Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

“And all this time you were deceiving us.”

  “I was three months gone before I knew it myself, ma’am.”

  “Three months! Then for three months you have knelt every Sunday in prayer in this room, for twelve Sundays you sat by me learning to read, and you never said a word?”

  A certain harshness in Mrs. Barfield’s voice awakened a rebellious spirit in Esther, and a lowering expression gathered above her eyes. She said —

  “Had I told you, you would have sent me away then and there. I had only a quarter’s wages, and should have starved or gone and drowned myself.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you speak like that, Esther.”

  “It is trouble that makes me, ma’am, and I have had a great deal.”

  “Why did you not confide in me? I have not shown myself cruel to you, have I?”

  “No, indeed, ma’am. You are the best mistress a servant ever had, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Why, ma’am, it is this way…. I hated being deceitful — indeed I did. But I can no longer think of myself. There is another to think for now.”

  There was in Mrs. Barfield’s look something akin to admiration, and she felt she had not been wholly wrong in her estimate of the girl’s character; she said, and in a different intonation —

  “Perhaps you were right, Esther. I couldn’t have kept you on, on account of the bad example to the younger servants. I might have helped you with money. But six months alone in London and in your condition! …I am glad you did not tell me, Esther; and as you say there is another to think of now, I hope you will never neglect your child, if God give it to you alive.”

  “I hope not, ma’am; I shall try and do my best.”

  “My poor girl! my poor girl! you do not know what trial is in store for you. A girl like you, and only twenty! …Oh, it is a shame! May God give you courage to bear up in your adversity!”

  “I know there is many a hard time before me, but I have prayed for strength, and God will give me strength, and I must not complain. My case is not so bad as many another. I have nearly eight pounds. I shall get on, ma’am, that is to say if you will stand by me and not refuse me a character.”

  “Can I give you a character? You were tempted, you were led into temptation. I ought to have watched over you better — mine is the responsibility. Tell me, it was not your fault.”

  “It is always a woman’s fault, ma’am. But he should not have deserted me as he did, that’s the only thing I reproach him with, the rest was my fault — I shouldn’t have touched the second glass of ale. Besides, I was in love with him, and you know what that is. I thought no harm, and I let him kiss me. He used to take me out for walks on the hill and round the farm. He told me he loved me, and would make me his wife — that’s how it was. Afterwards he asked me to wait till after the Leger, and that riled me, and I knew then how wicked I had been. I would not go out with him or speak to him any more; and while our quarrel was going on Miss Peggy went after him, and that’s how I got left.”

  At the mention of Peggy’s name a cloud passed over Mrs. Barfield’s face. “You have been shamefully treated, my poor child. I knew nothing of all this. So he said he would marry you if he won his bet on the Leger? Oh, that betting! I know that nothing else is thought of here; upstairs and downstairs, the whole place is poisoned with it, and it is the fault of—” Mrs. Barfield walked hurriedly across the room, but when she turned the sight of Esther provoked her into speech. “I have seen it all my life, nothing else, and I have seen nothing come of it but sin and sorrow; you are not the first victim. Ah, what ruin, what misery, what death!”

  Mrs. Barfield covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out the memories that crowded upon her.

  “I think, ma’am, if you will excuse my saying so, that a great deal of harm do come from this betting on race-horses. The day when you was all away at Goodwood when the horse won, I went down to see what the sea was like here. I was brought up by the seaside at Barnstaple. On the beach I met Mrs. Leopold, that is to say Mrs. Randal, John’s wife; she seemed to be in great trouble, she looked that melancholy, and for company’s sake she asked me to come home to tea with her. She was in that state of mind, ma’am, that she forgot the teaspoons were in pawn, and when she could not give me one she broke down completely, and told me what her troubles had been.”

  “What did she tell you, Esther?”

  “I hardly remember, ma’am, but it was all the same thing — ruin if the horse didn’t win, and more betting if he did. But she said they never had been in such a fix as the day Silver Braid won. If he had been beaten they would have been thrown out on the street, and from what I have heard the best half of the town too.”

  “So that little man has suffered. I thought he was wiser than the rest…. This house has been the ruin of the neighbourhood; we have dispensed vice instead of righteousness.” Walking towards the window, Mrs. Barfield continued to talk to herself. “I have struggled against the evil all my life, and without result. How much more misery shall I see come of it?” Turning then to Esther she said, “Yes, the betting is an evil — one from which many have suffered — but the question is now about yourself, Esther. How much money have you?”

  “I have about eight pounds, ma’am.”

  “And how much do you reckon will see you through it?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am, I have no experience. I think father will let me stay at home if I can pay my way. I could manage easily on seven shillings a week. When my time comes I shall go to the hospital.”

  While Esther spoke Mrs. Barfield calculated roughly that about ten pounds would meet most of her wants. Her train fare, two month’s board at seven shillings a week, the room she would have to take near the hospital before her confinement, and to which she would return with her baby — all these would run to about four or five pounds. There would be baby’s clothes to buy…. If she gave four pounds Esther would have then twelve pounds, and with that she would be able to manage. Mrs. Barfield went over to an old-fashioned escritoire, and, pulling out some small drawers, took from one some paper packages which she unfolded. “Now, my girl, look here. I’m going to give you four pounds; then you will have twelve, and that ought to see you through your trouble. You have been a good servant, Esther; I like you very much, and am truly sorry to part with you. You will write and tell me how you are getting on, and if one of these days you want a place, and I have one to give you, I shall be glad to take you back.”

  Harshness deadened and hardened her feelings, yet she was easily moved by kindness, and she longed to throw herself at her mistress’s feet; but her nature did not admit of such effusion, and she said, in her blunt English way —

  “You are far too good, ma’am; I do not deserve such treatment — I know I don’t.”

  “Say no more, Esther. I hope that the Lord may give you strength to bear your cross…. Now go and pack up your box. But, Esther, do you feel your sin, can you truly say honestly before God that you repent?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I think I can say all that.”

  “Then, Esther, come and kneel down and pray to God to give you strength in the future to stand against temptation.”

  Mrs. Barfield took Esther’s hand and they knelt down by the round table, leaning their hands on its edge. And, in a high, clear voice, Mrs. Barfield prayed aloud, Esther repeating the words after her —

  “Dear Lord, Thou knowest all things, knowest how Thy servant has strayed and has fallen into sin. But Thou hast said there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just men. Therefore, Lord, kneeling here before Thee, we pray that this poor girl, who repents of the evil she has done, may be strengthened in Thy mercy to stand firm against temptation. Forgive her sin, even as Thou forgavest the woman of Samaria. Give her strength to walk uprightly before Thee, and give her strength to bear the pain and the suffering that lie before her.”

  The women rose from their knees and stood looking at each other. Esther’s eyes w
ere full of tears. Without speaking she turned to go.

  “One word more, Esther. You asked me just now for a character; I hesitated, but it seems to me now that it would be wrong to refuse. If I did you might never get a place, and then it would be impossible to say what might happen. I am not certain that I am doing right, but I know what it means to refuse to give a servant a character, and I cannot take upon myself the responsibility.”

  Mrs. Barfield wrote out a character for Esther, in which she described her as an honest, hard-working girl. She paused at the word “reliable,” and wrote instead, “I believe her to be at heart a thoroughly religious girl.”

  She went upstairs to pack her box, and when she came down she found all the women in the kitchen; evidently they were waiting for her. Coming forward, Sarah said —

  “I hope we shall part friends, Esther; any quarrels we may have had — There’s no ill-feeling now, is there?”

  “I bear no one any ill-feeling. We have been friends these last months; indeed, everyone has been very kind to me.” And Esther kissed Sarah on both cheeks.

  “I’m sure we’re all sorry to lose you,” said Margaret, pressing forward, “and we hope you’ll write and let us know how you are getting on.”

  Margaret, who was a tender-hearted girl, began to cry, and, kissing Esther, she declared that she had never got on with a girl who slept in her room so well before. Esther shook hands with Grover, and then her eyes met Mrs. Latch’s. The old woman took her in her arms.

  “It breaks my heart to think that one belonging to me should have done you such a wrong — But if you want for anything let me know, and you shall have it. You will want money; I have some here for you.”

  “Thank you, thank you, but I have all I want. Mrs. Barfield has been very good to me.”

  The babbling of so many voices drew Mr. Leopold from the pantry; he came with a glass of beer in his hand, and this suggested a toast to Sarah. “Let’s drink baby’s health,” she said. “Mr. Leopold won’t refuse us the beer.”

  The idea provoked some good-natured laughter, and Esther hid her face in her hands and tried to get away. But Margaret would not allow her. “What nonsense!” she said. “We don’t think any the worse of you; why that’s an accident that might happen to any of us.”

  “I hope not,” said Esther.

  The jug of beer was finished; she was kissed and hugged again, some tears were shed, and Esther walked down the yard through the stables.

  The avenue was full of wind and rain; the branches creaked dolefully overhead; the lane was drenched, and the bare fields were fringed with white mist, and the houses seemed very desolate by the bleak sea; and the girl’s soul was desolate as the landscape. She had come to Woodview to escape the suffering of a home which had become unendurable, and she was going back in circumstances a hundred times worse than those in which she had left it, and she was going back with the memory of the happiness she had lost. All the grief and trouble that girls of her class have so frequently to bear gathered in Esther’s heart when she looked out of the railway carriage window and saw for the last time the stiff plantations on the downs and the angles of the Italian house between the trees. She drew her handkerchief from her jacket, and hid her distress as well as she could from the other occupants of the carriage.

  XIII

  WHEN SHE ARRIVED at Victoria it was raining. She picked up her skirt, and as she stepped across a puddle a wild and watery wind swept up the wet streets, catching her full in the face.

  She had left her box in the cloak-room, for she did not know if her father would have her at home. Her mother would tell her what she thought, but no one could say for certain what he would do. If she brought the box he might fling it after her into the street; better come without it, even if she had to go back through the wet to fetch it. At that moment another gust drove the rain violently over her, forcing it through her boots. The sky was a tint of ashen grey, and all the low brick buildings were veiled in vapour; the rough roadway was full of pools, and nothing was heard but the melancholy bell of the tram-car. She hesitated, not wishing to spend a penny unnecessarily, but remembering that a penny wise is often a pound foolish she called to the driver and got in. The car passed by the little brick street where the Saunders lived, and when Esther pushed the door open she could see into the kitchen and overhear the voices of the children. Mrs. Saunders was sweeping down the stairs, but at the sound of footsteps she ceased to bang the broom, and, stooping till her head looked over the banisters, she cried —

  “Who is it?”

  “Me, mother.”

  “What! You, Esther?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  Mrs. Saunders hastened down, and, leaning the broom against the wall, she took her daughter in her arms and kissed her. “Well, this is nice to see you again, after this long while. But you are looking a bit poorly, Esther.” Then her face changed expression. “What has happened? Have you lost your situation?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “Oh, I am that sorry, for we thought you was so ‘appy there and liked your mistress above all those you ‘ad ever met with. Did you lose your temper and answer her back? They is often trying, I know that, and your own temper — you was never very sure of it.”

  “I’ve no fault to find with my mistress; she is the kindest in the world — none better, — and my temper — it wasn’t that, mother—”

  “My own darling, tell me—”

  Esther paused. The children had ceased talking in the kitchen, and the front door was open. “Come into the parlour. We can talk quietly there…. When do you expect father home?”

  “Not for the best part of a couple of hours yet.”

  Mrs. Saunders waited until Esther had closed the front door. Then they went into the parlour and sat down side by side on the little horsehair sofa placed against the wall facing the window. The anxiety in their hearts betrayed itself on their faces.

  “I had to leave, mother. I’m seven months gone.”

  “Oh, Esther, Esther, I cannot believe it!”

  “Yes, mother, it is quite true.”

  Esther hurried through her story, and when her mother questioned her regarding details she said —

  “Oh, mother, what does it matter? I don’t care to talk about it more than I can help.”

  Tears had begun to roll down Mrs. Saunders’ cheeks, and when she wiped them away with the corner of her apron, Esther heard a sob.

  “Don’t cry, mother,” said Esther. “I have been very wicked, I know, but God will be good to me. I always pray to him, just as you taught me to do, and I daresay I shall get through my trouble somehow.”

  “Your father will never let you stop ’ere; ‘e’ll say, just as afore, that there be too many mouths to feed as it is.”

  “I don’t want him to keep me for nothing — I know well enough if I did that ‘e’d put me outside quick enough. But I can pay my way. I earned good money while I was with the Barfields, and though she did tell me I must go, Mrs. Barfield — the Saint they call her, and she is a saint if ever there was one — gave me four pounds to see me, as she said, through my trouble. I’ve better than eleven pound. Don’t cry, mother dear; crying won’t do no good, and I want you to help me. So long as the money holds out I can get a lodging anywhere, but I’d like to be near you; and father might be glad to let me have the parlour and my food for ten or eleven shillings a week — I could afford as much as that, and he never was the man to turn good money from his door. Do yer think he will?”

  “I dunno, dearie; ’tis hard to say what ‘e’ll do; he’s a ‘ard man to live with. I’ve ‘ad a terrible time of it lately, and them babies allus coming. Ah, we poor women have more than our right to bear with!”

  “Poor mother!” said Esther, and, taking her mother’s hand in hers, she passed her arm round her, drew her closer, and kissed her. “I know what he was; is he any worse now?”

  “Well, I think he drinks more, and is even rougher. It was only the other day, just as I w
as attending to his dinner — it was a nice piece of steak, and it looked so nice that I cut off a weany piece to taste. He sees me do it, and he cries out, ‘Now then, guts, what are you interfering with my dinner for?’ I says, ‘I only cut off a tiny piece to taste.’ ‘Well, then, taste that,’ he says, and strikes me clean between the eyes. Ah, yes, lucky for you to be in service; you’ve half forgot by now what we’ve to put up with ’ere.”

  “You was always that soft with him, mother; he never touched me since I dashed the hot water in his face.”

  “Sometimes I thinks I can bear it no longer, Esther, and long to go and drown meself. Jenny and Julia — you remember little Julia; she ‘as grown up such a big girl, and is getting on so well — they are both at work now in the kitchen. Johnnie gives us a deal of trouble; he cannot tell a word of truth; father took off his strap the other day and beat him dreadful, but it ain’t no use. If it wasn’t for Jenny and Julia I don’t think we should ever make both ends meet; but they works all day at the dogs, and at the warehouse their dogs is said to be neater and more lifelike than any other. Their poor fingers is worn away cramming the paper into the moulds; but they never complains, no more shouldn’t I if he was a bit gentler and didn’t take more than half of what he earns to the public-’ouse. I was glad you was away, Esther, for you allus was of an ‘asty temper and couldn’t ‘ave borne it. I don’t want to make my troubles seem worse than they be, but sometimes I think I will break up, ‘special when I get to thinking what will become of us and all them children, money growing less and expenses increasing. I haven’t told yer, but I daresay you have noticed that another one is coming. It is the children that breaks us poor women down altogether. Ah, well, yours be the hardest trouble, but you must put a brave face on it; we’ll do the best we can; none of us can say no more.”

  Mrs. Saunders wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; Esther looked at her with her usual quiet, stubborn stare, and without further words mother and daughter went into the kitchen where the girls were at work. It was a long, low room, with one window looking on a small back-yard, at the back of which was the coal-hole, the dust-bin, and a small outhouse. There was a long table and a bench ran along the wall. The fireplace was on the left-hand side; the dresser stood against the opposite wall; and amid the poor crockery, piled about in every available space, were the toy dogs, some no larger than your hand, others almost as large as a small poodle. Jenny and Julia had been working busily for some days, and were now finishing the last few that remained of the order they had received from the shop they worked for. Three small children sat on the floor tearing the brown paper, which they handed as it was wanted to Jenny and Julia. The big girls leaned over the table in front of iron moulds, filling them with brown paper, pasting it down, tucking it in with strong and dexterous fingers.