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Esther Waters

<h2 id="id00885" style="margin-top: 4em">XVII</h2> She was happy, her babe lay beside her. All her joints were loosened, and the long hospital days passed in gentle weariness. Lady visitors came and asked questions. Esther said that her father and mother lived in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, and she admitted that she had saved four pounds. There were two beds in this ward, and the woman who occupied the second bed declared herself to be destitute, without home, or money, or friends. She secured all sympathy and promises of help, and Esther was looked upon as a person who did not need assistance and ought to have known better. They received visits from a clergyman. He spoke to Esther of God's goodness and wisdom, but his exhortations seemed a little remote, and Esther was sad and ashamed that she was not more deeply stirred. Had it been her own people who came and knelt about her bed, lifting their voices in the plain prayers she was accustomed to, it might have been different; but this well-to-do clergyman, with his sophisticated speech, seemed foreign to her, and failed to draw her thoughts from the sleeping child. The ninth day passed, but Esther recovered slowly, and it was decided that she should not leave the hospital before the end of the third week. She knew that when she crossed the threshold of the hospital there would be no more peace for her; and she was frightened as she listened to the never-ending rumble of the street. She spent whole hours thinking of her dear mother, and longing for some news from home, and her face brightened when she was told that her sister had come to see her. "Jenny, what has happened; is mother very bad?" "Mother is dead, that's what I've come to tell you; I'd have come before, but——" "Mother dead! Oh, no, Jenny! Oh, Jenny, not my poor mother!" "Yes Esther. I knew it would cut you up dreadful; we was all very sorry, but she's dead. She's dead a long time now, I was just a-going to tell you——" "Jenny, what do you mean? Dead a long time?" "Well, she was buried more than a week ago. We were so sorry you couldn't be at the funeral. We was all there, and had crape on our dresses and father had crape on his 'at. We all cried, especially in church and about the grave, and when the sexton threw in the soil it sounded that hollow it made me sob. Julia, she lost her 'ead and asked to be buried with mother, and I had to lead her away; and then we went 'ome to dinner." "Oh, Jenny, our poor mother gone from us for ever! How did she die? Tell me, was it a peaceful death? Did she suffer?" "There ain't much to tell. Mother was taken bad almost immediately after you was with us the last time. Mother was that bad all the day long and all night too we could 'ardly stop in the 'ouse; it gave one just the creeps to listen to her crying and moaning." "And then?" "Why, then the baby was born. It was dead, and mother died of weakness; prostration the doctor called it." Esther hid her face in the pillow. Jenny waited, and an anxious look of self began to appear on the vulgar London street face. "Look 'ere, Esther, you can cry when I've gone; I've a deal to say to yer and time is short." "Oh, Jenny, don't speak like that! Father, was he kind to mother?" "I dunno that he thought much about it; he spent 'alf 'is time in the public, 'e did. He said he couldn't abide the 'ouse with a woman a-screaming like that. One of the neighbours came in to look after mother, and at last she had the doctor." Esther looked at her sister through streaming tears, and the woman in the other bed alluded to the folly of poor women being confined "in their own 'omes—in a 'ome where there is a drunken 'usband, and most 'omes is like that nowadays." At that moment Esther's baby awoke crying for the breast. The little lips caught at the nipple, the wee hand pressed the white curve, and in a moment Esther's face took that expression of holy solicitude which Raphael sublimated in the Virgin's downward-gazing eyes. Jenny watched the gluttonous lips, interested in the spectacle, and yet absorbed in what she had come to say to her sister. "Your baby do look 'ealthy." "Yes, and he is too, not an ache or a pain. He's as beautiful a boy as ever lived. But think of poor mother, Jenny, think of poor mother." "I do think of her, Esther. But I can't help seeing your baby. He's like you, Esther. I can see a look of you in 'is eyes. But I don't know that I should care to 'ave a baby meself—the expense comes very 'eavy on a poor girl." "Please God, my baby shall never want for anything as long as I can work for him. But, Jenny, my trouble will be a lesson to you. I hope you will always be a good girl, and never allow yourself to be led away; you promise me?" "Yes, I promise." "A 'ome like ours, a drunken father, and now that poor mother is gone it will be worse than ever. Jenny, you are the eldest and must do your best to look after the younger ones, and as much as possible to keep father from the public-house. I shall be away; the moment I'm well enough I must look out for a place." "That's just what I came to speak to you about. Father is going to Australia. He is that tired of England, and as he lost his situation on the railway he has made up his mind to emigrate. It is pretty well all arranged; he has been to an agency and they say he'll 'ave to pay two pounds a 'ead, and that runs to a lot of money in a big family like ours. So I'm likely to get left, for father says that I'm old enough to look after myself. He's willing to take me if I gets the money, not without. That's what I came to tell yer about." Esther understood that Jenny had come to ask for money. She could not give it, and lapsed into thinking of this sudden loss of all her family. She did not know where Australia was; she fancied that she had once heard that it took months to get there. But she knew that they were all going from her, they were going out on the sea in a great ship that would sail and sail further and further away. She could see the ship from her bedside, at first strangely distinct, alive with hands and handkerchiefs; she could distinguish all the children—Jenny, Julia, and little Ethel. She lost sight of their faces as the ship cleared the harbour. Soon after the ship was far away on the great round of waters, again a little while and all the streaming canvas not larger than a gull's wing, again a little while and the last speck on the horizon hesitated and disappeared. "What are you crying about, Esther? I never saw yer cry before. It do seem that odd." "I'm so weak. Mother's death has broken my heart, and now to know that I shall never see any one of you again." "It do seem 'ard. We shall miss you sadly. But I was going to say that father can't take me unless I finds two pounds. You won't see me stranded, will you, Esther?" "I cannot give you the money, Jenny. Father has had too much of my money already; there's 'ardly enough to see me through. I've only four pounds left. I cannot give you my child's money; God knows how we shall live until I can get to work again." "You're nearly well now. But if yer can't help me, yer can't. I don't know what's to be done. Father can't take me if I don't find the money." "You say the agency wants two pounds for each person?" "Yes, that's it." "And I've four. We might both go if it weren't for the baby, but I don't suppose they'd make any charge for a child on the breast." "I dunno. There's father; yer know what he is." "That's true. He don't want me; I'm not one of his. But, Jenny, dear, it is terrible to be left all alone. Poor mother dead, and all of you going to Australia. I shall never see one of you again." The conversation paused. Esther changed the baby from the left to the right breast, and Jenny tried to think what she had best say to induce her sister to give her the money she wanted. "If you don't give me the money I shall be left; it is hard luck, that's all, for there's fine chances for a girl, they says, out in Australia. If I remain 'ere I dunno what will become of me." "You had better look out for a situation. We shall see each other from time to time. It's a pity you don't know a bit of cooking, enough to take the place of kitchen-maid." "I only know that dog-making, and I've 'ad enough of that." "You can always get a situation as general servant in a lodging-'ouse." "Service in a lodging-'ouse! Not me. You know what that is. I'm surprised that you'd ask me." "Well, what are yer thinking of doing?" "I was thinking of going on in the pantomime as one of the hextra ladies, if they'll 'ave me." "Oh, Jenny, you won't do that, will you? A theatre is only sinfulness, as we 'ave always knowed." "You know that I don't 'old with all them preachy-preachy brethren says about the theatre." "I can't argue—I 'aven't the strength, and it interferes with the milk." And then, as if prompted by some association of ideas, Esther said, "I hope, Jenny, that you'll take example by me and will do nothing foolish; you'll always be a good girl." "Yes, if I gets the chance." "I'm sorry to 'ear you speak like that, and poor mother only just dead." The words that rose to Jenny's lips were: "A nice one you are, with a baby at your breast, to come a-lecturing me," but, fearing Esther's temper, she checked the dangerous words and said instead— "I didn't mean that I was a-going on the streets right away this very evening, only that a girl left alone in London without anyone to look to may go wrong in spite of herself, as it were." "A girl never need go wrong; if she does it is always 'er own fault." Esther spoke mechanically, but suddenly remembering her own circumstances she said: "I'd give you the money if I dared, but for the child's sake I mustn't." "You can afford it well enough—I wouldn't ask you if you couldn't. You'll be earning a pound a week presently." "A pound a week! What do you mean, Jenny?" "Yer can get that as wet-nurse, and yer food too." "How do yer know that, Jenny?" "A friend of mine who was 'ere last year told me she got it, and you can get it too if yer likes. Fancy a pound for the next six months, and everything found. Yer might spare me the money and let me go to Australia with the others." "I'd give yer the money if what you said was true." "Yer can easily find out what I say is the truth by sending for the matron. Shall I go and fetch her? I won't be a minute; you'll see what she says." A few moments after Jenny returned with a good-looking, middle-aged woman. On her face there was that testy and perplexed look that comes of much business and many interruptions. Before she had opened her lips her face had said: "Come, what is it? Be quick about it." "Father and the others is going to Australia. Mother's dead and was buried last week, so father says there's nothing to keep 'im 'ere, for there is better prospects out there. But he says he can't take me, for the agency wants two pounds a 'ead, and it was all he could do to find the money for the others. He is just short of two pounds, and as I'm the eldest barring Esther, who is 'is step-daughter, 'e says that I had better remain, that I'm old enough to get my own living, which is very 'ard on a girl, for I'm only just turned sixteen. So I thought that I would come up 'ere and tell my sister——" "But, my good girl, what has all this got to do with me? I can't give you two pounds to go to Australia. You are only wasting my time for nothing." "'Ear me out, missis. I want you to explain to my sister that you can get her a situation as a wet-nurse at a pound a week—that's the usual money they gets, so I told her, but she won't believe me; but if you tells her, she'll give me two pounds and I shall be able to go with father to Australia, where they says there is fine chances for a girl." The matron examined in critical disdain the vague skirt, the broken boots, and the misshapen hat, coming all the while to rapid conclusions regarding the moral value of this unabashed child of the gutter. "I think your sister will be very foolish if she gives you her money." "Oh, don't say that, missis, don't." "How does she know that your story is true? Perhaps you are not going to Australia at all." "Perhaps I'm not—that's just what I'm afraid of; but father is, and I can prove it to you. I've brought a letter from father—'ere it is; now, is that good enough for yer?" "Come, no impertinence, or I'll order you out of the hospital in double quick time," said the matron. "I didn't intend no impertinence," said Jenny humbly, "only I didn't like to be told I was telling lies when I was speaking the truth." "Well, I see that your father is going to Australia," the matron replied, returning the letter to Jenny; "you want your sister to give you her money to take you there too." "What I wants is for you to tell my sister that you can get her a situation as wet-nurse; then perhaps she'll give me the money." "If your sister wants to go out as wet-nurse, I daresay I could get her a pound a week." "But," said Esther, "I should have to put baby out at nurse." "You'll have to do that in any case," Jenny interposed; "you can't live for nine months on your savings and have all the nourishing food that you'll want to keep your milk going." "If I was yer sister I'd see yer further before I'd give yer my money. You must 'ave a cheek to come a-asking for it, to go off to Australia where a girl 'as chances, and yer sister with a child at the breast left behind. Well I never!" Jenny and the matron turned suddenly and looked at the woman in the opposite bed who had so unexpectedly expressed her views. Jenny was furious. "What odds is it to you?" she screamed; "what business is it of yours, coming poking your nose in my affairs?" "Come, now, I can't have any rowing," exclaimed the matron. "Rowing! I should like to know what business it is of 'ers." "Hush, hush, I can't have you interfering with my patients; another word and I'll order you out of the hospital." "Horder me out of the horspital! and what for? Who began it? No, missis, be fair; wait until my sister gives her answer." "Well, then, she must be quick about it—I can't wait about here all day." "I'll give my sister the money to take her to Australia if you say you can get me a situation as wet-nurse." "Yes, I think I can do that. It was four pounds five that you gave me to keep. I remember the amount, for since I've been here no one has come with half that. If they have five shillings they think they can buy half London." "My sister is very careful," said Jenny, sententiously. The matron looked sharply at her and said— "Now come along with me—I'm going to fetch your sister's money. I can't leave you here—you'd get quarrelling with my patients." "No, missis, indeed I won't say nothing to her." "Do as I tell you. Come along with me." So with a passing scowl Jenny expressed her contempt for the woman who had come "a-interfering in 'er business," and went after the matron, watching her every movement. When they came back Jenny's eyes were fixed on the matron's fat hand as if she could see the yellow metal through the fingers. "Here is your money," said the matron; "four pounds five. You can give your sister what you like." Esther held the four sovereigns and the two half-crowns in her hand for a moment, then she said— "Here, Jenny, are the two pounds you want to take you to Australia. I 'ope they'll bring you good luck, and that you'll think of me sometimes." "Indeed I will, Esther. You've been a good sister to me, indeed you 'ave; I shall never forget you, and will write to you…. It is very 'ard parting." "Come, come, never mind those tears. You have got your money; say good-bye to your sister and run along." "Don't be so 'eartless," cried Jenny, whose susceptibilities were now on the move. "'Ave yer no feeling; don't yer know what it is to bid good-bye to yer sister, and perhaps for ever?" Jenny flung herself into Esther's arms crying bitterly. "Oh, Esther, I do love you; yer 'ave been that kind to me I shall never forget it. I shall be very lonely without you. Write to me sometimes; it will be a comfort to hear how you are getting on. If I marry I'll send for you, and you'll bring the baby." "Do you think I'd leave him behind? Kiss 'im before you go." "Good-bye, Esther; take care of yourself." Esther was now alone in the world, and she remembered the night she walked home from the hospital and how cruel the city had seemed. She was now alone in that great wilderness with her child, for whom she would have to work for many, many years. How would it all end? Would she be able to live through it? Had she done right in letting Jenny have the money—her boy's money? She should not have given it; but she hardly knew what she was doing, she was so weak, and the news of her mother's death had overcome her. She should not have given Jenny her boy's money…. But perhaps it might turn out all right after all. If the matron got her a situation as wet-nurse she'd be able to pull through. "So they would separate us," she whispered, bending over the sleeping child. "There is no help for it, my poor darling. There's no help for it, no help for it." Next day Esther was taken out of bed. She spent part of the afternoon sitting in an easy-chair, and Mrs. Jones came to see her. The little old woman seemed like one whom she had known always, and Esther told her about her mother's death and the departure of her family for Australia. Perhaps a week lay between her and the beginning of the struggle which she dreaded. She had been told that they did not usually keep anyone in the hospital more than a fortnight. Three days after Mrs. Jones' visit the matron came into their room hurriedly. "I'm very sorry," she said, "but a number of new patients are expected; there's nothing for it but to get rid of you. It is a pity, for I can see you are both very weak." "What, me too?" said the woman in the other bed. "I can hardly stand; I tried just now to get across the room." "I'm very sorry, but we've new patients coming, and there's all our spring cleaning. Have you any place to go to?" "No place except a lodging," said Esther; "and I have only two pounds five now." "What's the use in taking us at all if you fling us out on the street when we can hardly walk?" said the other woman. "I wish I had gone and drowned myself. I was very near doing it. If I had it would be all over now for me and the poor baby." "I'm used to all this ingratitude," said the matron. "You have got through your confinement very comfortably, and your baby is quite healthy; I hope you'll try and keep it so. Have you any money?" "Only four-and-sixpence." "Have you got any friends to whom you can go?" "No." "Then you'll have to apply for admission to the workhouse." The woman made no answer, and at that moment two sisters came and forcibly began to dress her. She fell back from time to time in their arms, almost fainting. "Lord, what a job!" said one sister; "she's just like so much lead in one's arms. But if we listened to them we should have them loafing here over a month more." Esther did not require much assistance, and the sister said, "Oh, you are as strong as they make 'em; you might have gone two days ago." "You're no better than brutes," Esther muttered. Then, turning to the matron, she said, "You promised to get me a situation as wet-nurse." "Yes, so I did, but the lady who I intended to recommend you to wrote this morning to say that she had suited herself." "But do you think you could get me a situation as wet-nurse?" said the other woman; "it would save me from going to the workhouse." "I really don't know what to do with you all; you all want to stop in the hospital at least a month, eating and drinking the best of everything, and then you want situations as wet-nurses at a pound a week." "But," said Esther, indignantly, "I never should have given my sister two pounds if you had not told me you could get me the situation." "I'm sorry," said the matron, "to have to send you away. I should like to have kept you, but really there is no help for it. As for the situation, I'll do the best I can. It is true that place I intended for you is filled up, but there will be another shortly, and you shall have the first. Give me your address. I shall not keep you long waiting, you can depend upon me. You are still very weak, I can see that. Would you like to have one of the nurses to walk round with you? You had better—you might fall and hurt the baby. My word, he is a fine boy." "Yes, he is a beautiful boy; it will break my heart to part with him." Some eight or nine poor girls stood outside, dressed alike in dingy garments. They were like half-dead flies trying to crawl through an October afternoon; and with their babies and a keen wind blowing, they found it difficult to hold on their hats. "It do catch you a bit rough, coming out of them 'ot rooms," said a woman standing by her. "I'm that weak I can 'ardly carry my baby. I dunno 'ow I shall get as far as the Edgware Road. I take my 'bus there. Are you going that way?" "No, I'm going close by, round the corner." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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