the stairs, "Stop her! There's a sheet missing."
"Oh, what in the world is all this? I haven't got your sheet. Pray let me
pass; I'm in a hurry."
"I can't let you pass until the sheet is found."
"You'll find it upstairs under the bed. It's got mislaid. I'm in a hurry."
"Call in the police," shouted the idiot boy.
"You'd better come upstairs and help me to find the sheet," said Esther.
The woman hesitated a moment, and then walked up in front of Esther. When
they were in the bedroom she shook out her petticoats, and the sheet fell
on the floor.
"There, now," said Esther, "a nice botheration you'd 've got me into. I
should've had to pay for it."
"Oh, I could pay for it; it was only because I'm not very well off at
present."
"Yes, you _will_ pay for it if you don't take care," said Esther.
It was very soon after that Esther had her mother's books stolen from her.
They had not been doing much business, and she had been put to sleep in
one of the bedrooms. The room was suddenly wanted, and she had no time to
move all her things, and when she went to make up the room she found that
her mother's books and a pair of jet earrings that Fred had given her had
been stolen. She could do nothing; the couple who had occupied the room
were far away by this time. There was no hope of ever recovering her books
and earrings, and the loss of these things caused her a great deal of
unhappiness. The only little treasure she possessed were those earrings;
now they were gone, she realised how utterly alone she was in the world.
If her health were to break down to-morrow she would have to go to the
workhouse. What would become of her boy? She was afraid to think; thinking
did no good. She must not think, but must just work on, washing the
bedclothes until she could wash no longer. Wash, wash, all the week long;
and it was only by working on till one o'clock in the morning that she
sometimes managed to get the Sabbath free from washing. Never, not even in
the house in Chelsea, had she had such hard work, and she was not as
strong now as she was then. But her courage did not give way until one
Sunday Jack came to tell her that the people who employed him had sold
their business.
Then a strange weakness came over her. She thought of the endless week of
work that awaited her in the cellar, the great copper on the fire, the
heaps of soiled linen in the corner, the steam rising from the wash-tub,
and she felt she had not sufficient strength to get through another week
of such work. She looked at her son with despair in her eyes. She had
whispered to him as he lay asleep under her shawl, a tiny infant, "There
is nothing for us, my poor boy, but the workhouse," and the same thought
rose up in her mind as she looked at him, a tall lad with large grey eyes
and dark curling hair. But she did not trouble him with her despair. She
merely said--
"I don't know how we shall pull through, Jack. God will help us."
"You're washing too hard, mother. You're wasting away. Do you know no one,
mother, who could help us?"
She looked at Jack fixedly, and she thought of Mrs. Barfield. Mrs.
Barfield might be away in the South with her daughter. If she were at
Woodview Esther felt sure that she would not refuse to help her. So Jack
wrote at Esther's dictation, and before they expected an answer, a letter
came from Mrs. Barfield saying that she remembered Esther perfectly well.
She had just returned from the South. She was all alone at Woodview, and
wanted a servant. Esther could come and take the place if she liked. She
enclosed five pounds, and hoped that the money would enable Esther to
leave London at once.
But this returning to former conditions filled Esther with strange
trouble. Her heart beat as she recognised the spire of the church between
the trees, and the undulating line of downs behind the trees awakened
painful recollections. She knew the white gate was somewhere in this
plantation, but could not remember its exact position; and she took the
road to the left instead of taking the road to the right, and had to
retrace her steps. The gate had fallen from its hinge, and she had some
difficulty in opening it. The lodge where the blind gatekeeper used to
play the flute was closed; the park paling had not been kept in repair;
wandering sheep and cattle had worn away the great holly hedge; and Esther
noticed that in falling an elm had broken through the garden wall.
When she arrived at the iron gate under the bunched evergreens, her steps
paused. For this was where she had met William for the first time. He had
taken her through the stables and pointed out to her Silver Braid's box.
She remembered the horses going to the downs, horses coming from the
downs--stabling and the sound of hoofs everywhere. But now silence. She
could see that many a roof had fallen, and that ruins of outhouses filled
the yard. She remembered the kitchen windows, bright in the setting sun,
and the white-capped servants moving about the great white table. But now
the shutters were up, nowhere a light; the knocker had disappeared from
the door, and she asked herself how she was to get in. She even felt
afraid.... Supposing she should not find Mrs. Barfield. She made her way
through the shrubbery, tripping over fallen branches and trunks of trees;
rooks rose out of the evergreens with a great clatter, her heart stood
still, and she hardly dared to tear herself through the mass of underwood.
At last she gained the lawn, and, still very frightened, sought for the
bell. The socket plate hung loose on the wire, and only a faint tinkle
came through the solitude of the empty house.
At last footsteps and a light; the chained door was opened a little, and a
voice asked who it was. Esther explained; the door was opened, and she
stood face to face with her old mistress. Mrs. Barfield stood, holding the
candle high, so that she could see Esther. Esther knew her at once. She
had not changed very much. She kept her beautiful white teeth and her
girlish smile; the pointed, vixen-like face had not altered in outline,
but the reddish hair was so thin that it had to be parted on the side and
drawn over the skull; her figure was delicate and sprightly as ever.
Esther noticed all this, and Mrs. Barfield noticed that Esther had grown
stouter. Her face was still pleasant to see, for it kept that look of
blunt, honest nature which had always been its charm. She was now the
thick-set working woman of forty, and she stood holding the hem of her
jacket in her rough hands.
"We'd better put the chain up, for I'm alone in the house."
"Aren't you afraid, ma'am?"
"A little, but there's nothing to steal. I asked the policeman to keep a
look-out. Come into the library."
There was the round table, the little green sofa, the piano, the parrot's
cage, and the yellow-painted presses; and it seemed only a little while
since she had been summoned to this room, since she had stood facing her
mistress, her confession on her lips. It seemed like yesterday, and yet
seventeen years and more had gone by. And all these years were now a sort
of a blur in her mind--a dream, the connecting links of which were gone,
and she stood face to face with her old mistress in the old room.
"You've had a cold journey, Esther; you'd like some tea?"
"Oh, don't trouble, ma'am."
"It's no trouble; I should like some myself. The fire's out in the
kitchen. We can boil the kettle here."
They went through the baize door into the long passage. Mrs. Barfield told
Esther where was the pantry, the kitchen, and the larder. Esther answered
that she remembered quite well, and it seemed to her not a little strange
that she should know these things. Mrs. Barfield said--
"So you haven't forgotten Woodview, Esther?"
"No, ma'am. It seems like yesterday.... But I'm afraid the damp has got
into the kitchen, ma'am, the range is that neglected----"
"Ah, Woodview isn't what it was."
Mrs. Barfield told how she had buried her husband in the old village
church. She had taken her daughter to Egypt; she had dwindled there till
there was little more than a skeleton to lay in the grave.
"Yes, ma'am, I know how it takes them, inch by inch. My husband died of
consumption."
They sat talking for hours. One thing led to another and Esther gradually
told Mrs. Barfield the story of her life from the day they bade each other
good-bye in the room they were now sitting in.
"It is quite a romance, Esther."
"It was a hard fight, and it isn't over yet, ma'am. It won't be over until
I see him settled in some regular work. I hope I shall live to see him
settled."