Esther Waters Part 29

"Yes, it is me all right. What are you doing up here? Got tired of service? Come and have a drink, old gal."

"No, thank you; I'm glad to have seen you, Margaret, but I've a train to catch."

"That won't do," said Margaret, catching her by the arm; "we must have a drink and a talk over old times."

Esther felt that if she did not have something she would faint before she reached Ludgate Hill, and Margaret led the way through the public-house, opening all the varnished doors, seeking a quiet corner. "What's the matter?" she said, startled at the pallor of Esther's face.

"Only a little faintness; I've not had anything to eat all day."

"Quick, quick, four of brandy and some water," Margaret cried to the barman, and a moment after she was holding the gla.s.s to her friend's lips.

"Not had anything to eat all day, dear? Then we'll have a bite and a sup together. I feel a bit peckish myself. Two sausages and two rolls and b.u.t.ter," she cried. Then the women had a long talk. Margaret told Esther the story of her misfortune.

The Barfields were all broken up. They had been very unlucky racing, and when the servants got the sack Margaret had come up to London. She had been in several situations. Eventually, one of her masters had got her into trouble, his wife had turned her out neck and crop, and what was she to do? Then Esther told how Master Harry had lost her her situation.

"And you left like that? Well I never! The better one behaves the worse one gets treated, and them that goes on with service find themselves in the end without as much as will buy them a Sunday dinner."

Margaret insisted on accompanying Esther, and they walked together as far as Wellington Street. "I can't go any further," and pointing to where London seemed to end in a piece of desolate sky, she said, "I live on the other side, in Stamford Street. You might come and see me. If you ever get tired of service you'll get decent rooms there."

Bad weather followed fine, and under a streaming umbrella Esther went from one address to another, her damp skirts clinging about her and her boots clogged with mud. She looked upon the change in the weather as unfortunate, for in getting a situation so much depended on personal appearance and cheerfulness of manner; and it is difficult to seem a right and tidy girl after two miles' walk through the rain.

One lady told Esther that she liked tall servants, another said she never engaged good-looking girls, and another place that would have suited her was lost through unconsciously answering that she was chapel. The lady would have nothing in her house but church. Then there were the disappointments occasioned by the letters which she received from people who she thought would have engaged her, saying they were sorry, but that they had seen some one whom they liked better.

Another week pa.s.sed and Esther had to p.a.w.n her clothes to get money for her train fare to London, and to keep the registry office supplied with stamps. Her prospects had begun to seem quite hopeless, and she lay awake thinking that she and Jackie must go back to the workhouse. They could not stop on at Mrs. Lewis's much longer. Mrs. Lewis had been very good to them, but Esther owed her two weeks' money. What was to be done? She had heard of charitable inst.i.tutions, but she was an ignorant girl and did not know how to make the necessary inquiries. Oh, the want of a little money--of a very little money; the thought beat into her brain. For just enough to hold on till the people came back to town.

One day Mrs. Lewis, who read the newspapers for her, came to her with an advertis.e.m.e.nt which she said seemed to read like a very likely chance.

Esther looked at the pence which remained out of the last dress that she had p.a.w.ned.

"I'm afraid," she said, "it will turn out like the others; I'm out of my luck."

"Don't say that," said Mrs. Lewis; "keep your courage up; I'll stick to you as long as I can."

The women had a good cry in each other's arms, and then Mrs. Lewis advised Esther to take the situation, even if it were no more than sixteen. "A lot can be done by constant saving, and if she gives yer 'er dresses and ten shillings for a Christmas-box, I don't see why you should not pull through. The baby shan't cost you more than five shillings a week till you get a situation as plain cook. Here is the address--Miss Rice, Avondale Road, West Kensington."

XXII

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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage.

This woman looked apprehensively at Esther, and when Esther said that she had come after the place a painful change of expression pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, "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 gla.s.s 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 ma.n.u.script, 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 gla.s.ses 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.