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Esther Waters

<h2 id="id01222" style="margin-top: 4em">XX</h2> Those who came to the workhouse for servants never offered more than fourteen pounds a year, and these wages would not pay for her baby's keep out at nurse. Her friend the matron did all she could, but it was always fourteen pounds. "We cannot afford more." At last an offer of sixteen pounds a year came from a tradesman in Chelsea; and the matron introduced Esther to Mrs. Lewis, a lonely widowed woman, who for five shillings a week would undertake to look after the child. This would leave Esther three pounds a year for dress; three pounds a year for herself. What luck! The shop was advantageously placed at a street corner. Twelve feet of fronting on the King's Road, and more than half that amount on the side street, exposed to every view wall papers and stained glass designs. The dwelling-house was over the shop; the shop entrance faced the kerb in the King's Road. The Bingleys were Dissenters. They were ugly, and exacted the uttermost farthing from their customers and their workpeople. Mrs. Bingley was a tall, gaunt woman, with little grey ringlets on either side of her face. She spoke in a sour, resolute voice, when she came down in a wrapper to superintend the cooking. On Sundays she wore a black satin, fastened with a cameo brooch, and round her neck a long gold chain. Then her manners were lofty, and when her husband called "Mother," she answered testily, "Don't keep on mothering me." She frequently stopped him to settle his necktie or collar. All the week he wore the same short jacket; on Sundays he appeared in an ill-fitting frock-coat. His long upper lip was clean shaven, but under his chin there grew a ring of discoloured hair, neither brown nor red, but the neutral tint that hair which does not turn grey acquires. When he spoke he opened his mouth wide, and seemed quite unashamed of the empty spaces and the three or four yellow fangs that remained. John, the elder of the two brothers, was a silent youth whose one passion seemed to be eavesdropping. He hung round doors in the hopes of overhearing his sisters' conversation and if he heard Esther and the little girl who helped Esther in her work talking in the kitchen, he would steal cautiously halfway down the stairs. Esther often thought that his young woman must be sadly in want of a sweetheart to take on with one such as he. "Come along, Amy," he would cry, passing out before her; and not even at the end of a long walk did he offer her his arm; and they came strolling home just like boy and girl. Hubert, John's younger brother, was quite different. He had escaped the family temperament, as he had escaped the family upper lip. He was the one spot of colour in a somewhat sombre household, and Esther liked to hear him call back to his mother, "All right, mother, I've got the key; no one need wait up for me. I'll make the door fast." "Oh, Hubert, don't be later than eleven. You are not going out dancing again, are you? Your father will have the electric bell put on the door, so that he may know when you come in." The four girls were all ruddy-complexioned and long upper-lipped. The eldest was the plainest; she kept her father's books, and made the pastry. The second and third entertained vague hopes of marriage. The youngest was subject to hysterics, fits of some kind. The Bingleys' own house was representative of their ideas, and the taste they had imposed upon the neighbourhood. The staircase was covered with white drugget, and the white enamelled walls had to be kept scrupulously clean. There were no flowers in the windows, but the springs of the blinds were always in perfect order. The drawing-room was furnished with substantial tables, cabinets and chairs, and antimacassars, long and wide, and china ornaments and glass vases. There was a piano, and on this instrument, every Sunday evening, hymns were played by one of the young ladies, and the entire family sang in the chorus. It was into this house that Esther entered as general servant, with wages fixed at sixteen pounds a year. And for seventeen long hours every day, for two hundred and thirty hours every fortnight, she washed, she scrubbed, she cooked, she ran errands, with never a moment that she might call her own. Every second Sunday she was allowed out for four, perhaps for four and a half hours; the time fixed was from three to nine, but she was expected to be back in time to get the supper ready, and if it were many minutes later than nine there were complaints. She had no money. Her quarter's wages would not be due for another fortnight, and as they did not coincide with her Sunday out, she would not see her baby for another three weeks. She had not seen him for a month, and a great longing was in her heart to clasp him in her arms again, to feel his soft cheek against hers, to take his chubby legs and warm, fat feet in her hands. The four lovely hours of liberty would slip by, she would enter on another long fortnight of slavery. But no matter, only to get them, however quickly they sped from her. She resigned herself to her fate, her soul rose in revolt, and it grew hourly more difficult for her to renounce this pleasure. She must pawn her dress—the only decent dress she had left. No matter, she must see the child. She would be able to get the dress out of pawn when she was paid her wages. Then she would have to buy herself a pair of boots; and she owed Mrs. Lewis a good deal of money. Five shillings a week came to thirteen pound a year, leaving her three pound a year for boots and clothes, journeys back and forward, and everything the baby might want. Oh, it was not to be done—she never would be able to pull through. She dare not pawn her dress; if she did she'd never be able to get it out again. At that moment something bright lying on the floor, under the basin-stand, caught her eye. It was half-a-crown. She looked at it, and as the temptation came into her heart to steal, she raised her eyes and looked round the room. She was in John's room—in the sneak's room. No one was about. She would have cut off one of her fingers for the coin. That half-crown meant pleasure and a happiness so tender and seductive that she closed her eyes for a moment. The half-crown she held between forefinger and thumb presented a ready solution of the besetting difficulty. She threw out the insidious temptation, but it came quickly upon her again. If she did not take the half-crown she would not be able to go Peckham on Sunday. She could replace the money where she found it when she was paid her wages. No one knew it was there; it had evidently rolled there, and having tumbled between the carpet and the wall had not been discovered. It had probably lain there for months, perhaps it was utterly forgotten. Besides, she need not take it now. It would be quite safe if she put it back in its place; on Sunday afternoon she would take it, and if she changed it at once—It was not marked. She examined it all over. No, it was not marked. Then the desire paused, and she wondered how she, an honest girl, who had never harboured a dishonest thought in her life before, could desire to steal; a bitter feeling of shame came upon her. It was a case of flying from temptation, and she left the room so hurriedly that John, who was spying in the passage, had not time either to slip downstairs or to hide in his brother's room. They met face to face. "Oh, I beg pardon, sir, but I found this half-crown in your room." "Well, there's nothing wonderful in that. What are you so agitated about? I suppose you intended to return it to me?" "Intended to return it! Of course." An expression of hate and contempt leaped into her handsome grey eyes, and, like a dog's, the red lip turned down. She suddenly understood that this pasty-faced, despicable chap had placed the coin where it might have accidentally rolled, where she would be likely to find it. He had complained that morning that she did not keep his room sufficiently clean! It was a carefully-laid plan, he was watching her all the while, and no doubt thought that it was his own indiscretion that had prevented her from falling into the snare. Without a word Esther dropped the half-crown at his feet and returned to her work; and all the time she remained in her present situation she persistently refused to speak to him; she brought him what he asked for, but never answered him, even with a Yes or No. It was during the few minutes' rest after dinner that the burden of the day pressed heaviest upon her; then a painful weariness grew into her limbs, and it seemed impossible to summon strength and will to beat carpets or sweep down the stairs. But if she were not moving about before the clock struck, Mrs. Bingley came down to the kitchen. "Now, Esther, is there nothing for you to do?" And again, about eight o'clock, she felt too tired to bear the weight of her own flesh. She had passed through fourteen hours of almost unintermittent toil, and it seemed to her that she would never be able to summon up sufficient courage to get through the last three hours. It was this last summit that taxed all her strength and all her will. Even the rest that awaited her at eleven o'clock was blighted by the knowledge of the day that was coming; and its cruel hours, long and lean and hollow-eyed, stared at her through the darkness. She was often too tired to rest, and rolled over and over in her miserable garret bed, her whole body aching. Toil crushed all that was human out of her; even her baby was growing indifferent to her. If it were to die! She did not desire her baby's death, but she could not forget what the baby-farmer had told her—the burden would not become lighter, it would become heavier and heavier. What would become of her? Was there no hope? She buried her face in her pillow, seeking to escape from the passion of her despair. She was an unfortunate girl, and had missed all her chances. In the six months she had spent in the house in Chelsea her nature had been strained to the uttermost, and what we call chance now came to decide the course of her destiny. The fight between circumstances and character had gone till now in favour of character, but circumstances must call up no further forces against character. A hair would turn the scale either way. One morning she was startled out of her sleep by a loud knocking at the door. It was Mrs. Bingley, who had come to ask her if she knew what time it was. It was nearly seven o'clock. But Mrs. Bingley could not blame her much, having herself forgotten to put on the electric bell, and Esther hurried through her dressing. But in hurrying she happened to tread on her dress, tearing it right across. It was most unfortunate, and just when she was most in a hurry. She held up the torn skirt. It was a poor, frayed, worn-out rag that would hardly bear mending again. Her mistress was calling her; there was nothing for it but to run down and tell her what had happened. "Haven't you got another dress that you can put on?" "No, ma'am." "Really, I can't have you going to the door in that thing. You don't do credit to my house; you must get yourself a new dress at once." Esther muttered that she had no money to buy one. "Then I don't know what you do with your money." "What I do with my wages is my affair; I've plenty of use for my money." "I cannot allow any servant of mine to speak to me like that." Esther did not answer, and Mrs. Bingley continued— "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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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