by George Moore
The words came into his mind: She’ll hardly recognise Sarah, so much improved is she, almost a good-looking girl; and hearing her laughing — her laughter came through the window with many sweet-scented airs from the garden — Sarah laughing with Michael! he said, and seeing her standing by the tall, lilac bushes, gathering purple bloom for his dinner-table, Michael, the gardener, drawing down the high branches with his rake, he began a letter to Helena, telling her of the coming of spring in his garden, the lilac in bloom, the buds swelling in the apple-trees, waiting for the May-time. All the world, he said, yields to the gentle season, and it may be that it will find its way into Sarah’s heart; her feet are certainly on the lilac path, and I should not be surprised overmuch (though I should be surprised), if you were to find her married to Michael when you return, a merry look in her eyes replacing the yearning look for something beyond the world, which you have not forgotten, so characteristic is it of her.... In the letter he was writing he would tell, too, of the secret which he was sure that Sarah was hiding from him — hiding, perhaps, from Helena. His thoughts were brought to an end by the arrival of a patient, and it was not till many days after that he discovered the half-written letter among some papers on his writing-table.
III
I cannot thank you enough, he wrote, for sending me Sarah, a most excellent, far-seeing servant, holding all the threads, managing everything, interested apparently in me and in me only; but behind this impersonal externality she lives her personal life, of which we know nothing. She has been with me now nearly a year, yet my knowledge of her is not greater to-day than it was before I saw her. I have learned, it is true, that she came originally from the north of Ireland; she didn’t tell me, her accent told me, and I have been wondering if her bringing-up was Protestant and if she became a Catholic from caprice. Newman, I believe, went over for theological reasons, but theology cannot have been the motive that seduced Sarah, whose attendance at Mass is casual, uncertain, so I am told. Be this a lie or truth, she is no longer religious; indeed I doubt if she ever was religious. Then why did she, a Protestant presumably, become a Catholic and enter a convent? And why is she so silent about herself? The door opened behind him, and without turning round the doctor answered Sarah, who asked if he was busy: I am writing a letter to Miss Lynch; and he continued writing till his attention was attracted by the silence behind him. You heard me say that I was writing to Miss Lynch? Now, Sarah, if you have any message — No, sir, I have no message. I have come to ask you for her address. You see, it was she who sent me to you, and may be able to get me another place, for I’ve come to tell you that I shall be leaving you at the end of the month. But if you would let me go sooner —
Leaving me, Sarah, at the end of the month! What do you mean? I understood that you were satisfied with your situation ——
Yes, sir; the situation is all right and I am grateful, but it can’t be helped.
Can’t be helped! the doctor repeated. Everything can be helped. Tell me why you’re leaving — why you’re thinking of leaving. Is it wages? Tell me; there must be a reason, and when I know the reason I shall be able to arrange.
There are things that cannot be arranged, sir, and this is one of them. As she spoke the words she moved towards the door, but the doctor rushed past her, saying: No, Sarah, no; you cannot leave the room until I hear why you want to leave me. It is not fair, nor is it right, for you to walk out of my house without giving a reason, like the parlourmaid you superseded. Are you going to be married, for if you are that will be a sufficient reason?
No, sir; I am not going to get married.
He watched her face, and she returned to the writing-table with him. Now, sit down, Sarah, and tell me why you’re leaving.
Well, sir, it is because the gardener wants to marry me.
But he hasn’t interfered with you in any way?
No, sir; I’ve got no fault to find with him.
No fault to find except that he asked you to marry him?
But I can’t marry him, sir. It would be better if you didn’t ask me any more questions, indeed it would.
Am I to understand that you like the gardener?
He is all right, sir; I shouldn’t mind if things were different.
Tell me, Sarah.
You wouldn’t understand, sir; it would seem a lot of nonsense to you.
But everybody is nonsense to the next one. I would like to hear first of all why you left the north and why you became a Catholic.
I was always a Catholic, sir; my mother was a Catholic.
And your father?
Father was a Protestant, and mother went over when she married him. You see, in the County Down a Protestant can’t marry a Catholic, for everybody would be against her. Mother wanted to bring me over with her, but I wouldn’t go over, and that was the beginning of it.
Sarah stopped suddenly, and a little perplexed doctor and maid-servant stared at each other. I can’t see, sir, how all this can interest you; but if you wish to hear it, I’ll tell you the story, for I have been very happy here and am grateful to you, and, as you said, I can’t leave without giving a reason. When mother went over I was twelve, and out in the fields at five o’clock in the morning pulling swedes and mangel-wurzels; the wurzels are the worst, for they have roots a foot long, and it was terribly hard work getting them up, for I wasn’t as strong as the other girls. They all thought it hard work; our backs ached dreadfully when we went home to breakfast at eight o’clock.
And after breakfast?
After breakfast I had to go to school; and when school was over we began to feel the dread of next morning creeping over us, at least I did.
And to escape from the pulling of mangel-wurzels you came to Dublin?
No, it wasn’t that, sir. After a bit my stepfather was out of his luck; ten sheep died on him, the mare cast her foal; and we did not keep the bad luck to ourselves, for we shared it with the farmers round our way, and the talk began that somebody had put a curse on the County. If anything goes wrong in County Down it’s the fault of the Catholics. I was the only Catholic there, and as I passed by some boys on a gate, one of them said: There goes the papish, and another picked it up and cried: To hell with the Pope and his witches. I took fright in case the story should get about and my feet be put in the fire till I confessed that I had sold my soul to the Devil. So I saved up a few pence every week till I had enough to bring me to Dublin, and one day after my morning’s work on the farm, instead of coming in for dinner I walked into Belfast. It was a brave long walk, more than seven miles, so I had to buy some meat, and this left me with only a shilling above my railway fare. I was afraid to break into my shilling in Dublin, but by ten o’clock it was that cold I had to have a cup of tea. I hung round the coffee-stall, thinking I might hear where I could look for work in the morning, and then the stall-keeper closed for the night. A drizzle was coming on, and the policeman I spoke to told me I had better go to the workhouse. But I didn’t know the road, and if they didn’t take me in (and why should they? for I didn’t belong to Dublin), I’d have to come all the way back again. Why back again? the doctor asked, and she said that she expected more luck about the parks. Than where? queried the doctor. Than in the streets round a workhouse, she answered. The late hour and the word luck put the thought of prostitution and begging into the doctor’s mind, and it was with a sort of relief that he heard her say that on that night luck would have meant to her a bench where she could sit till daybreak. I was looking for one, she said, when a girl spoke to me. I think I heard you ask the policeman where you could get a lodging, said she; those were her very words; but I told her I had no money to pay for one, only a few pence. She asked me if I was from Dublin and I answered I was not, that I was from the County Down and had taken the train from Belfast that night. We walked on together. I said: You are out late, and she told me that she was out to meet somebody. But it’s getting late, she said, and the rain is coming on again; if you stay out all night you’ll be soaked. I told he
r I couldn’t help that, for I had only a few pence and was afraid to go to a doss-house where the beds are threepence a night. She didn’t answer me and I could see she was turning something over in her head. It was then that I began to take notice of her; I noticed her umbrella, for I had never had one myself, and wondered why she had spoken to me and let me walk by her side. She had a veil, too. Quite the lady, said I to myself, and no ill-looking girl either. She told me her name was Phyllis Hoey and that she worked in the daytime in a biscuit factory, and if I came with her in the morning I could get work there, not work that would be well paid for, but enough to pay for my lodging. As for food and clothes, well, that was another thing, she said. She told me to come in under her umbrella out of the rain, and I came up close, afraid at first to take her arm. We’ll be fellow-workers in the morning, she said, and you can sleep with me to-night. I didn’t know where she was taking me to. It was a long way, and it was all I could do to hold out till the end, and I can’t tell you, sir, what a relief it was to get out of the darkness, to see her light a candle, and to catch sight of the bed. We slept soundly enough, and in the morning she took me to the factory. The manager wanted an extra girl, as it happened, and I would get eight shillings a week. As I only got three-and-six a week for pulling mangel-wurzels, eight shillings seemed like a fortune. Why, said I to Phyllis as we went to the workroom, if you let me live with you we’ll have sixteen shillings a week. We won’t have all that, said Phyllis, for there are always fines; they generally manage to get a shilling a week out of us. Well, fifteen shillings, said I, and it was disheartening to hear her say that we’d have to pay more for the room now there were the two in it.
The day passed from eight o’clock in the morning until twelve, packing the biscuits in tin boxes, with every layer separated by paper, and they told us we mustn’t let it get crumpled; if the Inspector found the least wrinkle in the paper, we had to unpack the box again, and as we were paid by piece-work I soon saw that like this we wouldn’t get even six shillings a week maybe. At twelve there was an hour for dinner; as I’d had no breakfast I didn’t know how I’d get through to the end of the day, and I wouldn’t have if Phyllis hadn’t taken me to a grub-shop, where she said most of the girls went for their food, the ones that wasn’t living at home, and Phyllis paid for me, for I’d have no money till the end of the week. But, said I, our dinners alone will cost us all we earn. Phyllis laughed and said that there were always extras; I thought she meant overtime, and we went back to the factory. It closed at seven. And on our way home I asked if we couldn’t buy our food and cook it ourselves, and save half of what we spent in the grub-shop.
But Phyllis was afraid that we’d not get back to the factory in time, and any saving we’d make would be lost in a fine. And so talking we got back to our room, where Phyllis began to dress herself out just as I’d seen her the night before, hat, umbrella and gloves, and as she didn’t offer to take me with her, I stayed at home, waiting up till midnight. You mustn’t wait up for me, she said, for if you do you’ll be too tired to go to work. And what about you? said I, and waited for an answer, which I didn’t get. She just went on undressing herself, taking out of her pocket more money than I knew she had gone out with.
It was that night as we lay down together that she said to me: Well, Sarah, you may just as well hear it now as later. A girl can’t get a living out of the factory; it just keeps us employed in the daytime, and then the girls go out into Sackville Street, and there, or round about the Bank or in Grafton Street, the money’s good — you can pick up half a sovereign or maybe a sovereign. But you don’t find them along the pavement, said I. Our gentlemen friends give as much, ninny, she said, and I quickly understood that the factory girls, all the young ones at least, made their living, or the best part of it, on the streets, and that I’d have to do the same, for I couldn’t thole going on sponging on Phyllis, who only fell away from the right course because there was no other way for a girl to get her living in Dublin, none that she knew of. I heard Phyllis fall asleep, but I couldn’t sleep that night for thinking, it not seeming to me that I could go on the streets nor that I could stay at home while she did, for that would be like taunting her, living a lady’s life at home and she walking out round and round, up one street and down another. That’s how I saw her in my head all the night, afraid to come back without half a sovereign, and to take money earned her way seemed no better than earning it that way myself. Phyllis didn’t try to persuade me; she said that every girl must do the best she can for herself. She had often heard of girls marrying in the end off the streets, but she didn’t want to say a word that might lead me where I didn’t want to go. She said she quite understood, but that there wouldn’t be enough money for both of us if I didn’t go, and in the end I might have been pushed into it, for I’m no better than Phyllis; and there never was a kinder soul, and maybe it’s kindness that counts in the end.
And how was it that you escaped the streets, Sarah?
No more than an accident, sir. We were at work all day in the factory, as I’ve told you, and while Phyllis was out from seven o’clock till half-past eleven or twelve, I used to sit sewing, trying to make a little money that way, and as it was summer time the nuns were out every evening in their garden. I forgot to tell you that our window overlooked a convent garden, a lovely garden, with big trees and green plots, and it was lovelier when the nuns came out and walked in twos and threes through the shadows. I had only known religion as a quarrelsome thing that set men throwing stones and beating each other with sticks, breaking windows and cursing each other, and I said: If I had time, I’d like to know more of the nuns, they seem so quiet and happy. But we were, as I’ve said, at work all day, and it wasn’t till there was a strike in the factory that the days were our own, with no bell ringing and nobody to take our names as we went in. We could go and come as we liked, only there was the money; but as most of the girls got their living as I told you, sir, we could hold out. It was whilst the strike lasted that I went to the nuns’ chapel to attend Mass, a thing we seldom had — on Sundays we had to sleep it out. The strike lasted a fortnight, and I heard a little more of the Catholic religion than was spoken about in the County Down. Phyllis said: If you have a feeling that way, tell the priest who hears your confession that you’d like instruction in the Catholic religion; he’ll give it to you and jumping. So I did, and entered the Church just about when the strike was to end.
But, Sarah, I thought you were always a Catholic.
My mother was a Catholic and I was baptized one, as I’ve told you, but mother went over when I was a child; between twelve and thirteen I was at the time, so you see I had had no instruction, or very little, in my religion. I’d been a month in Dublin by this time and owed Phyllis more money than I would ever be able to pay her back, and I was thinking of going into service, which I ought to have done long before, but I knew nobody that would recommend me. Father Roland (that was the priest who instructed me) said he would recommend me, but he was a long time about it and things were going from bad to worse. It seemed that I would have to do in the end as Phyllis did, and it might have been like that if Father Roland hadn’t said one day: Some nuns in Wales are looking out for lay sisters, but they are very poor and cannot afford to send you the price of your passage over; and you’ll want money to buy the clothes you’ll wear during your probationship. But where am I to get the money? I asked, and he spoke of putting by a little week by week; and I was going to tell him how I was living, but the story didn’t seem one for a gentleman like him to hear. And it all seemed more hopeless than ever. Phyllis said nothing, but I knew she was thinking that I’d better come out with her of an evening. She was down on her luck; for nearly a week she had not met with any money, and we were as poor as we could be, but still I clung on to hope. I seemed very selfish to myself, but you see, I was only eighteen and knew nobody except Phyllis and the girls at the factory. If I had known then what I know now, I could have gone to an agent and got some charring, maybe a
situation. But I’m making a long story out of it, and the telling of it will make no difference. I must leave you, sir.
I’ll be able to tell you, Sarah, if you’ll have to leave me when I have heard your story.
Well, sir, one night Phyllis came home in great spirits. She had met a gentleman who had been very kind to her and given her two Pounds. We talked about him a long while, and Phyllis was to meet him next day. And when she came back about half-past eleven, that was her time, she said: I told him about you, and he says that he’ll pay the money for the convent if you’ll come to meet him It wasn’t for sin that he needed me; the man was really a very religious man and knew that he was doing wrong in lying with Phyllis, but he couldn’t help himself; and that was why he told her he would give the money to get me into the convent.
