Esther Waters Part 27

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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 circ.u.mstances and character had gone till now in favour of character, but circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sage between a brick wall and a high paling. She had always to carry him through this pa.s.sage, for the ground there was sloppy and dirty, and the child wanted to stop to watch the pigs through the c.h.i.n.ks 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 gla.s.ses 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 Suss.e.x 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 pa.s.sage.

"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."