Jules Verne - "Autour de la Lune"

Edgar Allan Poe - "The Raven, The Masque of the Red Death, The Cask of Amontillado"

John Kendrick Bangs - "The Water Ghost and Others"

George MacDonald - "Weighed and Wanting"

The Odd Women

G >> George Gissing >> The Odd Women




'Oh, I am sure she must be! What a wonderful person!'

'It occurs to me that she might help Monica.'

'Oh, do you think she would?' exclaimed Virginia, with eager
attention. 'How grateful we should be!'

'Where is Monica employed?'

'At a draper's in Walworth Road. She is worked to death. Every week
I see a difference in her, poor child. We hoped to persuade her to
go back to the shop at Weston; but if this you speak of were
possible--how _much_ better! We have never reconciled ourselves to
her being in that position--never.'

'I see no harm in the position itself,' replied Miss Nunn in her
rather blunt tone, 'but I see a great deal in those outrageous
hours. She won't easily do better in London, without special
qualifications; and probably she is reluctant to go back to the
country.'

'Yes, she is; very reluctant.'

'I understand it,' said the other, with a nod. 'Will you ask her to
come and see me?'

A servant entered with tea. Miss Nunn caught the expression in her
visitor's eyes, and said cheerfully--

'I had no midday meal to-day, and really I feel the omission. Mary,
please do put tea in the dining-room, and bring up some meat--Miss
Barfoot,' she added, in explanation to Virginia, is out of town, and
I am a shockingly irregular person about meals. I am sure you will
sit down with me?'

Virginia sported with the subject. Months of miserable eating and
drinking in her stuffy bedroom made an invitation such as this a
veritable delight to her. Seated in the dining-room, she at first
refused the offer of meat, alleging her vegetarianism; but Miss
Nunn, convinced that the poor woman was starving, succeeded in
persuading her. A slice of good beef had much the same effect upon
Virginia as her more dangerous indulgence at Charing Cross Station.
She brightened wonderfully.

'Now let us go back to the library,' said Miss Nunn, when their meal
was over. 'We shall soon see each other again, I hope, but we might
as well talk of serious things whilst we have the opportunity. Will
you allow me to be very frank with you?'

The other looked startled.

'What could you possibly say that would offend me?'

'In the old days you told me all about your circumstances. Are they
still the same?'

'Precisely the same. Most happily, we have never needed to entrench
upon our capital. Whatever happens, we must avoid that--whatever
happens!'

'I quite understand you. But wouldn't it be possible to make a
better use of that money? It is eight hundred pounds, I think? Have
you never thought of employing it in some practical enterprise?'

Virginia at first shrank in alarm, then trembled deliciously at her
friend's bold views.

'Would it be possible? Really? You think--'

'I can only suggest, of course. One mustn't argue about others from
one's own habit of thought. Heaven forbid'--this sounded rather
profane to the listener--'that I should urge you to do anything
you would think rash. But how much better if you could somehow
secure independence.'

'Ah, if we could! The very thing we were saying the other day! But
how? I have no idea how.'

Miss Nunn seemed to hesitate.

'I don't advise. You mustn't give any weight to what I say, except
in so far as your own judgment approves it. But couldn't one open a
preparatory school, for instance? At Weston, suppose, where already
you know a good many people. Or even at Clevedon.'

Virginia drew in her breath, and it was easy for Miss Nunn to
perceive that the proposal went altogether beyond her friend's
scope. Impossible, perhaps, to inspire these worn and discouraged
women with a particle of her own enterprise. Perchance they
altogether lacked ability to manage a school for even the youngest
children. She did not press the subject; it might come up on another
occasion. Virginia begged for time to think it over; then,
remembering her invalid sister, felt that she must not prolong the
visit.

'Do take some of these flowers,' said Miss Nunn, collecting a rich
nosegay from the vases. 'Let them be my message to your sister. And
I should be so glad to see Monica. Sunday is a good time; I am
always at home in the afternoon.'

With a fluttering heart Virginia made what haste she could
homewards. The interview had filled her with a turmoil of strange
new thoughts, which she was impatient to pour forth for Alice's
wondering comment. It was the first time in her life that she had
spoken with a woman daring enough to think and act for herself.





CHAPTER IV

MONICA'S MAJORITY




In the drapery establishment where Monica Madden worked and lived it
was not (as is sometimes the case) positively forbidden to the
resident employees to remain at home on Sunday; but they were
strongly recommended to make the utmost possible use of that weekly
vacation. Herein, no doubt, appeared a laudable regard for their
health. Young people, especially young women, who are laboriously
engaged in a shop for thirteen hours and a half every weekday, and
on Saturday for an average of sixteen, may be supposed to need a
Sabbath of open air. Messrs. Scotcher and Co. acted like
conscientious men in driving them forth immediately after breakfast,
and enjoining upon them not to return until bedtime. By way of
well-meaning constraint, it was directed that only the very
scantiest meals (plain bread and cheese, in fact) should be supplied
to those who did not take advantage of the holiday.

Messrs. Scotcher and Co. were large-minded men. Not only did they
insist that the Sunday ought to be used for bodily recreation, but
they had no objection whatever to their young friends taking a
stroll after closing-time each evening. Nay, so generous and
confiding were they, that to each young person they allowed a
latchkey. The air of Walworth Road is pure and invigorating about
midnight; why should the reposeful ramble be hurried by
consideration for weary domestics?

Monica always felt too tired to walk after ten o'clock; moreover,
the usual conversation in the dormitory which she shared with five
other young women was so little to her taste that she wished to be
asleep when the talkers came up to bed. But on Sunday she gladly
followed the counsel of her employers. If the weather were bad, the
little room at Lavender Hill offered her a retreat; when the sun
shone, she liked to spend a part of the day in free wandering about
London, which even yet had not quite disillusioned her.

And to-day it shone brightly. This was her birthday, the completion
of her one-and-twentieth year. Alice and Virginia of course expected
her early in the morning, and of course they were all to dine
together--at the table measuring three feet by one and a half; but
the afternoon and evening she must have to herself The afternoon,
because a few hours of her sister's talk invariably depressed her;
and the evening, because she had an appointment to keep. As she left
the big ugly 'establishment' her heart beat cheerfully, and a smile
fluttered about her lips. She did not feel very well, but that was a
matter of course; the ride in an omnibus would perhaps make her head
clearer.

Monica's face was of a recognized type of prettiness; a pure oval;
from the smooth forehead to the dimpled little chin all its lines
were soft and graceful. Her lack of colour, by heightening the
effect of black eyebrows and darkly lustrous eyes, gave her at
present a more spiritual cast than her character justified; but a
thoughtful firmness was native to her lips, and no possibility of
smirk or simper lurked in the attractive features. The slim figure
was well fitted in a costume of pale blue, cheap but becoming; a
modest little hat rested on her black hair; her gloves and her
sunshade completed the dainty picture.

An omnibus would be met in Kennington Park Road. On her way thither,
in a quiet cross-street, she was overtaken by a young man who had
left the house of business a moment after her, and had followed at a
short distance timidly. A young man of unhealthy countenance, with a
red pimple on the side of his nose, but not otherwise ill-looking.
He was clad with propriety--stove-pipe hat, diagonal frockcoat,
grey trousers, and he walked with a springy gait.

'Miss Madden--'

He had ventured, with perturbation in his face, to overtake, Monica.
She stopped.

'What is it, Mr. Bullivant?'

Her tone was far from encouraging, but the young man smiled upon her
with timorous tenderness.

'What a beautiful morning! Are you going far?'

He had the Cockney accent, but not in an offensive degree; his
manners were not flagrantly of the shop.

'Yes; some distance.' Monica walked slowly on.

'Will you allow me to walk a little way with you?' he pleaded,
bending towards her.

'I shall take the omnibus at the end of this street.'

They went forward together. Monica no longer smiled, but neither did
she look angry. Her expression was one of trouble.

'Where shall _you_ spend the day, Mr. Bullivant?' she asked length,
with an effort to seem unconcerned.

'I really don't know.'

'I should think it would be very nice up the river.' And she added
diffidently, 'Miss Eade is going to Richmond.'

'Is she?' he replied vaguely.

'At least she wished to go--if she could find a companion.'

'I hope she will enjoy herself,' said Mr. Bullivant, with careful
civility.

'But of course she won't enjoy it very much if she has to go alone.
As you have no particular engagement, Mr. Bullivant, wouldn't it be
kind to--?'

The suggestion was incomplete, but intelligible.

'I couldn't ask Miss Eade to let me accompany her,' said the young
man gravely.

'Oh, I think you could. She would like it.'

Monica looked rather frightened at her boldness, and quickly added--

'Now I must say good-bye. There comes the bus.'

Bullivant turned desperately in that direction. He saw there was as
yet no inside passenger.

'Do allow me to go a short way with you?' burst from his lips. 'I
positively don't know how I shall spend the morning.'

Monica had signalled to the driver, and was hurrying forward.
Bullivant followed, reckless of consequences. In a minute both were
seated within.

'You will forgive me?' pleaded the young fellow, remarking a look of
serious irritation on his companion's face. 'I must be with you a
few minutes longer.'

'I think when I have begged you not to--'

'I know how bad my behaviour must seem. But, Miss Madden, may I not
be on terms of friendship with you?'

'Of course you may--but you are not content with that.'

'Yes--indeed--I _will_ be content--'

'It's foolish to say so. Haven't you broken the understanding three
or four times?'

The bus stopped for a passenger, a man, who mounted to the top.

'I am so sorry,' murmured Bullivant, as the starting horses jolted
them together. 'I try not to worry you. Think of my position. You
have told me that there is no one else who--whose rights I ought
to respect. Feeling as I do, it isn't in human nature to give up
hope!'

'Then will you let me ask you a rude question?'

'Ask me _any_ question, Miss Madden.'

'How would it be possible for you to support a wife?'

She flushed and smiled. Bullivant, dreadfully discomposed, did not
move his eyes from her.

'It wouldn't be possible for some time,' he answered in a thick
voice. 'I have nothing but my wretched salary. But every one hopes.'

'What reasonable hope have you?' Monica urged, forcing herself to be
cruel, because it seemed the only way of putting an end to this
situation.

'Oh, there are so many opportunities in our business. I could point
to half a dozen successful men who were at the counter a few years
ago. I may become a walker, and get at least three pounds a week. If
I were lucky enough to be taken on as a buyer, I might make--why,
some make many hundreds a year--many hundreds.'

'And you would ask me to wait on and on for one of these wonderful
chances?'

'If I could move your feelings, Miss Madden,' he began, with a
certain dolorous dignity; but there his voice broke. He saw too
plainly that the girl had neither faith in him nor liking for him.

'Mr. Bullivant, I think you ought to wait until you really have
prospects. If you were encouraged by some person, it would be a
different thing. And indeed you haven't to look far. But where there
has never been the slightest encouragement, you are really wrong to
act in this way. A long engagement, where everything remains
doubtful for years, is so wretched that--oh, if I were a man, I
would _never_ try to persuade a girl into that! I think it wrong and
cruel.'

The stroke was effectual. Bullivant averted his face, naturally
woebegone, and sat for some minutes without speaking. The bus again
drew up; four or five people were about to ascend.

'I will say good-morning, Miss Madden,' he whispered hurriedly.

She gave her hand, glanced at him with embarrassment, and so let him
depart.

Ten minutes restored the mood in which she had set out. Once more
she smiled to herself. Indeed, her head was better for the fresh air
and the movement. If only the sisters would allow her to get away
soon after dinner!

It was Virginia who opened the door to her, and embraced and kissed
her with wonted fondness.

'You are nice and early! Poor Alice has been in bed since the day
before yesterday; a dreadful cold and one of her very worst
headaches. But I think she is a little better this morning.'

Alice--a sad spectacle--was propped up on pillows.

'Don't kiss me, darling,' she said, in a voice barely audible. 'You
mustn't risk getting a sore throat. How well you look!'

'I'm afraid she doesn't look _well_,' corrected Virginia; 'but
perhaps she has a little more colour than of late. Monica, dear, as
Alice can hardly' use her voice, I will speak for both of us, and
wish you many, many happy returns of the day. And we ask you to
accept this little book from us. It may be a comfort to you from
time to time.'

'You are good, kind dears!' replied Monica, kissing the one on the
lips and the other on her thinly-tressed head. 'It's no use saying
you oughtn't to have spent money on me; you _will_ always do it.
What a nice "Christian Year"! I'll do my best to read some of it now
and then.'

With a half-guilty air, Virginia then brought from some corner of
the room a very small but delicate currant cake. Monica must eat a
mouthful of this; she always had such a wretched breakfast, and the
journey from Walworth Road was enough to give an appetite.

'But you are ruining yourselves, foolish people!'

The others exchanged a look, and smiled with such a strange air that
Monica could not but notice it.

'I know!' she cried. 'There's good news. You have found something,
and better than usual Virgie.'

'Perhaps so. Who knows? Eat your slice of cake like a good child,
and then I shall have something to tell you.'

Obviously the two were excited. Virginia moved about with the
recovered step of girlhood, held herself upright, and could not
steady her hands.

'You would never guess whom I have seen,' she began, when Monica was
quite ready to listen. 'We had a letter the other morning which did
puzzle us so--I mean the writing before we opened it. And it was
from--Miss Nunn!'

This name did not greatly stir Monica.

'You had quite lost sight of her, hadn't you?' she remarked.

'Quite. I didn't suppose we should ever hear of her again. But
nothing more fortunate could have happened. My dear, she is
wonderful!'

At considerable length Virginia detailed all she had learnt of Miss
Nunn's career, and described her present position.

'She will be the most valuable friend to us. Oh, her strength, her
resolution! The way in which she discovers the right thing to do!
You are to call upon her as soon as possible. This very after noon
you had better go. She will relieve you from all your troubles
darling. Her friend, Miss Barfoot, will teach you typewriting, and
put you in the way of earning an easy and pleasant livelihood. She
will, indeed!'

'But how long does it take?' asked the astonished girl.

'Oh, quite a short time, I should think. We didn't speak of details;
they were postponed. You will hear everything yourself. And she
suggested all sorts of ways,' pursued Virginia, with quite
unintentional exaggeration, 'in which we could make better use of
our invested money. She is _full_ of practical expedients. The most
wonderful person! She is quite like a _man_ in energy and resources.
I never imagined that one of our sex could resolve and plan and act
as she does!'

Monica inquired anxiously what the projects for improving their
income might be.

'Nothing is decided yet,' was the reply, given with a confident
smile. 'Let us first of all put _you_ in comfort and security; that
is the immediate need.'

The listener was interested, but did not show any eagerness for the
change proposed. Presently she stood at the window and lost herself
in thought. Alice gave signs of an inclination to doze; she had had
a sleepless night, in spite of soporifics. Though no sun entered the
room, it was very hot, and the presence of a third person made the
air oppressive.

'Don't you think we might go out for half an hour?' Monica
whispered, when Virginia had pointed to the invalid's closed eves.
'I'm sure it's very unhealthy for us all to be in this little
place.'

I don't like to leave her,' the other whispered back. 'But I
certainly think it would be better for you to have fresh air.
Wouldn't you like to go to church, dear? The bells haven't stopped
yet.'

The elder sisters were not quite regular in their church-going. When
weather or lassitude kept them at home on Sunday morning they read
the service aloud. Monica found the duty of listening rather
grievous. During the months that she was alone in London she had
fallen into neglect of public worship; not from any conscious
emancipation, but because her companions at the house of business
never dreamt of entering a church, and their example by degrees
affected her with carelessness. At present she was glad of the
pretext for escaping until dinner-time.

She went forth with the intention of deceiving her sisters, of
walking to Clapham Common, and on her return inventing some sermon
at a church the others never visited. But before she had gone many
yards conscience overcame her. Was she not getting to be a very
lax-minded girl? And it was shameful to impose upon the two after
their loving-kindness to her. As usual, her little prayer-book was
in her pocket. She walked quickly to the familiar church, and
reached it just as the doors were being closed.

Of all the congregation she probably was the one who went through
the service most mechanically. Not a word reached her understanding.
Sitting, standing, or on her knees, she wore the same preoccupied
look, with ever and again a slight smile or a movement of the lips,
as if she were recalling some conversation of special interest.

Last Sunday she had had an adventure, the first of any real moment
that had befallen her in London. She had arranged to go with Miss
Eade on a steamboat up the river. They were to meet at the Battersea
Park landing-stage at half-past two. But Miss Eade did not keep her
appointment, and Monica, unwilling to lose the trip, started alone.

She disembarked at Richmond and strayed about for an hour or two,
then had a cup of tea and a bun. As it was still far too early to
return, she went down to the riverside and seated herself on one of
the benches. Many boats were going by, a majority of them containing
only two persons--a young man who pulled, and a girl who held the
strings of the tiller. Some of these couples Monica disregarded; but
occasionally there passed a skiff from which she could not take her
eyes. To lie back like that on the cushions and converse with a
companion who had nothing of the _shop_ about him!

It seemed hard that she must be alone. Poor Mr. Bullivant would
gladly have taken her on the river; but Mr. Bullivant--

She thought of her sisters. Their loneliness was for life, poor
things. Already they were old; and they would grow older, sadder,
perpetually struggling to supplement that dividend from the precious
capital--and merely that they might keep alive. Oh!--her heart
ached at the misery of such a prospect. How much better if the poor
girls had never been born.

Her own future was more hopeful than theirs had ever been. She knew
herself good-looking. Men had followed her in the street and tried
to make her acquaintance. Some of the girls with whom she lived
regarded her enviously, spitefully. But had she really the least
chance of marrying a man whom she could respect--not to say love?

One-and-twenty a week hence. At Weston she had kept tolerable
health, but certainly her constitution was not strong, and the
slavery of Walworth Road threatened her with premature decay. Her
sisters counselled wisely. Coming to London was a mistake. She would
have had better chances at Weston, notwithstanding the extreme
discretion with which she was obliged to conduct herself.

While she mused thus, a profound discouragement settling on her
sweet face, some one took a seat by her--on the same bench, that
is to say. Glancing aside, she saw that it was an oldish man, with
grizzled whiskers and rather a stern visage. Monica sighed.

Was it possible that he had heard her? He looked this way, and with
curiosity. Ashamed of herself, she kept her eyes averted for a long
time. Presently, following the movement of a boat, her face turned
unconsciously towards the silent companion; again he was looking at
her, and he spoke. The gravity of his appearance and manner, the
good-natured commonplace that fell from his lips, could not alarm
her; a dialogue began, and went on for about half an hour.

How old might he be? After all, he was probably not fifty--
perchance not much more than forty. His utterance fell short of
perfect refinement, but seemed that of an educated man. And
certainly his clothes were such as a gentleman wears. He had thin,
hairy hands, unmarked by any effect of labour; the nails could not
have been better cared for. Was it a bad sign that he carried
neither gloves nor walking-stick?

His talk aimed at nothing but sober friendliness; it was perfectly
inoffensive--indeed, respectful. Now and then--not too often--
he fixed his eyes upon her for an instant. After the introductory
phrases, he mentioned that he had had a long drive, alone; his horse
was baiting in preparation for the journey back to London. He often
took such drives in the summer, though generally on a weekday; the
magnificent sky had tempted him out this morning. He lived at Herne
Hill.

At length he ventured a question. Monica affected no reluctance to
tell him that she was in a house of business, that she had relatives
in London, that only by chance she found herself alone to-day.

'I should be sorry if I never saw you again.'

These words he uttered with embarrassment, his eyes on the ground.
Monica could only keep silence. Half an hour ago she would not have
thought it possible for any remark of this man's seriously to occupy
her mind, yet now she waited for the next sentence in discomposure
which was quite free from resentment.

'We meet in this casual way, and talk, and then say good-bye. Why
mayn't I tell you that you interest me very much, and that I am
afraid to trust only to chance for another meeting? If you were a
man'--he smiled--'I should give you my card, and ask you to my
house. The card I may at all events offer.'

Whilst speaking, he drew out a little case, and laid a visiting-card
on the bench within Monica's reach. Murmuring her 'thank you,' she
took the bit of pasteboard, but did not look at it.

'You are on my side of the river,' he continued, still with
scrupulous modesty of tone. 'May I not hope to see you some day,
when you are walking? All days and times are the same to me; but I
am afraid it is only on Sunday that you are at leisure?'

'Yes, only on a Sunday.'

It took a long time, and many circumlocutions, but in the end an
appointment was made. Monica would see her acquaintance next Sunday
evening on the river front of Battersea Park; if it rained, then the
Sunday after. She was ashamed and confused. Other girls were
constantly doing this kind of thing--other girls in business; but
it seemed to put her on the level of a servant. And why had she
consented? The man could never be anything to her; he was too old,
too hard-featured, too grave. Well, on that very account there would
be no harm in meeting him. In truth, she had not felt the courage to
refuse; in a manner he had overawed her.

And perhaps she would not keep the engagement. Nothing compelled
her. She had not told him her name, nor the house where she was
employed. There was a week to think it over.

All days and times were the same to him--he said. And he drove
about the country for his pleasure. A man of means. His name,
according to the card, was Edmund Widdowson.

He was upright in his walk, and strongly built. She noticed this as
he moved away from her. Fearful lest he should turn round, her eyes
glanced at his figure from moment to moment. But he did not once
look back.

* * * * * * * * * *

Copyright (c) 2007. topbookz.net. All rights reserved.