by George Moore
XXI
IT WAS THE beginning of August, and London yawned in every street; the dust blew unslaked, and a little cloud curled and disappeared over the crest of the hill at Hyde Park Corner; the streets and St. George’s Place looked out with blind, white eyes; and in the deserted Park the trees tossed their foliage restlessly, as if they wearied and missed the fashion of their season. And all through Park Lane and Mayfair, caretakers and gaunt cats were the traces that the caste on which Esther depended had left of its departed presence. She was coming from the Alexandra Hotel, where she had heard a kitchen-maid was wanted. Mrs. Lewis had urged her to wait until people began to come back to town. Good situations were rarely obtainable in the summer months; it would be bad policy to take a bad one, even if it were only for a while. Besides, she had saved a little money, and, feeling that she required a rest, had determined to take this advice. But as luck would have it Jackie fell ill before she had been at Dulwich a week. His illness made a big hole in her savings, and it had become evident that she would have to set to work and at once.
She turned into the park. She was going north, to a registry office near Oxford Street, which Mrs. Lewis had recommended. Holborn Row was difficult to find, and she had to ask the way very often, but she suddenly knew that she was in the right street by the number of servant-girls going and coming from the office, and in company with five others Esther ascended a gloomy little staircase. The office was on the first floor. The doors were open, and they passed into a special odour of poverty, as it were, into an atmosphere of mean interests.
Benches covered with red plush were on either side, and these were occupied by fifteen or twenty poorly-dressed women. A little old woman, very white and pale, stood near the window recounting her misfortunes to no one in particular.
“I lived with her more than thirty years; I brought up all the children. I entered her service as nurse, and when the children grew up I was given the management of everything. For the last fifteen years my mistress was a confirmed invalid. She entrusted everything to me. Oftentimes she took my hand and said, ‘You are a good creature, Holmes, you mustn’t think of leaving me; how should I get on without you?’ But when she died they had to part with me; they said they were very sorry, and wouldn’t have thought of doing so, only they were afraid I was getting too old for the work. I daresay I was wrong to stop so long in one situation. I shouldn’t have done so, but she always used to say, ‘You mustn’t leave us; we never shall be able to get on without you.’”
At that moment the secretary, an alert young woman with a decisive voice, came through the folding doors.
“I will not have all this talking,” she said. Her quick eyes fell on the little old woman, and she came forward a few steps. “What, you here again, Miss Holmes? I’ve told you that when I hear of anything that will suit you I’ll write.”
“So you said, Miss, but my little savings are running short. I’m being pressed for my rent.”
“I can’t help that; when I hear of anything I’ll write. But I can’t have you coming here every third day wasting my time; now run along.” And having made casual remarks about the absurdity of people of that age coming after situations, she called three or four women to her desk, of whom Esther was one. She examined them critically, and seemed especially satisfied with Esther’s appearance.
“It will be difficult,” she said, “to find you the situation you want before people begin to return to town. If you were only an inch or two taller I could get you a dozen places as housemaid; tall servants are all the fashion, and you are the right age — about five-and-twenty.”
Esther left a dozen stamps with her, and soon after she began to receive letters containing the addresses of ladies who required servants. They were of all sorts, for the secretary seemed to exercise hardly any discrimination, and Esther was sent on long journeys from Brixton to Notting Hill to visit poor people who could hardly afford a maid-of-all-work. These useless journeys were very fatiguing. Sometimes she was asked to call at a house in Bayswater, and thence she had to go to High Street, Kensington, or Earl’s Court; a third address might be in Chelsea. She could only guess which was the best chance, and while she was hesitating the situation might be given away. Very often the ladies were out, and she was asked to call later in the day. These casual hours she spent in the parks, mending Jackie’s socks or hemming pocket handkerchiefs, so she was frequently delayed till evening; and in the mildness of the summer twilight, with some fresh disappointment lying heavy on her heart, she made her way from the Marble Arch round the barren Serpentine into Piccadilly, with its stream of light beginning in the sunset.
And standing at the kerb of Piccadilly Circus, waiting for a ‘bus to take her to Ludgate Hill Station, the girl grew conscious of the moving multitude that filled the streets. The great restaurants rose up calm and violet in the evening sky, the Café Monico, with its air of French newspapers and Italian wines; and before the grey façade of the fashionable Criterion hansoms stopped and dinner parties walked across the pavement. The fine weather had brought the women up earlier than usual from the suburbs. They came up the long road from Fulham, with white dresses floating from their hips, and feather boas waving a few inches from the pavement. But through this elegant disguise Esther could pick out the servant-girls. Their stories were her story. They had been deserted, as she had been; and perhaps each had a child to support, only they had not been so lucky as she had been in finding situations.
But now luck seemed to have deserted her. It was the middle of September and she had not yet been able to find the situation she wanted; and it had become more and more distressing to her to refuse sixteen pound a year. She had calculated it all out, and nothing less than eighteen pound was of any use to her. With eighteen pound and a kind mistress who would give her an old dress occasionally she could do very well. But if she didn’t find these two pounds she did not know what she should do. She might drag on for a time on sixteen pound, but such wages would drive her in the end into the workhouse. If it were not for the child! But she would never desert her darling boy, who loved her so dearly, come what might. A sudden imagination let her see him playing in the little street, waiting for her to come home, and her love for him went to her head like madness. She wondered at herself; it seemed almost unnatural to love anything as she did this child.
Then, in a shiver of fear, determined to save her ‘bus fare, she made her way through Leicester Square. She was a good-looking girl, who hastened her steps when addressed by a passer-by or crossed the roadway in sullen indignation, and who looked in contempt on the silks and satins which turned into the Empire, and she seemed to lose heart utterly. She had been walking all day and had not tasted food since the morning, and the weakness of the flesh brought a sudden weakness of the spirit. She felt that she could struggle no more, that the whole world was against her — she felt that she must have food and drink and rest. All this London tempted her, and the cup was at her lips. A young man in evening clothes had spoken to her. His voice was soft, the look in his eyes seemed kindly.
Thinking of the circumstances ten minutes later it seemed to her that she had intended to answer him. But she was now at Charing Cross. There was a lightness, an emptiness in her head which she could not overcome, and the crowd appeared to her like a blurred, noisy dream. And then the dizziness left her, and she realised the temptation she had escaped. Here, as in Piccadilly, she could pick out the servant girls; but here their service was yesterday’s lodging-house — poor and dissipated girls, dressed in vague clothes fixed with hazardous pins. Two young women strolled in front of her. They hung on each other’s arms, talking lazily. They had just come out of an eating-house, and a happy digestion was in their eyes. The skirt on the outside was a soiled mauve, and the bodice that went with it was a soiled chocolate. A broken yellow plume hung out of a battered hat. The skirt on the inside was a dim green, and little was left of the cotton velvet jacket but the cotton. A girl of sixteen walking sturdily, like a little ma
n, crossed the road, her left hand thrust deep into the pocket of her red cashmere dress. She wore on her shoulders a strip of beaded mantle; her hair was plaited and tied with a red ribbon. Corpulent women passed, their eyes liquid with invitation; and the huge bar-loafer, the man of fifty, the hooked nose and the waxed moustache, stood at the door of a restaurant, passing the women in review.
A true London of the water’s edge — a London of theatres, music-halls, wine-shops, public-houses — the walls painted various colours, nailed over with huge gold lettering; the pale air woven with delicate wire, a gossamer web underneath which the crowd moved like lazy flies, one half watching the perforated spire of St. Mary’s, and all the City spires behind it now growing cold in the east, the other half seeing the spire of St. Martin’s above the chimney-pots aloft in a sky of cream pink. Stalwart policemen urged along groups of slattern boys and girls; and after vulgar remonstrance these took the hint and disappeared down strange passages. Suddenly Esther came face to face with a woman whom she recognised as Margaret Gale.
“What, is it you, Margaret?”
“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 glass 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 butter,” 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 passed and Esther had to pawn 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 institutions, 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 advertisement 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 pawned.
“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 passage 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 passage. This woman looked apprehensively at Esther, and when Esther said that she had come after the place a painful change of expression passed 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 passed, “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 glass 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 manuscript, 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 advertisement 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 glasses 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.”
