The Hired Girl(21)

Then all was quiet, except for my sobs. But the quiet was terrible. I knew the boys must have heard us shouting, but they hadn’t come to protect me. The fight was between Father and me, and they were content that it should be so. If even one of my brothers — oh, Mark!— had come downstairs and spoken up for me, or come to console me, I would have knelt down and clasped my arms around his boots. But there was only silence.

And now I think — oh, it makes me miserable to write it — that some of what Father said was true. I don’t mean that Ma did anything wrong. I’m sure she loved us all the same, but she did favor me, and I guess the boys were jealous. I think about Luke, especially, because we used to play together when we were little things. Then he turned seven, and Father took him in hand. Luke turned nasty, seems like overnight. I missed him, but Ma told me that Luke was a big boy now and didn’t have time to play with little girls.

I never thought about it before, but that time must have been hard on Luke. One day he was a little boy, playing with me and helping Ma in the house. And the next day, he was outside with Father, not as big or as strong or as good at anything as his big brothers. Father wouldn’t have made allowances. Father doesn’t like Luke — never has.

So writing this, now, I find myself feeling sorry for Luke. But that makes me angry, too, because I’m already sorry for myself, and having to feel sorry for him seems like another cross to bear.

I can’t even pity myself in peace.

It’s almost dinnertime. I’ll have to go down soon if I’m to get a hot dinner on the table and get back up here before the men come back. I can’t face them — I know I can’t face Father, and I don’t want to see the boys.

I don’t see how this is all going to end. I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding out in my room. I guess what will happen — oh, I can see it!— is that with every day that passes, my anger will grow duller. I won’t forgive — I can never forget — but things will go back to the way they were. Except that now I have no books. No books.

I wish I could run away. When Florence Dombey’s father struck her, she ran away to Captain Cuttle — but there’s the rub; she had somewhere to go. I don’t have anywhere. I had a sort of daydream this morning, telling myself I might run away to Miss Chandler. I imagined her clasping me in her arms and saying that I could live with her from now on. I pictured myself helping her at school, teaching reading to the primary class, and ironing her pretty clothes back at the boardinghouse. One way or another, I’d make myself useful, and she’d teach me. Then I’d get a teacher’s license and pay her back. Once I had money, I’d rent a room in the same boardinghouse. We’d be together always.

It was a beautiful daydream and made me cry buckets. But when I tried to work out the details, I saw that it wouldn’t work, because Miss Chandler couldn’t take care of a runaway girl. People would criticize her, and she might get in trouble with the school board. A teacher has to be so careful.

And what would I do if I went to Miss Chandler and she sent me away? What if she told me to do my duty and honor my father, because that’s what’s in the Commandments? I think my heart would break even worse than it’s broken now.

I suppose I could run away to Great-Aunt Alma, but she’s almost as horrible as Father.

When Jane Eyre was tired of teaching at Lowood, she prayed for a new servitude. I remember that, her saying, “Grant me at least a new servitude!” She didn’t think she could attain anything better, like Liberty or Excitement or Enjoyment, but she thought she might stand a chance with a new job. Of course, it all worked out beautifully for her, because when she became a governess, she met Mr. Rochester. But I’m unluckier than Jane, because I haven’t education enough to be a governess, and besides —

I’ve been staring into space for five minutes, thinking and thinking. I’ve been thinking about a new servitude.

I’ve been thinking about six dollars a week.

Great-Aunt Alma — Philadelphia — Baltimore.

Hairpins — Ma’s old brown hat.

Stitch flounce for brown dress.

Cardboard suitcase — still in attic?

Belinda.





Saturday, July the first, 1911

I am writing this from the ladies’ waiting room, Broad Street Station, Philadelphia. I have escaped! I have achieved the first stage of my emancipation! In a little while, I will go on to Baltimore — that’s the second stage of my journey — and from thence I will begin my new life.