"And you shall learn how salt his food who fares
Upon another's bread; how steep his path,
Who treadeth up and down another's stairs."
D. G. ROSSETTI.
There are some natures which cannot live with any happiness in drab
surroundings. Atmosphere affects everyone more or less; but whereas
there are a few fortunate ones who can rise triumphant to a certain
contentment through squalor and ugliness, there are a great many more
who find even cheerfulness very hard to attain to under like
circumstances.
The shut-in dinginess of Digby Street, the gloomy aspect of Shamrock
House, cast such a chill across Joan's spirits that, as she stood
hesitating with her hand on the bell, the instinct came to her to
scramble back into the cab and tell the man to drive her anywhere away
from such a neighbourhood. Of course it was absurd, and the cabman did
not look as if he would be in the least willing to comply. He had
treated her with a supercilious disbelief in there being any tip for him
as soon as he had heard of her destination. Joan had gone to Victoria
Station to collect her luggage, and it had been both late and dark
before the need for a cab had arisen. She had elected not to leave the
hospital till after tea; somehow, when it had come near to going, her
courage, which she had been bolstering up with hope and promises of what
she should do in her new life, had vanished into thin air. Perhaps more
than anything else she lacked the physical strength which would have
enabled her to look cheerfully into the future. The hospital had been a
place of refuge, she hated to leave it.
This feeling grew upon her more and more as she sat back in a corner of
the cab while it rumbled along the Vauxhall Bridge Road. There seemed
always to be a tram passing, huge giant vehicles that shook the earth
and made a great deal of noise in their going. The houses on either side
were dingy, singularly unattractive-looking buildings, and the further
the cab crawled away from Victoria Street the deeper the shade of
poverty and dirt that descended on the surroundings. Digby Street and
Shamrock House were the culminating stroke to Joan's depression.
Miss Abercrombie had written recommending it to her as a Girls' Club
where she would probably get companionship and advice on the question of
work. "You won't like it," she had added, "but it is very conveniently
situated and ridiculously cheap." So Joan had described her destination
to the cabman as a ladies' club, somewhere in Digby Street. He had
answered with a sniff, for it was here that he had lost sight of his
tip, that he supposed she meant the Home for Working Girls that lay in
those parts. Looking up at the large, red-fronted building, with its
countless uncurtained windows, Joan realized that the man's description
was probably nearer the truth than her own.
She was to learn later that on this particular occasion she saw Digby
Street at its very worst, for it was Saturday night, and barrows of
fish, meat and vegetables stood along the pavements, illuminated by
flares of light so that all the ugliness was only too apparent. Little
children played in and out, under the barrows and along the gutters; a
public-house stood at the corner near Shamrock House, and exactly
opposite the Salvation Army added its brass band and shrill voices to
the general tumult.
Joan's first timid attempt at the bell produced no answer, nor her
second. By this time the cabman had dismounted her box and stood staring
at her in sullen disapproval, while a couple of very drunk but cheerful
costers argued with each other as to whether they ought not to help the
young lady to get in. Her third effort was perhaps more violent, for, to
her relief, she could see the dim light in the hall being turned up and
the door was opened on the chain and very slightly ajar. A couple of
bright eyes peered at her through this opening, then, having apparently
satisfied their owner that Joan was neither dangerous nor drunk, the
door was further opened, and Joan could see into the red-tiled hall and
passage with its numbered, white-painted doors.
"What do you want?" asked the lady of the eyes; a small, plump person
with grey hair brushed back very straight from an apple-red face.
"I want a room," Joan explained. "I have been recommended to come here.
I do hope you have one to spare."
The little lady moved aside and beckoned to the cabman. "You can come
in," she said, "and the man had better fetch in your box. I thought it
was one of those troublesome children when you first rang, it was so
very violent, and they make a point of trying to break the bells."
"I am so sorry," Joan murmured meekly, an apology she realized was
expected from her. "I was so dreadfully tired and no one seemed to be
going to answer."
"We do not keep a staff of servants to answer the bell day and night,"
the woman answered. "Still, I am sorry you were kept waiting. Will you
come in here"--she opened a door a little way down the passage--"this is
my office. I must see your letter of recommendation before I let you
talk about the rooms, that is one of our rules."
Joan paid the cabman and followed her inquisitor into the office. Miss
Nigel let down the front of the desk, opened a large ledger and donned a
pair of spectacles. "Now," she said, "who are you, what are your
references, and who recommended you?"
Fortunately Miss Abercrombie had remembered to send a letter of
introduction. Joan produced it and handed it to Miss Nigel. "My name is
Joan Rutherford," she added; "I did not know about having to have
references."
Miss Nigel peered at her over the tops of her glasses; she only used
them for reading and could not see out of them for other purposes. "We
have to make a point of it in most cases," she answered, "but also I
judge by appearances. In your case this letter from Miss
Abercrombie--her name is in our books although I do not know her
personally--will be quite sufficient. Now, how much do you want to pay?"
"As little as possible," Joan confessed, "only I would like to have a
room to myself."
"Quite so," the other agreed, "and in any case, all our cubicles are
taken. They are, of course, cheaper than anything else." She ran her
finger down the lines of the ledger. "I can let you have a room on the
top floor which will work out to fifteen and six a week. That includes
breakfast, late dinner, lights and baths. There is a certain amount of
attendance, but we expect the girls to make their own beds and keep the
rooms tidy."
Fifteen and six a week. Joan attempted to make a rapid calculation in
her head, but gave up the idea. It sounded at least quite absurdly
cheap, she would not have to spend very much of Uncle John's allowance
before she got some work to do for herself. The future seemed suddenly
to shut her in to a life enclosed by the brick walls of Shamrock House
with its attendant neighbourhood of Digby Street.
"That will do," she answered, "it sounds very nice."
"Yes," agreed Miss Nigel; she closed the desk and stood up, "for the
price, we offer exceptional advantages. If you will carry up what you
need for to-night, I will show you to your rooms."
It occurred to Joan as she followed her guide up flights of carpetless
stone stairs that her new abode resembled a prison more than anything
else. The long bare passages were broken up by countless doors all
numbered and painted white in contrast to the brick-coloured walls. The
sound of their footsteps echoed mournfully through the bareness and
seeming desolation of the place. From one of the landing windows she
caught a blurred picture of the streets outside, the lit-up barrows, the
crowd just emerging from the public-house. She was to get very used and
very hardened to the life in Digby Street, but on this, her first
evening, it caught at her senses with a cold touch of fear.
On the top floor of all Miss Nigel opened the first door along the
passage and ushered Joan into the room that was to be hers. It was so
small that its one window occupied practically the whole space of the
front wall. A narrow bed stood along one side, and between this and the
opposite wall there was scarce room for a chair. At the foot of the bed
stood the wash-stand and the chest of drawers facing each other, with a
very narrow space in between them. But it was all scrupulously clean,
with white-washed walls and well-scrubbed furniture, and the windows
opened over the roofs of the neighbouring houses. Very far up in the
darkness of the sky outside a star twinkled and danced.
Miss Nigel looked round at the room with evident satisfaction. "You will
be comfortable here, I think," she said; "we do our best to make the
girls happy. We expect them, however, to conform to our rules; you will
find them explained in this book." She placed a little blue pamphlet on
the dressing-table. "Lights are put out at ten, and if you are later
than that, you have to pay a small fine for being let in, a threepenny
door fee, we call it. Everyone is requested to make as little noise as
possible in their rooms or along the passages, and to be punctual for
dinner."
With one more look round she turned to go. Half-way out, however, a
kindly thought struck her, and she looked back at Joan.
"Dinner is at seven-thirty," she said. "I expect you will be glad to
have it and get to bed. You look very tired."
Joan would have liked to ask if she could have dinner upstairs, but one
glance at the book of rules and regulations decided her against the
idea. Shamrock House evidently admitted of no such luxury, and on second
thoughts, how ridiculous it was to suppose that dinner could be carried
up five flights of stairs for the benefit of someone paying fifteen and
six a week all told. She was too tired and too depressed to face the
prospect of a meal downstairs, she would just have to go to bed without
dinner, she concluded.
The House woke to life as she lay there, evidently the inhabitants
returned about this time. Joan remembered the cabman's somewhat blunt
description and smiled at the memory. A Home for Working Girls. That was
why it had seemed so silent and deserted before, shops and offices do
not shut till after six. But now the workers were coming home, she could
hear their feet along the passages, the slamming of doors, voices and
laughter from the room next hers. Home! This narrow, cold room, those
endless stairs and passages outside, they were to be home for the
future. The hot tears pricked in her eyes, but she fought against tears.
After all, she had been very lucky to find it, it was cheap, it was
clean; other girls lived here and were happy, someone had laughed next
door.
"I have got to take you firmly in hand," Joan argued with her
depression. "It is no use making a fuss about things that are all my own
fault. I tried to play with life and I did not succeed. It is too big
and hard. If I had wanted to work it out differently I ought to have
been very strong. But I am not strong, I am only just ordinary. This is
my chance again, and in the plain, straight way I must win through." She
spoke the words almost aloud, as if challenging fate: "I will win
through."