Even now, when there is a certain amount of choice and liberty, a woman
who is thrown on her own resources at thirty-nine, with no previous
training, and no obvious claims and duties, does not find it very easy
to know how to dispose of herself. But a generation ago the problem was
far more difficult. Henrietta was well off for a single woman, but she
was incapable, and not easy to get on with. She would have thought it
derogatory to do any form of teaching--teaching, the natural refuge of a
workless woman.
Three or four courses presented themselves. First, philanthropy. She was
not really more philanthropic than she had been at twenty, when her aunt
had described to her the happiness of living for others. But she felt at
nearly forty that charitable work was a reasonable way of filling up her
time, on the whole, the most reasonable.
She never had had much to do with poor people. Mrs. Symons had helped
the charwoman, and the gardener, and the driver from the livery-stables,
when they were in special difficulties, and Henrietta had continued to
do so, and had had her hour at the hospital. That was all. There were
the servants, of course, but with the exception of Ellen she looked on
servants more as machines made for her convenience, liable to get out of
order unless they were constantly watched.
Entirely without enthusiasm, and with a dreary fighting against her lot,
she made inquiries among her acquaintances as to where she might find
charitable work. At length somebody knew somebody, who knew somebody who
was working in London under a clergyman. After further inquiries it was
found that the somebody was a lady, who would be very glad if Henrietta
would come and live with her, while she saw how she liked the work.
The clergyman, the lady, and all the other workers, were earnest,
enthusiastic, high-minded, and full of common sense. Henrietta was not
one of these things. She was also very inaccurate, unpunctual, and
forgetful, and if her failings were pointed out to her in the gentlest
way she took offence, not because she was conceited, but because at her
age she was beyond having things pointed out. She stayed at the work six
months, and during that time she was always offended with somebody, and
sometimes with everybody.
The work was conducted more on charity organization lines than was usual
in those days; money was not given without due consideration and
consultation. This was difficult, and required more thinking than
Henrietta cared for, so she saved herself trouble by bestowing five
shillings whenever she wanted, feeling at the bottom of her heart that
if she could not be liked for herself, she would buy liking rather than
not be liked at all. The five shillings, however, did not buy either
gratitude or affection. She had always had a grudging way with people of
a different class from herself, and a conviction, in spite of
indiscriminate alms, that she was being taken in. This infringement of
the rules drove the Vicar to exasperation. His whole heart was in his
work, and Henrietta's disloyalty hindered him at every turn.
"Can't she be asked to give up meddling in the parish?" he said to his
wife.
"No dear, you know she can't, and she is very generous, even if she is
tiresome. She has often been very helpful to you. You ought to be
grateful."
"I'm not grateful," he said, striding about the room; "and then she is
so petty, always these absurd squabbles. She hasn't got a spark of love
for God or man. That's at the root of it all. We don't want a person of
that sort here. If she cared about the people, even if she did pauperize
them, I might think her a fool, but I could respect her; but you know
she doesn't care for a soul but herself."
"I don't think it is that, but she's in great trouble, I'm sure she is.
When you were preaching about sorrow last Sunday, I saw her eyes were
filled with tears."
"Were they?" he said, "I'm sorry. But look here, dear, I don't think
this sort of work ought to be used as a soothing syrup, or as a
rubbish-shoot for loafers, who don't know what else to do. If people
aren't doing it because they think it's the greatest privilege in the
world to be allowed to do it, I can't see that they do much good."
"I think you're too hard on her."
"Am I? I expect I am. I know I'm fagged to death. She gives Mrs.
Wilkins pounds on the sly, which the old lady's been transforming into
gin, and then when I explain the circumstances and implore her to leave
well alone, she talks my head off with a torrent of incoherent
statements, which have nothing whatever to do with the point."
It certainly was true that Henrietta did not do much good, and no one
was more aware of this than herself. She stood outside the community,
and looked in at them like a hungry beggar at a feast. How she envied
their happiness, but she did not feel that she was, or ever could be, a
partaker with them. As months passed on, she drew no nearer to them.
They were all so busy, so strong in their union with one another, they
did not seem to have time to stretch out a friendly hand to one who was
at least as much in need of it as Mrs. Wilkins.
The lady she lived with found her trying. "A very trying person" was the
phrase that went the round about her, "always criticizing small
arrangements about the meals and the housekeeping," for Henrietta could
not at first reconcile herself to having no authority to exert, and this
jangling was not a good preparation for sisterly sympathy towards her.
The Vicar's wife might have become friends with her, but during the six
months Henrietta was in the parish Mrs. Wharton was ill and hardly able
to see anyone. Besides, she was shy, and the only time that Henrietta
came to tea they never succeeded in getting beyond a comparison of
foreign hotels.
Henrietta would have liked to confide her troubles, but as she grew
older she had become a great deal more reserved, and also these troubles
she was ashamed to speak of. To think that she had made her own sister,
ill and miserable as she was, more ill and more miserable, she could not
forgive herself; she was even harder on herself than Herbert had been.
As Mr. Wharton had said, it was useless engaging in this arduous work
when her heart was elsewhere. When her six months of trial came to an
end, it was clear that the only thing for her was to go. No one could
pretend they were sorry, and as everyone imagined she was glad, there
seemed no reason to disguise their feelings. They would have been
surprised if they had known her thoughts as she sat at the evening
service on her last Sunday. "Whatever I do, I fail; what is the use of
my living? Why was I born?"
She said to Mr. Wharton in her farewell interview: "I know I have been
very stupid at learning what was to be done, and I have not been willing
to take advice. Now I look back, I see the mistakes I have made, and I
have done harm instead of good. I want to give you"--she named a large
sum considering the size of her income--"to spend as you think right, I
hope that may help to make amends. I am very sorry."
He heard a quiver in her voice, and the dislike and irritation he had
felt all the six months faded away.
"This is much too generous of you," he stammered. "It is my fault, all
my fault. I have been so irritable, I haven't made allowances. My wife
tells me of it constantly. I wish you would forgive me and give us
another chance. Stay six months longer."
His awkwardness and distress almost disarmed her, but she had felt his
snubs, and at nearly forty she was not going to be encouraged like a
child. So that though for many reasons she longed to stay, she answered:
"Thank you, it was a purely temporary arrangement; I have other plans."
As she walked home she wondered what the other plans were.
When in doubt, go abroad. She went abroad again for three months. Her
companion was picked up from nowhere in particular, an odd woman like
herself.
They went to Italy. Neither of them cared in the smallest degree for
sculpture, architecture, painting, archaeology, poetry, history,
politics, scenery, languages, or foreigners. These last Henrietta
regarded as inferior Anglo-Indians regard natives, referring to them
always as "those wretches."
Like most women she loved certain aspects in her garden at home, which
were connected with incidents in her life. There was a path bordered by
roses, along which they had walked when Evelyn announced her engagement,
and a special old apple-tree reminded her of the night her mother died.
But to go and admire what Baedeker called a magnificent _coup d'oeil_
was no sort of pleasure to her.
However, she and Miss Gurney had one unending amusement, which Italy is
peculiarly able to supply. They could make short visits to different
towns, and fit sights into their days, as one fits pieces into a puzzle.
Henrietta found this sport most satisfying.