by George Moore
“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.”
XVIII
HER HAIR HUNG about her, her hands and wrists were shrunken, her flesh was soft and flabby, and she had dark shadows in her face. Nursing her child seemed to draw all strength from her, and her nervous depression increased; she was too weary and ill to think of the future, and for a whole week her physical condition held her, to the exclusion of every other thought. Mrs. Jones was very kind, and only charged her ten shillings a week for her board and lodging, but this was a great deal when only two pounds five shillings remained between her and the workhouse, and this fact was brought home to her when Mrs. Jones came to her for the first week’s money. Ten shillings gone; only one pound fifteen shillings left, and still she was so weak that she could hardly get up and down stairs. But if she were twice as weak, if she had to crawl along the street on her hands and knees, she must go to the hospital and implore the matron to get her a situation as wet-nurse. It was raining heavily, and Mrs. Jones said it was madness for her to go out in such weather, but go she must; and though it was distant only a few hundred yards, she often thought she would like to lie down and die. And at the hospital only disappointment. Why hadn’t she called yesterday? Yesterday two ladies of title had come and taken two girls away. Such a chance might not occur for some time. “For some time,” thought Esther; “very soon I shall have to apply for admission at the workhouse.” She reminded the matron of her promise, and returned home more dead than alive. Mrs. Jones helped her to change her clothes, and bade her be of good heart. Esther looked at her hopelessly, and sitting down on the edge of her bed she put the baby to her breast.
Another week passed. She had been to the hospital every day, but no one had been to inquire for a wet-nurse. Her money was reduced to a few shillings, and she tried to reconcile herself to the idea that she might do worse than to accept the harsh shelter of the workhouse. Her nature revolted against it; but she must do what was best for the child. She often asked herself how it would all end, and the more she thought, the more terrible did the future seem. Her miserable meditations were interrupted by a footstep on the stairs. It was Mrs. Jones, coming to tell her that a lady who wanted a wet-nurse had come from the hospital; and a lady entered dressed in a beautiful brown silk, and looked around the humble room, clearly shocked at its poverty. Esther, who was sitting on the bed, rose to meet the fine lady, a thin woman, with narrow temples, aquiline features, bright eyes, and a disagreeable voice.
“You are the young person who wants a situation as wet-nurse?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you married?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Is that your first child?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ah, that’s a pity. But it doesn’t matter much, so long as you and your baby are healthy. Will you show it to me?”
“He is asleep now, ma’am,” Esther said, raising the bed-clothes; “there never was a healthier child.”
“Yes, he seems healthy enough. You have a good supply of milk?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Fifteen shillings, and all found. Does that suit you?”
“I had expected a pound a week.”
“It is only your first baby. Fifteen shillings is quite enough. Of course I only engage you subject to the doctor’s approval. I’ll ask him to call.”
“Very well, ma’am; I shall be glad of the place.”
“Then it is settled. You can come at once?”
“I must arrange to put my baby out to nurse, ma’am.”
The lady’s face clouded. But following up another train of thought, she said —
“Of course you must arrange about your baby, and I hope you’ll make proper arrangements. Tell the woman in whose charge you leave it that I shall want to see it every three weeks. It will be better so,” she added under her breath, “for two have died already.”
“This is my card,” said the lady— “Mrs. Rivers, Curzon Street, Mayfair — and I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon — that is to say, if the doctor approves of you. Here is one-and-sixpence for your cab fare.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I shall expect you not later than four o’clock. I hope you won’t disappoint me; remember my child is waiting.”
When Mrs. Rivers left, Esther consulted with Mrs. Jones. The difficulty was now where she should put the child out at nurse. It was now just after two o’clock. The baby was fast asleep, and would want nothing for three or four hours. It would be well for Esther to put on her hat and jacket and go off at once. Mrs. Jones gave her the address of a respectable woman who used to take charge of children. But this woman was nursing twins, and could not possibly undertake the charge of another baby. And Esther visited many streets, always failing for one reas
on or another. At last she found herself in Wandsworth, in a battered tumble-down little street, no thoroughfare, only four houses and a coal-shed. Broken wooden palings stood in front of the small area into which descent was made by means of a few wooden steps. The wall opposite seemed to be the back of some stables, and in the area of No. 3 three little mites were playing. The baby was tied in a chair, and a short fat woman came out of the kitchen at Esther’s call, her dirty apron sloping over her high stomach, and her pale brown hair twisted into a knot at the top of her head.
“Well, what is it?”
“I came about putting a child out to nurse. You are Mrs. Spires, ain’t yer?”
“Yes, that’s my name. May I ask who sent you?”
Esther told her, and then Mrs. Spires asked her to step down into the kitchen.
“Them ’ere children you saw in the area I looks after while their mothers are out washing or charing. They takes them ‘ome in the evening. I only charges them four-pence a-day, and it is a loss at that, for they does take a lot of minding. What age is yours?”
“Mine is only a month old. I’ve a chance to go out as wet-nurse if I can find a place to put him out at nurse. Will you look after my baby?”
“How much do you think of paying for him?”
“Five shillings a week.”
“And you a-going out as wet-nurse at a pound a week; you can afford more than that.”
“I’m only getting fifteen shillings a week.”
“Well, you can afford to pay six. I tell you the responsibility I of looking after a hinfant is that awful nowadays that I don’t care to undertake it for less.”
Esther hesitated; she did not like this woman.
“I suppose,” said the woman, altering her tone to one of mild interrogation, “you would like your baby to have the best of everything, and not the drainings of any bottle that’s handy?”
“I should like my child to be well looked after, and I must see the child every three weeks.”
“Do you expect me to bring up the child to wherever the lady lives, and pay my ‘bus fare, all out of five shillings a week? It can’t be done!” Esther did not answer. “You ain’t married, of course?” Mrs. Spires said suddenly.
“No, I ain’t; what about that?”
“Oh, nothing; there is so many of you, that’s all. You can’t lay yer ‘and on the father and get a bit out of ’im?”
The conversation paused. Esther felt strangely undecided. She looked round suspiciously, and noticing the look the woman said —
“Your baby will be well looked after ’ere; a nice warm kitchen, and I’ve no other babies for the moment; them children don’t give no trouble, they plays in the area. You had better let me have the child; you won’t do better than ’ere.”
Esther promised to think it over and let her know to-morrow. It took her many omnibuses to get home, and it was quite dark when she pushed the door to. The first thing that caught her ear was her child crying. “What is the matter?” she cried, hurrying down the passage.
“Oh, is that you? You have been away a time. The poor child is that hungry he has been crying this hour or more. If I’d ‘ad a bottle I’d ‘ave given him a little milk.”
“Hungry, is he? Then he shall have plenty soon. It is nearly the last time I shall nurse the poor darling.” Then she told Mrs. Jones about Mrs. Spires, and both women tried to arrive at a decision.
“Since you have to put the child out to nurse, you might as well put him there as elsewhere; the woman will look after him as well as she can — she’ll do that, if it is for the sake of the six shillings a week.”
“Yes, yes, I know; but I’ve always heard that children die that are put out to nurse. If mine died I never should forgive myself.”
She could not sleep; she lay with her arms about her baby, distracted at the thought of parting from him. What had she done that her baby should be separated from her? What had the poor little darling done? He at least was innocent; why should he be deprived of his mother? At midnight she got up and lighted a candle, looked at him, took him in her arms, squeezed him to her bosom till he cried, and the thought came that it would be sweeter to kill him with her own hands than to be parted from him.
The thought of murder went with the night, and she enjoyed the journey to Wandsworth. Her baby laughed and cooed, and was much admired in the omnibus, and the little street where Mrs. Spires lived seemed different. A cart of hay was being unloaded, and this gave the place a pleasant rural air. Mrs. Spires, too, was cleaner, tidier; Esther no longer disliked her; she had a nice little cot ready for the baby, and he seemed so comfortable in it that Esther did not feel the pangs at parting which she had expected to feel. She would see him in a few weeks, and in those weeks she would be richer. It seemed quite wonderful to earn so much money in so short a time. She had had a great deal of bad luck, but her luck seemed to have turned at last. So engrossed was she in the consideration of her good fortune that she nearly forgot to get out of her ‘bus at Charing Cross, and had it not been for the attention of the conductor might have gone on, she did not know where — perhaps to Clerkenwell, or may be to Islington. When the second ‘bus turned into Oxford Street she got out, not wishing to spend more money than was necessary. Mrs. Jones approved of all she had done, helped her to pack up her box, and sent her away with many kind wishes to Curzon Street in a cab.
Esther was full of the adventure and the golden prospect before her. She wondered if the house she was going to was as grand as Woodview, and she was struck by the appearance of the maidservant who opened the door to her.
“Oh, here you are,” Mrs. Rivers said. “I have been anxiously expecting you; my baby is not at all well. Come up to the nursery at once. I don’t know your name,” she said, turning to Esther.
“Waters, ma’am.”
“Emily, you’ll see that Waters’ box is taken to her room.”
“I’ll see to it, ma’am.”
“Then come up at once, Waters. I hope you’ll succeed better than the others.”
A tall, handsome gentleman stood at the door of a room full of beautiful things, and as they went past him Mrs. Rivers said, “This is the new nurse, dear.” Higher up, Esther saw a bedroom of soft hangings and bright porcelain. Then another staircase, and the little wail of a child caught on the ear, and Mrs. Rivers said, “The poor little thing; it never ceases crying. Take it, Waters, take it.”
Esther sat down, and soon the little thing ceased crying.
“It seems to take to you,” said the anxious mother.
“So it seems,” said Esther; “it is a wee thing, not half the size of my boy.”
“I hope the milk will suit it, and that it won’t bring up what it takes. This is our last chance.”
“I daresay it will come round, ma’am. I suppose you weren’t strong enough to nurse it yourself, and yet you looks healthy.”
“I? No, I could not undertake to nurse it.” Then, glancing suspiciously at Esther, whose breast was like a little cup, Mrs. Rivers said, “I hope you have plenty of milk?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am; they said at the hospital I could bring up twins.”
“Your supper will be ready at nine. But that will be a long time for you to wait. I told them to cut you some sandwiches, and you’ll have a glass of porter. Or perhaps you’d prefer to wait till supper? You can have your supper, you know, at eight, if you like?”
Esther took a sandwich and Mrs. Rivers poured out a glass of porter. And later in the evening Mrs. Rivers came down from her drawing-room to see that Esther’s supper was all right, and not satisfied with the handsome fare that had been laid before her child’s nurse, she went into the kitchen and gave strict orders that the meat for the future was not to be quite so much cooked.
Henceforth it seemed to Esther that she was eating all day. The food was doubtless necessary after the great trial of the flesh she had been through, likewise pleasant after her long abstinences. She grew happy in the tide of new blood flowing in her veins,
and might easily have abandoned herself in the seduction of these carnal influences. But her moral nature was of tough fibre, and made mute revolt. Such constant mealing did not seem natural, and the obtuse brain of this lowly servant-girl was perplexed. Her self-respect was wounded; she hated her position in this house, and sought consolation in the thought that she was earning good money for her baby. She noticed, too, that she never was allowed out alone, and that her walks were limited to just sufficient exercise to keep her in health.
A fortnight passed, and one afternoon, after having put baby to sleep, she said to Mrs. Rivers, “I hope, ma’am, you’ll be able to spare me for a couple of hours; baby won’t want me before then. I’m very anxious about my little one.”
“Oh, nurse, I couldn’t possibly hear of it; such a thing is never allowed. You can write to the woman, if you like.”
“I do not know how to write, ma’am.”
“Then you can get some one to write for you. But your baby is no doubt all right.”
“But, ma’am, you are uneasy about your baby; you are up in the nursery twenty times a day; it is only natural I should be uneasy about mine.”
“But, nurse, I’ve no one to send with you.”
“There is no reason why any one should go with me, ma’am; I can take care of myself.”
“What! let you go off all the way to — where did you say you had left it — Wandsworth? — by yourself! I really couldn’t think of it. I don’t want to be unnecessarily hard — but I really couldn’t — no mother could. I must consider the interests of my child. But I don’t want you to agitate yourself, and if you like I’ll write myself to the woman who has charge of your baby. I cannot do more, and I hope you’ll be satisfied.”
By what right, by what law, was she separated from her child? She was tired of hearing Mrs. Rivers speak of “my child, my child, my child,” and of seeing this fine lady turn up her nose when she spoke of her own beautiful boy. When Mrs. Rivers came to engage her she had said that it would be better for the baby to be brought to see her every three or four weeks, for two had died already. At the time Esther had not understood. She had supposed vaguely, in a passing way, that Mrs. Rivers had already lost two children. But yesterday the housemaid had told her that that little thing in the cradle had had two wet-nurses before Esther, and that both babies had died. It was then a life for a life. It was more. The children of two poor girls had been sacrificed so that this rich woman’s child might be saved. Even that was not enough, the life of her beautiful boy was called for. Then other memories swept into Esther’s frenzied brain. She remembered vague hints, allusions that Mrs. Spires had thrown out; and as if in the obtuseness of a nightmare, it seemed to this ignorant girl that she was the victim of a dark and far-reaching conspiracy; she experienced the sensation of the captured animal, and she scanned the doors and windows, thinking of some means of escape.
