'I should never have known you,' said Rhoda, equally surprised. 'For one thing, you look like a fever patient just recovering. What can be expected? Your sister gave me a shocking account of how you live.'
'The work is very hard.'
'Preposterous. Why do you stay at such a place, Monica?'
'I am getting experience.'
'To be used in the next world?'
They laughed.
'Miss Madden is better to-day, I hope?'
'Alice? Not much, I'm sorry to say.'
'Will you tell me something more about the "experience" you are getting? For instance, what time is given you for meals?'
Rhoda Nunn was not the person to manufacture light gossip when a matter of the gravest interest waited for discussion. With a face that expressed thoughtful sympathy, she encouraged the girl to speak and confide in her.
'There's twenty minutes for each meal,' Monica explained; 'but at dinner and tea one is very likely to be called into the shop before finishing. If you are long away you find the table cleared.'
'Charming arrangement! No sitting down behind the counter, I suppose?'
'Oh, of course not. We suffer a great deal from that. Some of us get diseases. A girl has just gone to the hospital with varicose veins, and two or three others have the same thing in a less troublesome form. Sometimes, on Saturday night, I lose all feeling in my feet; I have to stamp on the floor to be sure it's still under me.'
'Ah, that Saturday night!'
'Yes, it's bad enough now; but at Christmas! There was a week or more of Saturday nightgoing on to one o'clock in the morning. A girl by me was twice carried out fainting, one night after another. They gave her brandy, and she came back again.'
'They compelled her to?'
'Well, no, it was her own wish. Her "book of takings" wasn't very good, poor thing, and if it didn't come up to a certain figure at the end of the week she would lose her place. She lost it after all. They told her she was too weak. After Christmas she was lucky enough to get a place as a lady's-maid at twenty-five pounds a yearat Scotcher's she had fifteen. But we heard that she burst a blood-vessel, and now she's in the hospital at Brompton.'
'Delightful story! Haven't you an early-closing day?'
'They had before I went there; but only for about three months. Then the agreement broke down.'
'Like the assistants. A pity the establishment doesn't follow suit.'
'But you wouldn't say so, Miss Nunn, if you knew how terribly hard it is for many girls to find a place, even now.'
'I know it perfectly well. And I wish it were harder. I wish girls fell down and died of hunger in the streets, instead of creeping to their garrets and the hospitals. I should like to see their dead bodies collected together in some open place for the crowd to stare at.'
Monica gazed at her with wide eyes.
'You mean, I suppose, that people would try to reform things.'
'Who knows? Perhaps they might only congratulate each other that a few of the superfluous females had been struck off. Do they give you any summer holiday?'
'A week, with salary continued.'
'Really? With salary continued? That takes one's breath away.Are many of the girls ladies?'
'None, at Scotcher's. They nearly all come from the country. Several are daughters of small farmers and those are dreadfully ignorant. One of them asked me the other day in what country Africa was.'
'You don't find them very pleasant company?'
'One or two are nice quiet girls.'
Rhoda drew a deep sigh, and moved with impatience.
'Well, don't you think you've had about enough of itexperience and all?'
'I might go into a country business: it would be easier.'
'But you don't care for the thought?'
'I wish now they had brought me up to something different. Alice and Virginia were afraid of having me trained for a school; you remember that one of our sisters who went through it died of overwork. And I'm not clever, Miss Nunn. I never did much at school.'
Rhoda regarded her, smiling gently.
'You have no inclination to study now?'
'I'm afraid not,' replied the other, looking away. 'Certainly I should like to be better educated, but I don't think I could study seriously, to earn my living by it. The time for that has gone by.'
'Perhaps so. But there are things you might manage. No doubt your sister told you how I get my living. There's a good deal of employment for women who learn to use a typewriter. Did you ever have piano lessons?'
'No.'
'No more did I, and I was sorry for it when I went to typewriting. The fingers have to be light and supple and quick. Come with me, and I'll show you one of the machines.'
They went to a room downstairsa bare little room by the library. Here were two Remingtons, and Rhoda patiently explained their use.
'One must practise until one can do fifty words a minute at least. I know one or two people who have reached almost twice that speed. It takes a good six months' work to learn for any profitable use. Miss Barfoot takes pupils.'
Monica, at first very attentive, was growing absent. Her eyes wandered about the room. The other observed her closely, and, it seemed, doubtfully.
'Do you feel any impulse to try for it?'
'I should have to live for six months without earning anything.'
'That is by no means impossible for you, I think?'
'Not really impossible,' Monica replied with hesitation.
Something like dissatisfaction passed over Miss Nunn's face, though she did not allow Monica to see it. Her lips moved in a way that perhaps signified disdain for such timidity. Tolerance was not one of the virtues expressed in her physiognomy.
'Let us go back to the drawing-room and have some tea.'
Monica could not become quite at ease. This energetic woman had little attraction for her. She saw the characteristics which made Virginia enthusiastic, but feared rather than admired them. To put herself in Miss Nunn's hands might possibly result in a worse form of bondage than she suffered at the shop; she would never be able to please such a person, and failure, she imagined, would result in more or less contemptuous dismissal.
Then of a sudden, as it she had divined these thoughts, Rhoda assumed an air of gaiety of frank kindness.
'So it is your birthday? I no longer keep count of mine, and couldn't tell you without a calculation what I am exactly. It doesn't matter, you see. Thirty-one or fifty-one is much the same for a woman who has made up her mind to live alone and work steadily for a definite object. But you are still a young girl, Monica. My best wishes!'
Monica emboldened herself to ask what the object was for which her friend worked.
'How shall I put it?' replied the other, smiling. 'To make women hard-hearted.'
'Hard-hearted? I think I understand.'
'Do you?'
'You mean that you like to see them live unmarried.'
Rhoda laughed merrily.
'You say that almost with resentment.'
'NoindeedI didn't intend it.'
Monica reddened a little.
'Nothing more natural if you have done. At your age, I should have resented it.'
'But' the girl hesitated'don't you approve of any one marrying?'
'Oh, I'm not so severe! But do you know that there are half a million more women than men in this happy country of ours?'
'Half a million!'
Her naive alarm again excited Rhoda to laughter.
'Something like that, they say. So many odd womenno making a pair with them. The pessimists call them useless, lost, futile lives. I, naturallybeing one of them myselftake another view. I look upon them as a great reserve. When one woman vanishes in matrimony, the reserve offers a substitute for the world's work. True, they are not all trained yetfar from it. I want to help in thatto train the reserve.'
'But married woman are not idle,' protested Monica earnestly.
'Not all of them. Some cook and rock cradles.'
Again Miss Nunn's mood changed. She laughed the subject away, and abruptly began to talk of old days down in Somerset, of rambles about Cheddar Cliffs, or at Glastonbury, or on the Quantocks. Monica, however, could not listen, and with difficulty commanded her face to a pleasant smile.
'Will you come and see Miss Barfoot?' Rhoda asked, when it had become clear to her that the girl would gladly get away. 'I am only her subordinate, but I know she will wish to be of all the use to you she can.'
Monica expressed her thanks, and promised to act as soon as possible on any invitation that was sent her. She took leave just as the servant announced another caller.
CHAPTER V
THE CASUAL ACQUAINTANCE
At that corner of Battersea Park which is near Albert Bridge there has lain for more than twenty years a curious collection of architectural fragments, chiefly dismembered columns, spread in order upon the ground, and looking like portions of a razed temple. It is the colonnade of old Burlington House, conveyed hither from Piccadilly who knows why, and likely to rest here, the sporting ground for adventurous infants, until its origin is lost in the abyss of time.
It was at this spot that Monica had agreed to meet with her casual acquaintance, Edmund Widdowson, and there, from a distance, she saw his lank, upright, well-dressed figure moving backwards and forwards upon the grass. Even at the last moment Monica doubted whether to approach. Emotional interest in him she had none, and the knowledge of life she had gained in London assured her that in thus encouraging a perfect stranger she was doing a very hazardous thing. But the evening must somehow be spent, and if she went off in another direction it would only be to wander about with an adventurous mind; for her conversation with Miss Nunn had had precisely the opposite effect of that which Rhoda doubtless intended; she felt something of the recklessness which formerly excited her wonder when she remarked it in the other shop-girls. She could no longer be without a male companion, and as she had given her promise to this man
He had seen her, and was coming forward. Today he carried a walking-stick, and wore gloves; otherwise his appearance was the same as at Richmond. At the distance of a few yards he raised his hat, not very gracefully. Monica did not offer her hand, nor did Widdowson seem to expect it. But he gave proof of an intense pleasure in the meeting; his sallow cheeks grew warm, and in the many wrinkles about his eyes played a singular smile, good-natured but anxious, apprehensive.
'I am so glad you were able to come,' he said in a low voice, bending towards her.
'It has been even finer than last Sunday,' was Monica's rather vague reply, as she glanced at some people who were passing.
'Yes, a wonderful day. But I only left home an hour ago. Shall we walk this way?'
They went along the path by the river. Widdowson exhibited none of the artifices of gallantry practised by men who are in the habit of picking up an acquaintance with shop-girls. His smile did not return; an extreme sobriety characterized his manner and speech; for the most part he kept his eyes on the ground, and when silent he had the look of one who inwardly debates a grave question.
'Have you been into the country?' was one of his first inquiries.
'No. I spent the morning with my sisters, and in the afternoon I had to see a lady in Chelsea.'
'Your sisters are older than yourself?'
'Yes, some years older.'
'Is it long since you went to live apart from them?'
'We have never had a home of our own since I was quite a child.'
And, after a moment's hesitation, she went on to give a brief account of her history. Widdowson listened with the closest attention, his lips twitching now and then, his eyes half closed. But for cheek-bones that were too prominent and nostrils rather too large, he was not ill-featured. No particular force of character declared itself in his countenance, and his mode of speech did not suggest a very active brain. Speculating again about his age, Monica concluded that he must be two or three and forty, in spite of the fact that his grizzled beard argued for a higher figure. He had brown hair untouched by any sign of advanced life, his teeth were white and regular, and somethingshe could not make clear to her mind exactly whatconvinced her that he had a right to judge himself comparatively young.
'I supposed you were not a Londoner,' he said, when she came to a pause.
'How?'
'Your speech. Not,' he added quickly, 'that you have any provincial accent. And even if you had been a Londoner you would not have shown it in that way.'
He seemed to be reproving himself for a blunder, and after a short silence asked in a tone of kindness,
'Do you prefer the town?'
'In some waysnot in all.'
'I am glad you have relatives here, and friends. So many young ladies come up from the country who are quite alone.'
'Yes, many.'
Their progress to familiarity could hardly have been slower. Now and then they spoke with a formal coldness which threatened absolute silence. Monica's brain was so actively at work that she lost consciousness of the people who were moving about them, and at times her companion was scarcely more to her than a voice.
They had walked along the whole front of the park, and were near Chelsea Bridge. Widdowson gazed at the pleasure-boats lying below on the strand, and said diffidently,
'Would you care to go on the river?'
The proposal was so unexpected that Monica looked up with a startled air. She had not thought of the man as likely to offer any kind of amusement.
'It would be pleasant, I think,' he added. 'The tide is still running up. We might go very quietly for a mile or two, and be back as soon as you like.'
'Yes, I should like it.'
He brightened up, and moved with a livelier step. In a few minutes they had chosen their boat, had pushed off, and were gliding to the middle of the broad water. Widdowson managed the sculls without awkwardness, but by no means like a man well trained in this form of exercise. On sitting down, he had taken off his hat, stowed it away, and put on a little travelling-cap, which he drew from his pocket. Monica thought this became him. After all, he was not a companion to be ashamed of. She looked with pleasure at his white hairy hands with their firm grip; then at his bootsvery good boots indeed. He had gold links in his white shirt-cuffs, and a gold watch-guard chosen with a gentleman's taste.
'I am at your service,' he said, with an approach to gaiety. 'Direct me. Shall we go quicklysome distance, or only just a little quicker than the tide would float us?'
'Which you like. To row much would make you too hot.'
'You would like to go some distanceI see.'
'No, no. Do exactly what you like. Of course we must be back in an hour or two.'
He drew out his watch.
'It's now ten minutes past six, and there is daylight till nine or after. When do you wish to be home?'
'Not much later than nine,' Monica answered, with the insincerity of prudence.
'Then we will just go quietly along. I wish we could have started early in the afternoon. But that may be for another day, I hope.'
On her lap Monica had the little brown-paper parcel which contained her present. She saw that Widdowson glanced at it from time to time, but she could not bring herself to explain what it was.
'I was very much afraid that I should not see you to-day,' he said, as they glided softly by Chelsea Embankment.
'But I promised to come if it was fine.'
'Yes. I feared something might prevent you. You are very kind to give me your company.' He was looking at the tips of her little boots. 'I can't say how I thank you.'