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The narrator is in Baltimore and is looking for a place to stay. She ends up sleeping on a bench in a park. A man approaches her and offers to help. He suggests that she stay at his house and his mother might be able to help her find a job. The narrator is hesitant but eventually agrees to go with him. Wednesday, July the 5th, 1911. I have a candle tonight. I was a little afraid to ask for one. Mulker and I have been getting on so well, but I desperately wanted to write this evening. I am so far behind with my diary. New things happen every day, and I can't write them because I haven't caught up yet. So I asked for the candle, and Mulker looked at me. Mulker's eyelids come down over her eyes like hoods, but she can work the muscles around them in a way that makes her look more solemn and shocked than anyone I've ever met. The first time she looked at me that way, I thought I should turn to stone. Since then, I've learned she gives out that look all the time. I can't say I blame her, because it's awfully effective. She said, accusing me, You've been going upstairs in the dark? I said, Yes, I had. Take a candle, she said, and she handed me a china chamber stick. Matches are in the dresser. There's a brass box near your bed to keep them in. Don't bend the house down. I promised I wouldn't, but here I must stop, because I haven't come to Mulker. I left off my story in the park of Utah Place, only I didn't know it was Utah Place. It was there that I stopped running. I'd imagined that a big city like Baltimore would be row upon row of houses, all squeezed together. I'd never ever pictured a park. This park was sandwiched between two broad avenues, so that on both sides of the street, the houses overlooked the garden. Even in the dark, and it wasn't altogether dark because of the street lamps, I could see how fine the garden was. I looked at the houses. They were all row houses, but they looked more like palaces, tall and spacious with balconies and porches and great bay windows to let the light in. Some of them had turrets and panes of coloured glass over the doors. Wealthy people lived there, I could tell. It was no place for the likes of me. But the great houses and the tented gardens did make me feel safer. It seemed like a place where criminals wouldn't feel at home. I glimpsed an iron bench under a tree and sank down upon it. I knew I didn't have time to waste. It was near nine o'clock and the boarding houses would be shutting up. I promised myself that after I'd rested a minute, I'd find a place to spend the night. But I didn't keep that promise. I knew I ought to go back to the train station. This neighbourhood wasn't the kind of place where I'd find a boarding house, but I was afraid that awful man might be lurking back at the station. The thought of running into him again, and thinking maybe that I'd come back for more, oh, I just couldn't bear it. I felt like Thumbelina after she'd been carried off by the ugly toad. The truth is I didn't have the gumption to carry on. It makes me feel bad to reflect upon that because I wanted to be noble and courageous. On the other hand, it had been a long day. And during the good parts of it, having breakfast in the dining car and seeing the spirit of transportation, I'd been frightened underneath. And that man had scared me right down to the bone. So I stuck to the bench, and after a while I realised I was going to spend the night there. I felt sheltered by the big tree over my head, the night was warm and I was in a respectable part of town. So I put my suitcase up to serve as a pillow and curled up on the bench. That was horribly uncomfortable. The bench wasn't as long as I was, and the suitcase gnashed my ear. I thought of all the comforting things inside it, Jesus and Belinda and Mars Money and Miss Chandler's handkerchief, and I started to cry. I was frightened because I was sleeping outdoors like a tramp, and I didn't know a single soul in Baltimore. I didn't know how I was going to find a job. It seemed to me that Baltimore might be full of wicked men who would force their attentions on me, and I was no match for them. I even thought about going back home. Then I saw oh so clearly that I couldn't go home, no matter how bad it was in Baltimore. At home there's hope. There's no hope at home. Father will never change, and he'll never let me have anything. I covered my head with my arm, and I began to pray. It had been a while since I'd prayed. I'd been feeling a little disappointed in God because I'd asked Him not to let Father be rude to Miss Chandler, but Father was. And then I'd prayed that my strike would succeed, but it didn't. Because Father burned my books. I know God can't answer every prayer exactly the way you want Him to, but I couldn't help thinking that He hadn't been doing very well by me lately. Even so, I prayed. It wasn't a proper prayer, just a cry for help, but I felt He was listening. I recited Hail Marys, and then I would recommence crying. And all of a sudden, I'd sobbed so hard, I never even heard Him approach. A voice said, please, let me help you. I sat bolt upright, ready to jump up and run away, but I didn't. I guess the man who'd spoken wasn't looming over me. He was hunkered down in front of the bench, balanced on the balls of his feet. It was such a precious position that I could have struck out at one foot and knocked him over. He was holding his hat in his hands. He'd taken off his hat to show respect. I thought that was nice. He had a beard, and that surprised me, because it's usually older men who have beards. And he was young. His beard was dark and curly, and so was his hair. He was solidly built, and his shoulders were broad. He had a large head, not too large, but the kind that reminded me of Jupiter, the Roman God. His clothes were handsome, and he was well-groomed. In short, he didn't look like the sort of man a girl has to run from. I mean the sort of man from whom a girl has to run. Can I be of use to you? He said. If I am to write the truth, and I vowed that I would when Miss Chandler gave me this book, I wanted to say yes right away. I wanted him to take care of me, and then I remembered how stupid I'd been with the yellow-haired man, and I saw I'd been in danger of being stupid again, so I didn't answer. He took a clean handkerchief out of his coat, and then he offered it to me. That reminded me of Miss Chandler, and I started crying again. And while I cried, the man made noises. They were sympathetic noises, and they were also somehow foreign. His voice was foreign. He spoke like an American, but the sympathetic noises weren't anything like I'd heard before, and something about them made me cry harder. Oh, I'm like Florence Dombey. I cry too much. After a little, I wiped my eyes and tried to pull myself together. Men don't like it when women cry, and I wanted that man to like me. Won't you tell me, the man began, but I interrupted him. I'm lost! I blurted out. I went to Boulder Wharves to find work as a hired girl, but the train was late, so I didn't get to town until dark, and I couldn't find a respectable boarding house, and I asked a man who seemed kind, but then he... Then I stopped. I couldn't tell this stranger what that man did. He frightened me, I said pitifully, because that was true, though it wasn't the whole truth. He nodded as if he understood. Is he the one who hurt you? I thought for a minute he was reading my mind, because that awful man had hurt me. Then I saw that he was staring at my face and seeing the bruises that Cressy the horse gave me. Oh no! I said quickly, and touched him in a swollen place. That's from home! That happened a week ago! Did you run away from home? I wished he hadn't asked me that. I ought to have said no right away, but I didn't, and that was as good as saying yes. I had to. Um... My... My father. And I started to say, burned my books, but my throat closed. It was a moment before I could speak. I had to run away. He looked very upset. What about your Ma? Won't she worry? My mother's dead, I said, as he looked downright stricken and made more of those sympathetic noises. And I added, but I'm not that young, I'm eighteen. I don't know why I said eighteen, I meant to lie about my age, of course, but I planned to say sixteen, maybe seventeen, but for some reason eighteen was what came out my mouth. Do you know where I might find a respectable boarding house? He shook his head regretfully. I'm afraid I don't, and I've never needed one, not here in Baltimore. Perhaps tomorrow? He shook his head again. No, that's no use. You need a place to stay tonight, don't you? He stood up. I have an idea. I waited. I live up the street, he pointed to a place beyond in the trees, in the corner house with my parents and sister and my brother David, but just now David's in New York with my father. There are servants' rooms at the top of the house that aren't being used. Perhaps my mother would let you stay there? She might be able to help you find a job, even if there's a possibility, but we'll talk about that later on. Will you come with me? I stared at him with heart in my mouth. My mother's very good, he said. She may seem a little brisk at first, but he fumbled in his pockets and brought out a card. I ought to have introduced myself first. I'm Solomon Rosenbach. I took the card. It was too dark to read it, but I felt vaguely reassured. It didn't seem like the sort of thing a villain would do, give a woman his card. Will you come with me? You can't spend the night on this bed, you won't get a wink of sleep. His face broke into a smile and it changed everything. He was such a serious looking person, but that wide, sweet smile made him look as if he were no older than I am, and I won't either. He was so kind and truly chivalrous, I could say that he spoke to me with tenderness except that makes it sound as if he had particular interest in me, and I'm sure he hadn't. I believe he would have spoken the same way to a lost child or a wounded dog, and the child or the dog would have trusted him and followed him home. But I wasn't a dog or a child, I'd trusted one man that night, and he had insulted me unspeakably. I can't. He looked thoughtful, tuning the brim of his hat between his fingers, and then he smiled again. You're quite right, you know, it's dangerous to go home with a stranger. Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to walk to my house and hope that you'll follow me at a safe distance. Then I'll go inside, and afterward, as soon as I can explain, my mother will come out on the porch and invite you in. Will that suit you better? She's very respectable, my mother, in fact we all are, but you're right not to take my word for it. I considered his offer and said thanks. My voice creaked a little, but I didn't cry. There's a good girl, he said, and I guess that was patronising, but I didn't dislike it. I followed him just as he said. He ran lightly up the porch steps, and when he reached the door, he wiped his feet on the mat. My opinion of him rose even higher, of always respected men who stop to wipe their feet on the mat. At first I waited on the pavement, then I crept up to the porch. The windows of the house were open, there were no lights on in the front room, but it was dim rather than dark, because the room behind it was lit, and there was a big archway connecting them, and I heard voices, and a woman exclaimed, oh sorry, it used to be cats and dogs, and then I heard his voice, hashiru. That was when I knew it was safe, because his mother, Mrs Rosenbach, sounded like a mother, an exasperated mother, that's something about the way a mother talks to her child, and listening, it made me kind of homesick. After that I couldn't hear much, I can't say I didn't listen though, but the voices were very low and blurred. Then she came through the archway, and a light came on, I didn't know electric lights came on so suddenly, it wasn't like a gas light, it was quicker, and ten times brighter. I retreated to the top of the porch steps, and the door opened, and Mrs Rosenbach came out. She stood silhouetted with her light to her back, and I was surprised by just how small she was, the top of her head just clears my shoulders, but small or not, she was mistress of the situation, if she had been a teacher, and rapped on the desk with her ruler, everyone would have fallen silent. Come in, she said briskly, and I went, once I was inside, I didn't look around very much, my whole attention was fixed on Mrs Rosenbach, but I was aware that the house was fine, there was wood panelling half way up the wall, carved and dark and rich looking, and big paintings with gold frames, it was almost like a church. It was so fancy and solemn, and the ceiling was high above my head, but I was watching her, trying to tell if she would be kind to me, what I noticed first was that she was elegant, more elegant even than Mrs Chandler, although not more of a lady. She wore a shirt waist dress, silk taffeta I think it was, and the way the cloth was made, it gleamed like polished copper in the lamplight, but was jet black in the folds. There were pleats down the front, and the buttons went down one side, instead of being in the middle. She had a slender waist and dark hair, and it was only a little grey, but very keen eyes, and though it was a warm night, she wore a high collar, and didn't look flushed or creased, and she carried herself like a queen. What's your name? Janet Liveless, ma'am. My son tells me you've run away from home. Her voice was courteous, but something else too, maybe disdainful, even severe. Wasn't that a rash thing to do? No ma'am, I said, as courteous as she. I surprised myself answering her so readily, but something about her brought out my mettle. It was a queer thing, Mr Solomon Rosenbach made me feel kind of frail and delicate, but she made me feel strong. You don't think it was rash to come to a strange city when you know no one, and have no place to spend the night? Well, if you put it like that, it sounds rash, I admitted, but I had to leave home. If I have to sleep on a park bench, I will, but I won't go home. She took a step forward and looked at me, first as if I was a curiosity, and then more closely. She saw my bruises, and she winced at the sight of them, and she said, almost under her breath, no, you mustn't go home. And all at once I realised what she was thinking. She'd gotten a hold of the idea that someone at home had beaten me, and I'd tried to remember just what I'd said to her son. Of course I hadn't mentioned Cressy, and I'd told him I couldn't go home because of father, and he must have jumped to the wrong conclusion. It wasn't my fault, I didn't lie, but I didn't confess either. I don't mean confess exactly, I didn't explain, I should have explained, but the rows of bucks were looking as if they were sorry for me, and I wanted them to feel sorry for me, because I needed a place to spend the night. So I kept my mouth shut. I understand you want to be a hired girl? Yes, ma'am, if you could help me find work, I'd be much obliged. You have a character? I said hesitantly. I think so, ma'am. Miss Chadler, my teacher at home, she thought I had good character. That's not what I meant. I meant references, a written testimonial to the effect that you are honest and clean and obedient. Have you anything of that nature? No, ma'am. You may find it difficult to find work without one, however, she hesitated, there may be a place here. She took a step towards a small rocking chair, and she sat down in it. Sit down. I should warn you that it's unlikely you'll stay here for long. I've dismissed three servants in the past two months. I'd like to work here, I said faithlessly, and I meant it. I wanted nothing more to work in this magnificent house. I could tell that the Rosenbanks were people of culture and refinement. At the same time, though, I wondered what the other servants had done to displease her. Mrs. Rosenbank said unexpectedly, Are you hungry? Have you dined? No, but I had breakfast on the train, ma'am. It was a very large breakfast, and I'm not hungry. She sighed. Solly, she said to Mr. Rosenbank, go downstairs and fix this girl a sandwich and a glass of milk, I should think. Her son got to his feet and left the room. He was going downstairs, this wealthy, grown-up, well-dressed man, to fix me a sandwich. Luke would call him a sissy, but I thought he was manly and gallant. Mrs. Rosenbank rocked in her chair. It's funny, sitting in a rocking chair is kind of a homely thing to do, but the way she did it with her wrists resting so slightly on the arms of the chair and just the tip of one shoe showing why it wasn't homely at all, a queen might rock that way if she had a throne with rockers on it. She said, Mulka is in bed, she is tired out after the Sabbath. I wondered who Mulka was. It struck me that Mrs. Rosenbank had the day wrong because it was Saturday, however I didn't correct her. Mulka is our housekeeper. She was my husband's nursemaid when he was a child. Mr. Rosenbank is devoted to her, and when I came to this house as a bride, it was Mulka who showed me how to run the household. She corrected herself. Mulka and her sister, that is. Mulka is twelve years older than her sister, Mina. My husband and I never wanted a large staff, we value our privacy, and we do what we can to make it easy to run the house. We have cold and hot running water, a gas range and central heating, and the laundry is sent out. Yes, ma'am, I said, because I felt I ought to say something. I kept a straight face, but inside I was thinking, thank God, no laundry. Mulka is over seventy, and she is no longer strong. Until last year, Mina did most of the heavy work, however last year Mina received an unexpected proposal of marriage from a widower, a man she knew when she was young. We tried to replace her, but Mulka made an irritable clucking noise. Mulka has very strict standards of housekeeping, and none of the young women have been able to please her. She says young Americans nowadays don't know what it is to work. She raised her eyebrows. Are you accustomed to work, Mrs. Loveless? Ms. Loveless, it sounded so pretty, even better than I'd expected when I'd created my new pseudonym name. I answered her by throwing out my hands and showing her my palms and then the backs. I never thought I would be glad of my rough, work-scarred, big knuckled hands. Oh, I can work, I assured her. I grew up on a farm. What can you do? I took a deep breath. I can cook and scrub and sweep and dust. I can sew, of course, and mend and darn. I can kill a chicken and dress it and plant a garden and put food by and make the sausages and black lead the stove and keep fires from going out. I don't guess it matters if you send the laundry out, but I can wash and starch and iron, and I can whitewash and tend chickens and churn and take up the carpets and beat them and... Ms. Rosenbuck lifted her hand and I stopped talking. Are you tactful? I had to think about that one. I couldn't say, ma'am, I didn't have to be too tactful on a farm, but then I rallied. But Ms. Chandler said I showed signs of a refined nature. I think I could be tactful if I set my mind to it. You'll need to set your mind to it, Mrs. Rosenbuck said dryly. What we're looking for is someone who can shoulder the heavy work without making Malka feel that she's an old woman. She's touchy, she added in a way that made me wonder how much she liked Malka. I heard footsteps and the young Mr. Rosenbuck came in with my sandwich. He'd cut it into triangles and put it on a plate instead of carrying it around in his hand the way my brother Luke does. He'd remembered the glass of milk and he'd even put sugar cookies on the side of the plate where the sandwich wasn't. He handed me a napkin. I'd never met such a man in all my life. Once I smelled food, I was hungry, but I didn't gobble. I took a small sip of milk to show my refined nature and daintily nibbled my sandwich, which was cheese. Mr. Rosenbuck said, is it settled, and his mother raised her head and gave him a look. Nothing is ever settled. I'm telling her about Malka. She needs a place to spend the night, Mr. Rosenbuck persisted in such a mild tone of voice that it didn't seem like nagging. It's getting late. I glanced at the clock and it was past ten. She may stay here tonight, Mrs. Rosenbuck conceded. If Malka doesn't make too great a fuss, she may even last a few days. She turned back to me. If you do your work well, I will provide you with written character, which will help you in your search for employment. Thank you, ma'am, I said, but I felt a little disheartened because she didn't seem to think I'd be working for her. I think I can help your housekeeper without hurting her feelings, and you will find me very willing. She tilted her head. There was something in the way she did it that reminded me of the word satirical. It isn't a word I think about much, but it flashed through my head just then. Willing to work in a Jewish household, she said, and when I didn't answer right away, she added, you, I think, are not Jewish. No, ma'am, I said, as if I was taken aback, as if she'd asked me if I was Indian. It seemed to me, I mean, it doesn't now, but it did then, as though Jewish people were like Indians, people from long ago, people in books. I know there still are Indians out west, but they're civilized now and wear ordinary clothes. In the same way, I guess I knew there were still Jews, but I never expected to meet one. It's just as I said, suddenly, said Miss Rosenbach. She has no idea. She seemed both irritated and amused. Have you ever met a Jew before, Miss Loveless? No, no, ma'am, I stammered, but I've read about them in the Bible and in Ivanhoe. Rebecca was a Jewess, and she's my favorite character in the whole book. It was her turn to look surprised. You've read Ivanhoe? Yes, ma'am, I said. I saw that she'd been thinking I was just an ignorant girl, and that piqued me, but I didn't waste time worrying over it, because I was racking my brain trying to remember everything I knew about Jews. Most of the characters in Ivanhoe were horrid to Rebecca and Isaac because they were Jews, but Ivanhoe was good to them, and Ivanhoe's the hero. And Rebecca, why, Rebecca's the heroine, and a hundred times more interesting than Rowena, who's mostly just beautiful. I added, Ivanhoe's a really good book, Mrs. Rosenbach. She surprised me by laughing. Rebecca is my favorite, too. She exchanged glances with her son. At any rate, she doesn't seem to have learned much in the way of, and then she used a word I haven't heard before, it began with auntie and ended with ism. And from her tone of voice, I didn't know whether I was supposed to have learned it or not. I took a stab in the dark, I wasn't going to let this job slip through my fingers, and I said I could learn. If it would make me a better hired girl, I could learn it. Mrs. Rosenbach shook her head. Her smile was rueful. I was pretty sure I'd said the wrong thing, but she didn't like me any worse for it. You're right, Sully, she's utterly without guile, and as you say, she's a stranger in a strange land. I wouldn't want Anna or Mimi wandering the streets at night. She stood up. I'll show you to a room where you can sleep. When I began this entry, I thought I'd write the whole story of that night. I meant to describe the house and relate how Mrs. Rosenbach helped me put clean sheets on the bed, almost as if I was a guest. I wanted to write how my heart swelled with gratitude when I realized I'd found a safe harbour, and I knew how to knelt behind my bed and was able to thank our Lord for guiding my footsteps. I meant to write all of this, but my candle is burning low and my hand is just about falling off, and I'm sleepy. I daren't risk oversleeping because Mulker is fussy about getting up early, though I am learning to like Mulker. In fact, I like everyone here. And Mr. Rosenbach, best of all. I don't mean that I've fallen in love with Mr. Rosenbach, because that would be silly. He's too old for me, though, of course. Mr. Rochester was older than Jane Eyre, but I revere Mr. Rosenbach, and I've made up my mind to be grateful to him as long as I live, and always to mention him in my prayers.