mind, and doubtless he has done so while I am left sleepless, feeling not trusted and valued as I should, but anxious and afraid. The letter lieshidden in my dresser, folded inside my other night shift, and there it must stay for another night before I can set myself to the unhappy task of delivering it.
After I left Master last night I told myself this only pertains to some charitable work, such as is often his pleasure to do, and I will see as soon as I come to the house that it is the beacon of honest light in the darkness of poverty and filth that lies all round it. In fact I know there
is
a house on that square run in part by the church (churches as must lock their doors of an evening, such is the character of those parishioners), a house that is for homeless children where they can rest a night or two until some place can be found for them. But I know well enough that this street runs onto the square but don’t face it, so it cannot be the same place. And even if it were, why would Master have such a need for secrecy? In general he is pleased enough to have it known abroad that he is one who cares for those less fortunate.
No, everything about this letter is not what it should be, and I dread the morning I must go out and see to its delivery. Yet I do feel Master would not call upon me in such a way if it were not, as he put it, of some importance to him—of some very considerable importance, I should say—and I know also that he must set a great deal of trust in my character and the goodwill I bear him, to choose me over Mr. Poole to carry out this request.
For surely Master knows no one could be more devoted to him than Mr. Poole. So there can only beone reason and that is this is some business he don’t want Mr. Poole to know of, which do lead again to the feeling that this is something no respectable gentleman mun engage upon.
How my heart misgives me, to be singled out, because of what Master knows about me, as the one most likely to keep whatever painful secret this is.
S o this miserable errand is finished and I hope I may never go on another such. I felt, returning finally to my own small room at the top of this fine house, that I was coming into the fresh light of day after a trip through Hades.
I was up early and did my work in the morning and hurriedly, as I always do on my half-day so I won’t be behind the next day. I got in a great lot of coal, did all the dusting, stripped down Master’s bed and turned the mattress, swept out the carpet with tea leaves, then made up the room again, the drawing room dusted and the fender polished. I got two buckets of water and washed me in the kitchen near the stove, which I usually enjoy, and Cook sat by talking to me. But she would ask what my plan was for my day and I lied, saying I was to stop to cheapen some cloth for a new cloak, as my woollen is too warm for this time of year, and that I would go to Regent’s Park as I always do, rain or shine,on my half-day, to see the roses and chat with the gardener there, a fine old country fellow named Mr. Tott, who always looks out for me when I go there and talks to me about the roses. My heart smote me to be lying to Cook, and thinking on where I was bound made me feel so low I could scarcely bring it off, but Cook seemed satisfied enough and wished me a good afternoon. Then I got dressed as I always do, in my good crinoline, print frock, bonnet and gloves, thinking as I put on my cloak that it was a waste to be going out in such attire, what usually makes me feel so festive and cheerful, on an errand that seemed fair to breaking my heart. I had the letter slipped in my cloak pocket that morning, so out I went wishing for all the world that it was a bit of cloth and a walk in the park I was bound for.
I took the omnibus to St. James’s Park so that I could have part of my walk coming and going through some quiet green place and so settle my resolution going in and lift my spirits coming out. The weather was
After I left Master last night I told myself this only pertains to some charitable work, such as is often his pleasure to do, and I will see as soon as I come to the house that it is the beacon of honest light in the darkness of poverty and filth that lies all round it. In fact I know there
is
a house on that square run in part by the church (churches as must lock their doors of an evening, such is the character of those parishioners), a house that is for homeless children where they can rest a night or two until some place can be found for them. But I know well enough that this street runs onto the square but don’t face it, so it cannot be the same place. And even if it were, why would Master have such a need for secrecy? In general he is pleased enough to have it known abroad that he is one who cares for those less fortunate.
No, everything about this letter is not what it should be, and I dread the morning I must go out and see to its delivery. Yet I do feel Master would not call upon me in such a way if it were not, as he put it, of some importance to him—of some very considerable importance, I should say—and I know also that he must set a great deal of trust in my character and the goodwill I bear him, to choose me over Mr. Poole to carry out this request.
For surely Master knows no one could be more devoted to him than Mr. Poole. So there can only beone reason and that is this is some business he don’t want Mr. Poole to know of, which do lead again to the feeling that this is something no respectable gentleman mun engage upon.
How my heart misgives me, to be singled out, because of what Master knows about me, as the one most likely to keep whatever painful secret this is.
S o this miserable errand is finished and I hope I may never go on another such. I felt, returning finally to my own small room at the top of this fine house, that I was coming into the fresh light of day after a trip through Hades.
I was up early and did my work in the morning and hurriedly, as I always do on my half-day so I won’t be behind the next day. I got in a great lot of coal, did all the dusting, stripped down Master’s bed and turned the mattress, swept out the carpet with tea leaves, then made up the room again, the drawing room dusted and the fender polished. I got two buckets of water and washed me in the kitchen near the stove, which I usually enjoy, and Cook sat by talking to me. But she would ask what my plan was for my day and I lied, saying I was to stop to cheapen some cloth for a new cloak, as my woollen is too warm for this time of year, and that I would go to Regent’s Park as I always do, rain or shine,on my half-day, to see the roses and chat with the gardener there, a fine old country fellow named Mr. Tott, who always looks out for me when I go there and talks to me about the roses. My heart smote me to be lying to Cook, and thinking on where I was bound made me feel so low I could scarcely bring it off, but Cook seemed satisfied enough and wished me a good afternoon. Then I got dressed as I always do, in my good crinoline, print frock, bonnet and gloves, thinking as I put on my cloak that it was a waste to be going out in such attire, what usually makes me feel so festive and cheerful, on an errand that seemed fair to breaking my heart. I had the letter slipped in my cloak pocket that morning, so out I went wishing for all the world that it was a bit of cloth and a walk in the park I was bound for.
I took the omnibus to St. James’s Park so that I could have part of my walk coming and going through some quiet green place and so settle my resolution going in and lift my spirits coming out. The weather was
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