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The Odd Women

G >> George Gissing >> The Odd Women




To the others, no wooer had yet presented himself. Alice, if she had
ever dreamt of marriage, must by now have resigned prettiness, her
health damaged by attendance upon an exacting herself to
spinsterhood. Virginia could scarce hope that her faded invalid and
in profitless study when she ought to have been sleeping, would
attract any man in search of a wife. Poor Isabel was so extremely
plain. Monica, if her promise were fulfilled, would be by far the
best looking, as well as the sprightliest, of the family. She must
marry; of course she must marry! Her sisters gladdened in the
thought.

Isabel was soon worked into illness. Brain trouble came on,
resulting in melancholia. A charitable institution ultimately
received her, and there, at two-and-twenty, the poor hard-featured
girl drowned herself in a bath.

Their numbers had thus been reduced by half. Up to now, the income
of their eight hundred pounds had served, impartially, the ends now
of this, now of that one, doing a little good to all, saving them
from many an hour of bitterness which must else have been added to
their lot. By a new arrangement, the capital was at length made over
to Alice and Virginia jointly, the youngest sister having a claim
upon them to the extent of an annual nine pounds. A trifle, but it
would buy her clothing--and then Monica was sure to marry. Thank
Heaven, she was sure to marry!

Without notable event, matrimonial or other, time went on to this
present year of 1888.

Late in June, Monica would complete her twenty-first year; the
elders, full of affection for the sister, who so notably surpassed
them in beauty of person, talked much about her as the time
approached, devising how to procure her a little pleasure on her
birthday. Virginia thought a suitable present would be a copy of
'the Christian Year'.

'She has really no time for continuous reading. A verse of Keble--
just one verse at bedtime and in the morning might be strength to
the poor girl.'

Alice assented.

'We must join to buy it, dear,' she added, with anxious look. 'It
wouldn't be justifiable to spend more than two or three shillings.'

'I fear not.'

They were preparing their midday meal, the substantial repast of the
day. In a little saucepan on an oil cooking-stove was some plain
rice, bubbling as Alice stirred it. Virginia fetched from downstairs
(Mrs. Conisbee had assigned to them a shelf in her larder) bread,
butter, cheese, a pot of preserve, and arranged the table (three
feet by one and a half) at which they were accustomed to eat. The
rice being ready, it was turned out in two proportions; made savoury
with a little butter, pepper, and salt, it invited them to sit down.

As they had been out in the morning, the afternoon would be spent in
domestic occupations. The low cane-chair Virginia had appropriated
to her sister, because of the latter's headaches and backaches, and
other disorders; she herself sat on an ordinary chair of the bedside
species, to which by this time she had become used. Their sewing,
when they did any, was strictly indispensable; if nothing demanded
the needle, both preferred a book. Alice, who had never been a
student in the proper sense of the word, read for the twentieth time
a few volumes in her possession--poetry, popular history, and half
a dozen novels such as the average mother of children would have
approved in the governess's hands. With Virginia the case was
somewhat different. Up to about her twenty-fourth year she had
pursued one subject with a zeal limited only by her opportunities;
study absolutely disinterested, seeing that she had never supposed
it would increase her value as a 'companion', or enable her to take
any better position. Her one intellectual desire was to know as much
as possible about ecclesiastical history. Not in a spirit of
fanaticism; she was devout, but in moderation, and never spoke
bitterly on religious topics. The growth of the Christian Church,
old sects and schisms, the Councils, affairs of Papal policy--
these things had a very genuine interest for her; circumstances
favouring, she might have become an erudite woman; But the
conditions were so far from favourable that all she succeeded in
doing was to undermine her health. Upon a sudden breakdown there
followed mental lassitude, from which she never recovered. It being
subsequently her duty to read novels aloud for the lady whom she
'companioned,' new novels at the rate of a volume a day, she lost
all power of giving her mind to anything but the feebler fiction.
Nowadays she procured such works from a lending library, on a
subscription of a shilling a month. Ashamed at first to indulge this
taste before Alice, she tried more solid literature, but this either
sent her to sleep or induced headache. The feeble novels reappeared,
and as Alice made no adverse comment, they soon came and went with
the old regularity.

This afternoon the sisters were disposed for conversation. The same
grave thought preoccupied both of them, and they soon made it their
subject.

'Surely,' Alice began by murmuring, half absently, 'I shall soon
hear of something.'

'I am dreadfully uneasy on my own account,' her sister replied.

'You think the person at Southend won't write again?'

'I'm afraid not. And she seemed so _very_ unsatisfactory. Positively
illiterate--oh, I couldn't bear that.' Virginia gave a shudder as
she spoke.

'I almost wish,' said Alice, 'that I had accepted the place at
Plymouth.'

'Oh, my dear! Five children and not a penny of salary. It was a
shameless proposal.'

'It was, indeed,' sighed the poor governess. 'But there is so little
choice for people like myself. Certificates, and even degrees, are
asked for on every hand. With nothing but references to past
employers, what can one expect? I know it will end in my taking a
place without salary.'

'People seem to have still less need of _me_,' lamented the
companion. 'I wish now that I had gone to Norwich as lady-help.'

'Dear, your health would _never_ have supported it.'

'I don't know. Possibly the more active life might do me good. It
_might_, you know, Alice.'

The other admitted this possibility with a deep sigh.

'Let us review our position,' she then exclaimed.

It was a phrase frequently on her lips, and always made her more
cheerful. Virginia also seemed to welcome it as an encouragement.

'Mine,' said the companion, 'is almost as serious as it could be. I
have only one pound left, with the exception of the dividend.'

'I have rather more than four pounds still. Now, let us think,'
Alice paused. 'Supposing we neither of us obtain employment before
the end of this year. We have to live, in that case, more than six
months--you on seven pounds, and I on ten.'

'It's impossible,' said Virginia.

'Let us see. Put it in another form. We have both to live together
on seventeen pounds. That is--' she made a computation on a piece
of paper--'that is two pounds, sixteen shillings and eightpence a
month--let us suppose this month at an end. That represents
fourteen shillings and twopence a week. Yes, we can do it!'

She laid down her pencil with an air of triumph. Her dull eyes
brightened as though she had discovered a new source of income.

'We cannot, dear,' urged Virginia in a subdued voice. 'Seven
shillings rent; that leaves only seven and twopence a week for
everything--everything.'

'We _could_ do it, dear,' persisted the other. 'If it came to the
very worst, our food need not cost more than sixpence a day--three
and sixpence a week. I do really believe, Virgie, we could support
life on less--say, on fourpence. Yes, we could dear!'

They looked fixedly at each other, like people about to stake
everything on their courage.

'Is such a life worthy of the name?' asked Virginia in tones of awe.

'We shan't be driven to that. Oh, we certainly shall not. But it
helps one to know that, strictly speaking, we are _independent_ for
another six months.'

That word gave Virginia an obvious thrill.

'Independent! Oh, Alice, what a blessed thing is independence! Do
you know, my dear, I am afraid I have not exerted myself as I might
have done to find a new place. These comfortable lodgings, and the
pleasure of seeing Monica once a week, have tempted me into
idleness. It isn't really my wish to be idle; I know the harm it
does me; but oh! if one could work in a home of one's own!'

Alice had a startled, apprehensive look, as if her sister were
touching on a subject hardly proper for discussion, or at least
dangerous.

'I'm afraid it's no use thinking of that, dear,' she answered
awkwardly.

'No use; no use whatever. I am wrong to indulge in such thoughts.'

'Whatever happens, my dear,' said Alice presently, with all the
impressiveness of tone she could command, 'we must never entrench
upon our capital--never--never!'

'Oh, never! If we grow old and useless--'

'If no one will give us even board and lodging for our services--'

'If we haven't a friend to look to,' Alice threw in, as though they
were answering each other in a doleful litany, 'then indeed we shall
be glad that nothing tempted us to entrench on our capital! It would
just keep us'--her voice sank--'from the workhouse.'

After this each took up a volume, and until teatime they read
quietly.

From six to nine in the evening they again talked and read
alternately. Their conversation was now retrospective; each revived
memories of what she had endured in one or the other house of
bondage. Never had it been their lot to serve 'really nice'
people--this phrase of theirs was anything but meaningless. They had
lived with more or less well-to-do families in the lower middle
class--people who could not have inherited refinement, and had not
acquired any, neither proletarians nor gentlefolk, consumed with a
disease of vulgar pretentiousness, inflated with the miasma of
democracy. It would have been but a natural result of such a life if
the sisters had commented upon it in a spirit somewhat akin to that
of their employers; but they spoke without rancour, without
scandalmongering. They knew themselves superior to the women who had
grudgingly paid them, and often smiled at recollections which would
have moved the servile mind to venomous abuse.

At nine o'clock they took a cup of cocoa and a biscuit, and half an
hour later they went to bed. Lamp oil was costly; and indeed they
felt glad to say as early as possible that another day had gone by.

Their hour of rising was eight. Mrs. Conisbee provided hot water for
their breakfast. On descending to fetch it, Virginia found that the
postman had left a letter for her. The writing on the envelope
seemed to be a stranger's. She ran upstairs again in excitement.

'Who can this be from, Alice?'

The elder sister had one of her headaches this morning; she was clay
colour, and tottered in moving about. The close atmosphere of the
bedroom would alone have accounted for such a malady. But an
unexpected letter made her for the moment oblivious of suffering.

'Posted in London,' she said, examining the envelope eagerly.

'Some one you have been in correspondence with?'

'It's months since I wrote to any one in London.'

For full five minutes they debated the mystery, afraid of dashing
their hopes by breaking the envelope. At length Virginia summoned
courage. Standing at a distance from the other, she took out the
sheet of paper with tremulous hand, and glanced fearfully at the
signature.

'What _do_ you think? It's Miss Nunn!'

'Miss Nunn! Never! How could she have got the address?'

Again the difficulty was discussed whilst its ready solution lay
neglected.

'Do read it!' said Alice at length, her throbbing head, made worse
by the agitation, obliging her to sink down into the chair.

The letter ran thus:--

'DEAR Miss MADDEN,--This morning I chanced to meet with Mrs.
Darby, who was passing through London on her way home from the
seaside. We had only five minutes' talk (it was at a railway
station), but she mentioned that you were at present in London, and
gave me your address. After all these years, how glad I should be to
see you! The struggle of life has made me selfish; I have neglected
my old friends. And yet I am bound to add that some of _them_ have
neglected _me_. Would you rather that I came to your lodgings or you
to mine? Which you like. I hear that your elder sister is with you,
and that Monica is also in London somewhere. Do let us all see each
other once more. Write as soon as you can. My kindest regards to all
of you.--Sincerely yours,

RHODA NUNN.'

'How like her,' exclaimed Virginia, when she had read this aloud,
'to remember that perhaps we may not care to receive visitors! She
was always so thoughtful. And it is true that I _ought_ to have
written to her.'

'We shall go to her, of course?'

'Oh yes, as she gives us the choice. How delightful! I wonder what
she is doing? She writes cheerfully; I am sure she must be in a good
position. What is the address? Queen's Road, Chelsea. Oh, I'm so
glad it's not very far. We can walk there and back easily.'

For several years they had lost sight of Rhoda Nunn. She left
Clevedon shortly after the Maddens were scattered, and they heard
she had become a teacher. About the date of Monica's apprenticeship
at Weston, Miss Nunn had a chance meeting with Virginia and the
younger girl; she was still teaching, but spoke of her work with
extreme discontent, and hinted at vague projects. Whether she
succeeded in releasing herself the Maddens never heard.

It was a morning of doubtful fairness. Before going to bed last
night they had decided to walk out together this morning and
purchase the present for Monica's birthday, which was next Sunday.
But Alice felt too unwell to leave the house. Virginia should write
a reply to Miss Nunn's letter, and then go to the bookseller's
alone.

She set forth at half-past nine. With extreme care she had preserved
an out-of-doors dress into the third summer; it did not look shabby.
Her mantle was in its second year only; the original fawn colour had
gone to an indeterminate grey. Her hat of brown straw was a
possession for ever; it underwent new trimming, at an outlay of a
few pence, when that became unavoidable. Yet Virginia could not have
been judged anything but a lady. She wore her garments as only a
lady can (the position and movement of the arms has much to do with
this), and had the step never to be acquired by a person of vulgar
instincts.

A very long walk was before her. She wished to get as far as the
Strand bookshops, not only for the sake of choice, but because this
region pleased her and gave her a sense of holiday. Past Battersea
Park, over Chelsea Bridge, then the weary stretch to Victoria
Station, and the upward labour to Charing Cross. Five miles, at
least, measured by pavement. But Virginia walked quickly; at
half-past eleven she was within sight of her goal.

A presentable copy of Keble's work cost less than she had imagined.
This rejoiced her. But after leaving the shop she had a singular
expression on her face--something more than weariness, something
less than anxiety, something other than calculation. In front of
Charing Cross Station she stopped, looking vaguely about her.
Perhaps she had it in her mind to return home by omnibus, and was
dreading the expense. Yet of a sudden she turned and went up the
approach to the railway.

At the entrance again she stopped. Her features were now working in
the strangest way, as though a difficulty of breathing had assailed
her. In her eyes was an eager yet frightened look; her lips stood
apart.

Another quick movement, and she entered the station. She went
straight to the door of the refreshment room, and looked in through
the glass. Two or three people were standing inside. She drew back,
a tremor passing through her.

A lady came out. Then again Virginia approached the door. Two men
only were within, talking together. With a hurried, nervous
movement, she pushed the door open and went up to a part of the
counter as far as possible from the two customers. Bending forward,
she said to the barmaid in a voice just above a whisper,--

'Kindly give me a little brandy.'

Beads of perspiration were on her face, which had turned to a
ghastly pallor. The barmaid, concluding that she was ill, served her
promptly and with a sympathetic look.

Virginia added to the spirit twice its quantity of water, standing,
as she did so, half turned from the bar. Then she sipped hurriedly
two or three times, and at length took a draught. Colour flowed to
her cheeks; her eyes lost their frightened glare. Another draught
finished the stimulant. She hastily wiped her lips, and walked away
with firm step.

In the meantime a threatening cloud had passed from the sun; warm
rays fell upon the street and its clamorous life. Virginia felt
tired in body, but a delightful animation, rarest of boons, gave her
new strength. She walked into Trafalgar Square and viewed it like a
person who stands there for the first time, smiling, interested. A
quarter of an hour passed whilst she merely enjoyed the air, the
sunshine, and the scene about her. Such a quarter of an hour--so
calm, contented, unconsciously hopeful--as she had not known since
Alice's coming to London.

She reached the house by half-past one, bringing in a paper bag
something which was to serve for dinner. Alice had a wretched
appearance; her head ached worse than ever.

'Virgie,' she moaned, 'we never took account of illness, you know.'

'Oh, we must keep that off,' replied the other, sitting down with a
look of exhaustion. She smiled, but no longer as in the sunlight of
Trafalgar Square.

'Yes, I must struggle against it. We will have dinner as soon as
possible. I feel faint.'

If both of them had avowed their faintness as often as they felt it,
the complaint would have been perpetual. But they generally made a
point of deceiving each other, and tried to delude themselves;
professing that no diet could be better for their particular needs
than this which poverty imposed.

'Ah! it's a good sign to be hungry,' exclaimed Virginia. 'You'll be
better this afternoon, dear.'

Alice turned over 'The Christian Year,' and endeavoured to console
herself out of it, whilst her sister prepared the meal.





CHAPTER III

AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN




Virginia's reply to Miss Nunn's letter brought another note next
morning--Saturday. It was to request a call from the sisters that
same afternoon.

Alice, unfortunately, would not be able to leave home. Her disorder
had become a feverish cold--caught, doubtless, between open window
and door whilst the bedroom was being aired for breakfast. She lay
in bed, and her sister administered remedies of the chemist's
advising.

But she insisted on Virginia leaving her in the afternoon. Miss Nunn
might have something of importance to tell or to suggest. Mrs.
Conisbee, sympathetic in her crude way, would see that the invalid
wanted for nothing.

So, after a dinner of mashed potatoes and milk ('The Irish peasantry
live almost entirely on that,' croaked Alice, 'and they are
physically a fine race'), the younger sister started on her walk to
Chelsea. Her destination was a plain, low roomy old house in Queen's
Road, over against the hospital gardens. On asking for Miss Nunn,
she was led to a back room on the ground floor, and there waited for
a few moments. Several large bookcases, a well-equipped
writing-table, and kindred objects, indicated that the occupant of
the house was studious; the numerous bunches of cut flowers, which
agreeably scented the air, seemed to prove the student was a woman.

Miss Nunn entered. Younger only by a year or two than Virginia, she
was yet far from presenting any sorrowful image of a person on the
way to old-maidenhood. She had a clear though pale skin, a vigorous
frame, a brisk movement--all the signs of fairly good health.
Whether or not she could be called a comely woman might have
furnished matter for male discussion; the prevailing voice of her
own sex would have denied her charm of feature. At first view the
countenance seemed masculine, its expression somewhat aggressive--
eyes shrewdly observant and lips consciously impregnable. But the
connoisseur delayed his verdict. It was a face that invited, that
compelled, study. Self-confidence, intellectual keenness, a bright
humour, frank courage, were traits legible enough; and when the lips
parted to show their warmth, their fullness, when the eyelids
drooped a little in meditation, one became aware of a suggestiveness
directed not solely to the intellect, of something like an
unfamiliar sexual type, remote indeed from the voluptuous, but
hinting a possibility of subtle feminine forces that might be
released by circumstance. She wore a black serge gown, with white
collar and cuffs; her thick hair rippled low upon each side of the
forehead, and behind was gathered into loose vertical coils; in
shadow the hue seemed black, but when illumined it was seen to be
the darkest, warmest brown.

Offering a strong, shapely hand, she looked at her visitor with a
smile which betrayed some mixture of pain in the hearty welcome.

'And how long have you been in London?'

It was the tone of a busy, practical person. Her voice had not much
softness of timbre, and perhaps on that account she kept it
carefully subdued.

'So long as that? How I wish I had known you were so near! I have
been in London myself about two years. And your sisters?'

Virginia explained Alice's absence, adding,--

'As for poor Monica, she has only Sunday free--except one evening
a month. She is at business till half-past nine, and on Saturday
till half-past eleven or twelve.'

'Oh, dear, dear, dear!' exclaimed the other rapidly, making a motion
with her hand as if to brush away something disagreeable. 'That will
never do. You must put a stop to that.'

'I am sure we ought to.'

Virginia's thin, timid voice and weak manner were thrown into
painful contrast by Miss Nunn's personality.

'Yes, yes; we will talk about it presently. Poor little Monica! But
do tell me about yourself and Miss Madden. It is so long since I
heard about you.'

'Indeed I ought to have written. I remember that at the end of our
correspondence I remained in your debt. But it was a troublesome and
depressing time with me. I had nothing but groans and moans to
send.'

'You didn't stay long, I trust, with that trying Mrs. Carr?'

'Three years!' sighed Virginia.

'Oh, your patience!'

'I wished to leave again and again. But at the end she always begged
me not to desert her--that was how she put it. After all, I never
had the heart to go.'

'Very kind of you, but--those questions are so difficult to
decide. Self-sacrifice may be quite wrong, I'm afraid.'

'Do you think so?' asked Virginia anxiously.

'Yes, I am sure it is often wrong--all the more so because people
proclaim it a virtue without any reference to circumstances. Then
how did you get away at last?'

'The poor woman died. Then I had a place scarcely less disagreeable.
Now I have none at all; but I really must find one very soon.'

She laughed at this allusion to her poverty, and made nervous
motions.

'Let me tell you what my own course has been,' said Miss Nunn, after
a short reflection. 'When my mother died, I determined to have done
with teaching--you know that. I disliked it too much, and partly,
of course, because I was incapable. Half my teaching was a sham--a
pretence of knowing what I neither knew nor cared to know. I had
gone into it like most girls, as a dreary matter of course.'

'Like poor Alice, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, it's a distressing subject. When my mother left me that little
sum of money I took a bold step. I went to Bristol to learn
everything I could that would help me out of school life. Shorthand,
book-keeping, commercial correspondence--I had lessons in them
all, and worked desperately for a year. It did me good; at the end
of the year I was vastly improved in health, and felt myself worth
something in the world. I got a place as cashier in a large shop.
That soon tired me, and by dint of advertising I found a place in an
office at Bath. It was a move towards London, and I couldn't rest
till I had come the whole way. My first engagement here was as
shorthand writer to the secretary of a company. But he soon wanted
some one who could use a typewriter. That was a suggestion. I went
to learn typewriting, and the lady who taught me asked me in the end
to stay with her as an assistant. This is her house, and here I live
with her.'

'How energetic you have been!'

'How fortunate, perhaps. I must tell you about this lady--Miss
Barfoot. She has private means--not large, but sufficient to allow
of her combining benevolence with business. She makes it her object
to train young girls for work in offices, teaching them the things
that I learnt in Bristol, and typewriting as well. Some pay for
their lessons, and some get them for nothing. Our workrooms are in
Great Portland Street, over a picture-cleaner's shop. One or two
girls have evening lessons, but our pupils for the most part are
able to come in the day. Miss Barfoot hasn't much interest in the
lower classes; she wishes to be of use to the daughters of educated
people. And she is of use. She is doing admirable work.'

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