DOI article:
Murray Hickson, Mabel: Martha
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27806#0282
Martha
278
which only a very rare love and sympathy can overclimb. I can’t
be sure ; but—be that as it may—I never think of Martha, and
of Martha’s patient service and uncomplaining diligence, without
a pang of self-reproach. I was old enough to be her mother, and,
since her mistress would not dream of doing so, I ought to have
kept an eye upon her. But I grew accustomed to her coming
and going ; to her anxious, flushed little face as she handed the
dishes at meal times ; to the sound of her heavy feet as, when
everyone else had gone to bed, she climbed the carpetless ladder
to her attic under the roof, and I forgot how eagerly, in so
dreary a life, she must welcome a little freedom and a little love.
-* * # # #
I was away for some time in the early summer, and, on my
return, I found that Martha’s place was filled by a stranger. I made
instant inquiries. Mrs. Norris answered, with full information.
Amy drew herself up in prim and conscious rectitude. She was
to be married in the autumn, and could afford to look with
severity upon the frailty of a servant maid.
Martha, it appeared, had got herself into trouble. Martha,
like Eliza, had been dismissed at once, without a character. She
and her meagre baggage—the same bonnet-box with which she
had arrived, and a rather larger brown-paper parcel—had been
turned out of the house at an hour’s notice. She had begged for
my address, but that, in order to save me from annoyance, had
been withheld from her.
I said very little—what was the use ?—but I found out the
name of the Surrey village from which she had come to us, and I
went down there in the course of the week. My memory of
the girl, as so often happens, was more pathetic than her actual
presence had been. I felt uneasy until I could get news of
her.
It
278
which only a very rare love and sympathy can overclimb. I can’t
be sure ; but—be that as it may—I never think of Martha, and
of Martha’s patient service and uncomplaining diligence, without
a pang of self-reproach. I was old enough to be her mother, and,
since her mistress would not dream of doing so, I ought to have
kept an eye upon her. But I grew accustomed to her coming
and going ; to her anxious, flushed little face as she handed the
dishes at meal times ; to the sound of her heavy feet as, when
everyone else had gone to bed, she climbed the carpetless ladder
to her attic under the roof, and I forgot how eagerly, in so
dreary a life, she must welcome a little freedom and a little love.
-* * # # #
I was away for some time in the early summer, and, on my
return, I found that Martha’s place was filled by a stranger. I made
instant inquiries. Mrs. Norris answered, with full information.
Amy drew herself up in prim and conscious rectitude. She was
to be married in the autumn, and could afford to look with
severity upon the frailty of a servant maid.
Martha, it appeared, had got herself into trouble. Martha,
like Eliza, had been dismissed at once, without a character. She
and her meagre baggage—the same bonnet-box with which she
had arrived, and a rather larger brown-paper parcel—had been
turned out of the house at an hour’s notice. She had begged for
my address, but that, in order to save me from annoyance, had
been withheld from her.
I said very little—what was the use ?—but I found out the
name of the Surrey village from which she had come to us, and I
went down there in the course of the week. My memory of
the girl, as so often happens, was more pathetic than her actual
presence had been. I felt uneasy until I could get news of
her.
It