The moment Esther got out of the house in Curzon Street she felt in her pocket for her money. She had only a few pence; enough for her 'bus fare, however, and her thoughts did not go further. She was absorbed by one desire, how to save her child—how to save him from Mrs. Spires, whom she vaguely suspected; from the world, which called him a bastard and denied to him the right to live. And she sat as if petrified in the corner of the 'bus, seeing nothing but a little street of four houses, facing some haylofts, the low-pitched kitchen, the fat woman, the cradle in the corner. The intensity and the oneness of her desire seemed to annihilate time, and when she got out of the omnibus she walked with a sort of animal-like instinct straight for the house. There was a light in the kitchen just as she expected, and as she descended the four wooden steps into the area she looked to see if Mrs. Spires was there. She was there, and Esther pushed open the door.

"Where's my baby?"

"Lord, 'ow yer did frighten me!" said Mrs. Spires, turning from the range and leaning against the table, which was laid for supper. "Coming like that into other folk's places without a word of warning—without as much as knocking at the door."

"I beg your pardon, but I was that anxious about my baby."

"Was you indeed? It is easy to see it is the first one. There it is in the cradle there."

"Have you sent for the doctor?"

"Sent for the doctor! I've to get my husband's supper."

Esther took her baby out of the cradle. It woke up crying, and Esther said, "You don't mind my sitting down a moment. The poor little thing wants its mother."

"If Mrs. Rivers saw you now a-nursing of yer baby?"

"I shouldn't care if she did. He's thinner than when I left him; ten days 'ave made a difference in him."

"Well, yer don't expect a child to do as well without its mother as with her. But tell me, how did yer get out? You must have come away shortly after me."

"I wasn't going to stop there and my child ill."

"Yer don't mean to tell me that yer 'ave gone and thrown hup the situation?"

"She told me if I went out, I should never enter her door again."

"And what did you say?"

"Told her I didn't want to."

"And what, may I ask, are yer thinking of doing? I 'eard yer say yer 'ad no money."

"I don't know."

"Take my advice, and go straight back and ask 'er to overlook it, this once."

"Oh, no, she'd never take me back."

"Yes, she will; you suits the child, and that's all they think of."

"I don't know what will become of me and my baby."

"No more don't I. Yer can't stop always in the work'us, and a baby'll be a 'eavy drag on you. Can't you lay 'ands on 'is father, some'ow?"

Esther shook her head, and Mrs. Spires noticed that she was crying.

"I'm all alone," she said; "I don't know 'ow I'm ever to pull through."

"Not with that child yer won't—it ain't possible…. You girls is all alike, yer thinks of nothing but yer babies for the first few weeks, then yer tires of them, the drag on yer is that 'eavy—I knows yer—and then yer begins to wish they 'ad never been born, or yer wishes they had died afore they knew they was alive. I don't say I'm not often sorry for them, poor little dears, but they takes less notice than you'd think for, and they is better out of the way; they really is, it saves a lot of trouble hereafter. I often do think that to neglect them, to let them go off quiet, that I be their best friend; not wilful neglect, yer know, but what is a woman to do with ten or a dozen, and I often 'as as many? I am sure they'd thank me for it."

Esther did not answer, but judging by her face that she had lost all hope,
Mrs. Spires was tempted to continue.

"There's that other baby in the far corner, that was brought 'ere since you was 'ere by a servant-girl like yerself. She's out a'nursing of a lady's child, getting a pound a week, just as you was; well, now I asks 'ow she can 'ope to bring up that 'ere child—a weakly little thing that wants the doctor and all sorts of looking after. If that child was to live it would be the ruin of that girl's life. Don't yer 'ear what I'm saying?"

"Yes, I hear," said Esther, speaking like one in a dream; "don't she care for her baby, then?"

"She used to care for them, but if they had all lived I should like to know where she'd be. There 'as been five of them—that's the fifth—so, instead of them a-costing 'er money, they brings 'er money. She 'as never failed yet to suit 'erself in a situation as wet-nurse."

"And they all died?"

"Yes, they all died; and this little one don't look as if it was long for the world, do it?" said Mrs. Spires, who had taken the infant from the cradle to show Esther. Esther looked at the poor wizened features, twitched with pain, and the far-off cry of doom, a tiny tinkle from the verge, shivered in the ear with a strange pathos.

"It goes to my 'eart," said Mrs. Spires, "it do indeed, but, Lord, it is the best that could 'appen to 'em; who's to care for 'em? and there is 'undreds and 'undreds of them—ay, thousands and thousands every year—and they all dies like the early shoots. It is 'ard, very 'ard, poor little dears, but they is best out of the way—they is only an expense and a disgrace."

Mrs. Spires talked on in a rapid, soothing, soporific voice. She had just finished pouring some milk in the baby's bottle and had taken down a jug of water from the dresser.

"But that's cold water," said Esther, waking from the stupor of her despair; "it will give the baby gripes for certain."

"I've no 'ot water ready; I'll let the bottle stand afore the fire, that'll do as well." Watching Esther all the while, Mrs. Spires held the bottle a few moments before the fire, and then gave it to the child to suck. Very soon after a cry of pain came from the cradle.

"The little dear never was well; it wouldn't surprise me a bit if it died—went off before morning. It do look that poorly. One can't 'elp being sorry for them, though one knows there is no 'ouse for them 'ere. Poor little angels, and not even baptised. There's them that thinks a lot of getting that over. But who's to baptise the little angels?"

"Baptise them?" Esther repeated. "Oh, sprinkle them, you mean. That's not the way with the Lord's people;" and to escape from a too overpowering reality she continued to repeat the half-forgotten patter of the Brethren, "You must wait until it is a symbol of living faith in the Lord!" And taking the baby in her hands for a moment, the wonder crossed her mind whether he would ever grow up and find salvation and testify to the Lord as an adult in voluntary baptism.

All the while Mrs. Spires was getting on with her cooking. Several times she looked as if she were going to speak, and several times she checked herself. In truth, she didn't know what to make of Esther. Was her love of her child such love as would enable her to put up with all hardships for its sake, or was it the fleeting affection of the ordinary young mother, which, though ardent at first, gives way under difficulties? Mrs. Spires had heard many mothers talk as Esther talked, but when the real strain of life was put upon them they had yielded to the temptation of ridding themselves of their burdens. So Mrs. Spires could not believe that Esther was really different from the others, and if carefully handled she would do what the others had done. Still, there was something in Esther which kept Mrs. Spires from making any distinct proposal. But it were a pity to let the girl slip through her fingers—five pounds were not picked up every day. There were three five-pound notes in the cradles. If Esther would listen to reason there would be twenty pounds, and the money was wanted badly. Once more greed set Mrs. Spires' tongue flowing, and, representing herself as a sort of guardian angel, she spoke again about the mother of the dying child, pressing Esther to think what the girl's circumstances would have been if they had all lived.

"And they all died?" said Esther.

"Yes, and a good job, too," said Mrs. Spires, whose temper for the moment outsped her discretion. Was this penniless drab doing it on purpose to annoy her? A nice one indeed to high-and-mighty it over her. She would show her in mighty quick time she had come to the wrong shop. Just as Mrs. Spires was about to speak out she noticed that Esther was in tears. Mrs. Spires always looked upon tears as a good sign, so she resolved to give her one more chance. "What are you crying about?" she said.

"Oh," said Esther, "I don't even know where I shall sleep tonight. I have only threepence, and not a friend in the world."

"Now look 'ere, if you'll listen to reason I'll talk to you. Yer mustn't look upon me as a henemy. I've been a good friend to many a poor girl like you afore now, and I'll be one to you if you're sensible. I'll do for you what I'm doing for the other girl. Give me five pounds—"

"Five pounds! I've only a few pence."

"'Ear me out. Go back to yer situation—she'll take you back, yer suits the child, that's all she cares about; ask 'er for an advance of five pounds; she'll give it when she 'ears it is to get rid of yer child—they 'ates their nurses to be a-'ankering after their own, they likes them to be forgotten like; they asks if the child is dead very often, and won't engage them if it isn't, so believe me she'll give yer the money when yer tells 'er that it is to give the child to someone who wants to adopt it. That's what you 'as to say."

"And you'll take the child off my hands for ever for five pounds?"

"Yes; and if you likes to go out again as wet-nurse, I'll take the second off yer 'ands too, and at the same price."

"You wicked woman; oh, this is awful!"

"Come, come…. What do you mean by talking to me like that? And because I offered to find someone who would adopt your child."

"You did nothing of the kind; ever since I've been in your house you have been trying to get me to give you up my child to murder as you are murdering those poor innocents in the cradles."

"It is a lie, but I don't want no hargument with yer; pay me what you owe me and take yerself hoff. I want no more of yer, do you 'ear?"

Esther did not shrink before her as Mrs. Spires expected. Clasping her baby more tightly, she said: "I've paid you what I owe you, you've had more than your due. Mrs. Rivers gave you ten shillings for a doctor which you didn't send for. Let me go."

"Yes, when yer pays me."

"What's all this row about?" said a tall, red-bearded man who had just come in; "no one takes their babies out of this 'ere 'ouse before they pays. Come now, come now, who are yer getting at? If yer thinks yer can come here insulting of my wife yer mistaken; yer've come to the wrong shop."

"I've paid all I owe," said Esther. "You're no better than murderers, but yer shan't have my poor babe to murder for a five-pound note."

"Take back them words, or else I'll do for yer; take them back," he said, raising his fist.

"Help, help, murder!" Esther screamed. Before the brute could seize her she had slipped past, but before she could scream again he had laid hold of her. Esther thought her last moment had come.

"Let 'er go, let 'er go," cried Mrs. Spires, clinging on her husband's arm. "We don't want the perlice in 'ere."

"Perlice! What do I care about the perlice? Let 'er pay what she owes."

"Never mind, Tom; it is only a trifle. Let her go. Now then, take yer hook," she said, turning to Esther; "we don't want nothing to do with such as you."

With a growl the man loosed his hold, and feeling herself free Esther rushed through the open doorway. Her feet flew up the wooden steps and she ran out of the street. So shaken were her nerves that the sight of some men drinking in a public-house frightened her. She ran on again. There was a cab-stand in the next street, and to avoid the cabmen and the loafers she hastily crossed to the other side. Her heart beat violently, her thoughts were in disorder, and she walked a long while before she realised that she did not know where she was going. She stopped to ask the way, and then remembered there was no place where she might go.

She would have to spend the night in the workhouse, and then?

She did not know…. All sorts of thoughts came upon her unsolicited, and she walked on and on. At last she rested her burden on the parapet of a bridge, and saw the London night, blue and gold, vast water rolling, and the spectacle of the stars like a dream from which she could not disentangle her individuality. Was she to die in the star-lit city, she and her child; and why should such cruelty happen to her more than to the next one? Steadying her thoughts with an effort, she said, "Why not go to the workhouse, only for the night?… She did not mind for herself, only she did not wish her boy to go there. But if God willed it…."

She drew her shawl about her baby and tried once more to persuade herself into accepting the shelter of the workhouse. It seemed strange even to her that a pale, glassy moon should float high up in the sky, and that she should suffer; and then she looked at the lights that fell like golden daggers from the Surrey shore into the river. What had she done to deserve the workhouse? Above all, what had the poor, innocent child done to deserve it? She felt that if she once entered the workhouse she would remain there. She and her child paupers for ever. "But what can I do?" she asked herself crazily, and sat down on one of the seats.

A young man coming home from an evening party looked at her as he passed. She asked herself if she should run after him and tell him her story. Why should he not assist her? He could so easily spare it. Would he? But before she could decide to appeal to him he had called a passing hansom and was soon far away. Then looking at the windows of the great hotels, she thought of the folk there who could so easily save her from the workhouse if they knew. There must be many a kind heart behind those windows who would help her if she could only make known her trouble. But that was the difficulty. She could not make known her trouble; she could not tell the misery she was enduring. She was so ignorant; she could not make herself understood. She would be mistaken for a common beggar. Nowhere would she find anyone to listen to her. Was this punishment for her wrong-doing? An idea of the blind cruelty of fate maddened her, and in the delirium of her misery she asked herself if it would not have been better, perhaps, if she had left him with Mrs. Spires. What indeed had the poor little fellow to live for? A young man in evening dress came towards her, looking so happy and easy in life, walking with long, swinging strides. He stopped and asked her if she was out for a walk.

"No, sir; I'm out because I've no place to go."

"How's that?"

She told him the story of the baby-farmer and he listened kindly, and she thought the necessary miracle was about to happen. But he only complimented her on her pluck and got up to go. Then she understood that he did not care to listen to sad stories, and a vagrant came and sat down.

"The 'copper,'" he said, "will be moving us on presently. It don't much matter; it's too cold to get to sleep, and I think it will rain. My cough is that bad."

She might beg a night's lodging of Mrs. Jones. It was far away; she did not think she could walk so far. Mrs. Jones might have left, then what would she do? The workhouse up there was much the same as the workhouse down here. Mrs. Jones couldn't keep her for nothing, and there was no use trying for another situation as wet-nurse; the hospital would not recommend her again…. She must go to the workhouse. Then her thoughts wandered. She thought of her father, brothers, and sisters, who had gone to Australia. She wondered if they had yet arrived, if they ever thought of her, if—She and her baby were on their way to the workhouse. They were going to become paupers. She looked at the vagrant—he had fallen asleep. He knew all about the workhouse—should she ask him what it was like? He, too, was friendless. If he had a friend he would not be sleeping on the Embankment. Should she ask him? Poor chap, he was asleep. People were happy when they were asleep.

A full moon floated high up in the sky, and the city was no more than a faint shadow on the glassy stillness of the night; and she longed to float away with the moon and the river, to be borne away out of sight of this world.

Her baby grew heavy in her arms, and the vagrant, a bundle of rags thrown forward in a heap, slept at the other end of the bench. But she could not sleep, and the moon whirled on her miserable way. Then the glassy stillness was broken by the measured tramp of the policeman going his rounds. He directed her to Lambeth Workhouse, and as she walked towards Westminster she heard him rousing the vagrant and bidding him move onward.