Part 24 (1/2)
Rose had never been reckoned a person of importance by her family, but now that she was gone, there remained a terrible emptiness where she had been. She was one of those unselfish, good-natured members of households to whom falls the stocking-mending, the errand-going, the fetching and carrying, the filling of gaps generally; and at every turn Deb and Frances missed her un.o.btrusive ministrations, which they had accepted as as much matters of course as the attentions of the butcher and baker. It was presently perceived that Keziah missed her too--that Keziah, who had loyally opposed the plebeian marriage, was become a turncoat and renegade, blessing where she should have cursed, blaming where she should have praised--yes, blaming even Queen Deborah, who, needless to say, took her head off for it.
It had been Keziah's own choice to follow the sisters into exile, and to share the privations involved in their change of life. She had given up her Redford luxuries and importance to become a general servant, with only her kitchen to sit in, for their sakes; and she had cheerfully abided by her choice--until Rose went. Rose was the one who had understood the cost of the sacrifice, and who had lightened it by sympathetic companions.h.i.+p. They had cleaned rooms, and made cakes and puddings, and set hens, and stirred jam, and ironed frocks and laces together; they had spent hours in pleasant gossip over the many homely subjects that interested both; their relation had been more that of mother and daughter than of servant and mistress. Regarding her as virtually her child, Keziah had been quick to spring to the side of authority in the matter of the irregular love-affair; the natural parental impulse was to nip it in the bud. But ”Providence” had decided the issue in this case. And a flirtatious girl was one thing, and a respectable married woman another. And Keziah was lonely, and felt neglected and ”put upon” when n.o.body came to talk to her in her kitchen, or to help her with her cooking and ironing--and particularly after she had told Deb that it was a shame to bear malice to Miss Rose now, and Deb had commanded her to mind her own business.
She was suspected of treacherous visits to the house next door; she was known to have spent Sunday afternoons with Mrs Peter herself. The iniquity of these proceedings was in the secrecy she observed, or tried to observe, regarding them. It was she who knew, before anybody else, when a baby Breen was coming--and if a married woman was a personage to Keziah, an incipient mother was a being of the highest rank. She had forgiven Mary everything for the sake of her black-eyed boy; now she took the news that Rose was what she called ”interesting” to Deb, and demanded that action should be taken upon it, with an air that was almost truculent. Deb, of course, did not believe in being spoken to, even by Keziah, in that way.
”Has the m.u.f.fin boy been?” she inquired, with a steady look.
”It's too soon yet--and I can tell you, Miss Deb, that if it was you in her place, SHE wouldn't keep it up like this--and at such a time too.”
”When the m.u.f.fin boy comes, Keziah, please pay him the sixpence we owe him from last week. You will find the money on my writing-table.”
”Well, I don't care--I call it a shame not to go to her--”
”Perhaps you would like to go to her yourself?” Deb swiftly changed her tone.
”I'd like nothing better,” the old woman retorted, with spirit, ”if you are agreeable.”
”I am perfectly agreeable.”
”Well, it was only the other day she said she'd give anything to have me, if it wasn't for taking me away from you.”
”Oh, pray don't consider that. I can easily get somebody else,” said Deb affably, though her surprise at the idea of Keziah wanting to leave her was only equalled by her dismay.
Keziah, also surprised to find herself of so much less consequence than she had supposed, said that, if that was the case, she'd go and see Miss Rose about it.
”You can go now,” said Deb.
”Thank you, Miss Deb, I will,” said Keziah, ”as soon as I have cleared up. Would a month's notice suit you? I don't wish to put you about at all.”
”A month will be ample,” said Deb. ”A week, if you like.”
”I'll see what Miss Rose says,” said Keziah.
Rose, after the interview, wrote affectionately to Deb, to say she would not dream of taking Keziah if Deb wanted her; Deb wrote affectionately to Rose, to say that she would be rather glad than otherwise to make the change, as the work was too much for such an old woman. So Keziah went over to the Breen camp, where she had comfort and companions.h.i.+p, and her own way in everything; and Deb began to experiment with the common or garden 'general' as purveyed by Melbourne registry offices.
She loathed these creatures, one and all. They were of a race unknown at Redford, and she was singularly unlucky in the specimens that fell to her; although some of them could have been made something of by a mistress who knew how to do it. It is only fair to state that they loathed her--for a finicking, unreasonable, stuck-up poor woman, who gave herself the airs of a wealthy lady. They came at the rate of two a month, and each one as she pa.s.sed seemed to leave the little house meaner, dingier, more damaged than before. It was not living, it was ”pigging”, Frances said--and Deb agreed with her--although when Keziah ventured to call one day to inquire into the state of things, Deb calmly a.s.serted that all was well.
In despair she tried a lady-help, in the person of Miss Keene, dying to return to her dear family (from relations who did not want her) on any terms.
”Whatever we ask her to do we must do ourselves,” said Deb to grumbling Frances, who seemed never willing to do anything; ”and of course we shall have to get a washwoman, and a charwoman to scrub; but it will be cheaper in the end. And oh, anything rather than sticky door-handles and greasy spoons, and those awful voices hailing one all over the house!”
But it was not cheaper, nor was the arrangement satisfactory in any way after the first fortnight. Miss Keene, spoiled at Redford as they had been, was as unfit for crude housework, and she aggravated her incompetence by weeping over it. She had not gathered from Deb's letters that the change in the family fortunes was as great as it now proved to be; and Deb had not antic.i.p.ated the effect of adversity upon one so easily depressed. She had no 'heart', poor thing. She struggled and muddled, sighing for flowers for the vases while the beds were unmade; and when she saw a certain look on Deb's face, wept and mourned and gave up hope. So they ”pigged” still, although they did not defile the furniture with unwashed hands, and the plate and crockery with greasy dish-cloths. With no knowledge of cookery, they lived too much on tinned provisions--a diet as wasteful as it was unwholesome--feeding their wash-and-scrub-women with the same; and their efforts to support the burden of their domestic responsibilities deprived them of outdoor exercise and mental rest and recreation--kept them at too close quarters with one another, each rubbing her quivering p.r.i.c.kles upon the irritable skins of the other two. Frances bore the strain with least good-nature and self-control, and since she had to vent her ill-humour on someone, naturally made Miss Keene her victim when it was a choice between her and Deb. The poor lady grew more and more disappointed, discouraged and tearful. She became subject to indigestion, headaches, disordered nerves; finally fell ill and had to have the doctor. The doctor said she was completely run down, and that rest and change of air were indispensable. She went away to her relatives, weeping still, wrapped in Deb's cloak, and with all Deb's ready money in her pocket; and she did not come back.
Then Deb tried to carry on alone. Any sort of registry office drudge would have been welcome now, but had become an expense that she dared not continue. Moreover, the spectre of poverty, looming so distinct and unmistakable in the house, was a thing to hide, if possible, from anybody who could go outside and talk about it. The thing had become a living terror to herself--its claws Jew money-lenders, so velvety and innocent when her wilful ignorance made first acquaintance with them; but n.o.body--not even Mr Th.o.r.n.ycroft, not even Jim, CERTAINLY not Rose--could be allowed to play Perseus to this proud Andromeda. Until she could free herself, they were not even to know that she was bound.
Of course, she need not have been bound; it was her own fault. She should have managed better with the resources at her disposal than to bring herself to such a pa.s.s, and that so soon; either Mary or Rose would certainly have done so in her place. But Nature had not made her or Frances--whose rapacities had been one cause of the financial breakdown--for the role of domestic economists; they had been dowered with their lovely faces for other purposes.
That the fine plumage is for the sun was a fact well understood by Frances, at any rate. And she was wild at the wrongs wrought by sordid circ.u.mstances--her father's and sister's heedlessness--upon herself.
She thought only of herself. Deb was getting old, and she deserved to suffer anyway; but what had Frances done to be deprived of her birth-right, of all her chances of success in life? Eighteen, and no coming out--beautiful, and n.o.body to see it--marriageable, and out of the track of all the eligible men, amongst whom she might have had her pick and choice. She had reason for her pa.s.sionate rebelliousness against this state of things; for, while a pretty face is theoretically its own fortune anywhere, we all see for ourselves how many are pa.s.sed over simply for want of an attractive setting. It was quite on the cards that she might share the fate of those beauties in humble life to whom romantic accidents do not occur, for all her golden hair and aristocratic profile, her figure of a sylph and complexion of a wild rose.
The fear of this future combined with the acute discomfort of the present to make her desperate. She cast about for a way of escape, a pathway to the sun. One only offered--the landlord.