MISS GIBB
Nora's knowledge of London was as slight as the average young lady's,
who has lived mostly in the country, is apt to be; yet, when she left
Cloverlea, she went straight to London, with eight pounds, four and
twopence in her pocket, intending to live upon that sum until she had
discovered some means of earning more. There was some method in her
madness. She had been reading a story lately about a young woman who
had struggled to make a living in town, and she had had rooms in
Newington Butts. Nora had gathered that, while Newington Butts was not
an abode of fashion, nor a particularly salubrious neighbourhood, it
was within reasonable distance of places where young women could earn
money; and, above all, that thereabouts lodgings were both plentiful
and cheap.
The train deposited Nora at Paddington. Had she known her way about
she would have left her trunk in the cloak-room, and crossed London by
one of half-a-dozen different routes, for a few coppers; when she had
found lodgings the box would have been delivered at her address for a
few more coppers. What she did do was to charter a four-wheeler. It is
some distance from Paddington to Newington Butts; to Nora, an
unaccustomed traveller, already tired with her journey, hungry and
thirsty, the way seemed interminable. She began to wonder if the
driver quite knew where he was going; he seemed to go on and on and
never get there. At last, a little desperate, she put her head out of
the window and asked him--
"Are you sure this is the right way?"
The cab stopped. The driver screwed himself round in his seat, and he
observed, in the tone of one who is offended--
"You said Newington Butts, didn't you?"
"Yes."
Hers was the voice of deprecation.
"Very well then; I'm driving you to Newington Butts. If you think you
know the way better than I do you can come outside and I'll get
inside. I've been driving this cab two and twenty years, and if
there's any one who knows the way to Newington Butts better than I do,
I should like to know who it is."
She drew her head back and subsided on the seat, doubting no longer.
She felt that a man who had been a cabman for two and twenty years
ought to know the way to Newington Butts better than she did. The cab
went on. There was another period of seemingly interminable jolting;
it seemed likely that the springs had been on that cab as long as the
driver had. Once more the vehicle stopped. This time the driver asked
a question.
"What address?"
As Nora put her head out again hers was the tone of anxiety.
"Is this Newington Butts?"
"It used to be when I was here last, but perhaps it's been and gone
and turned itself into something else since; you might ask a policeman
if you think it has been up to any game of the kind. There's one
standing over there; I'll call him if you like; he might know."
"Thank you; I--I don't think I'll trouble you. The fact is I want
lodgings; do you know of any round here?"
"Lodgings? I shouldn't have thought there was any round here to suit
you."
"Oh, I'm so sorry; why not?"
"There's about two hundred thousand, I dare say, so perhaps one of
them might suit. Anyhow, I'll show you a few samples. Only, mind you,
I'm not engaged by the hour, nor yet by the week."
When next the cab stopped the main thoroughfare had been left behind,
and they were in a street of private houses.
"Here you are; here's a street pretty nearly full of them; all you've
got to do is pick and choose."
Nora, getting out, perceived that in many of the windows there were
cards announcing that there were rooms to let. She began her search.
At some houses they asked too much; at others they did not take
ladies; and there were rooms in which she would not have lived
rent-free; perhaps she tried a dozen without success. The cabman, who
had followed her from house to house, did not appear to be so
disheartened by this result as she did.
"That's nothing," he declared, as she regarded him with doubtful eyes.
"Sometimes people go dodging about after rooms the whole day long, and
then don't find what they want. There's more round the corner; try
them."
Nora went round the corner, the cab moving at a walking pace beside
her. The first door at which she knocked was opened by a girl, a small
girl, who looked about twelve; but she wore her hair in a knob at the
back of her head, and there was something in her manner which seemed
intended to inform the world at large that she was to be regarded as a
grown woman.
"What rooms have you to let?" asked Nora.
The girl looked at her with sharp, shrewd eyes; her reply was almost
aggressive.
"We don't care for ladies, not in the ordinary way we don't."
Nora had been told this before. Though she had not understood why a
woman should be objected to merely because she was a woman, she had
meekly withdrawn. But there was that about this child--who bore
herself as if she were so old--which induced her to persevere.
"I am sorry to hear that. If you were to make an exception in my case
I would try not to make myself more objectionable than I could help."
The girl remained unsoftened.
"That may be; but you never can tell. Some give more trouble than
they're worth, and some aren't worth anything; this is a respectable
house. Still there's no harm in letting you see what we have got."
On the upper floor were a small sitting-room in front and a still
smaller bedroom behind; barely, poorly furnished, with many obvious
makeshifts, but scrupulously clean.
"What rent are you asking?"
"Ten shillings a week, and not a penny less; it ought to be fourteen."
"I'm afraid I can't pay fourteen shillings a week just yet, but I
think I can manage ten; I like the rooms because they seem so clean."
"They are clean; no one can say they're not clean; I defy 'em to."
"Can I see the landlady?"
"My mother's the landlady; she's not very well just now; I can make
all arrangements."
"Then in that case don't you think that if I were to take the rooms
for a week on trial, at the end of that time we might find out if we
were likely to suit each other?"
"We might; there's no knowing. When would you want them?"
"At once; my luggage is at the door."
"Then mind you make the cabman bring it up before you pay him; I know
them cabmen."
But the cabman would not be made; he pleaded inability to leave his
horse. An individual had appeared who offered to carry up the box for
threepence; so Nora let him. After the cabman had been paid there
remained of her capital less than eight pounds. When they were again
up-stairs she said to the girl--
"What's your name? I'm Miss Lindsay."
"I'm Miss Gibb."
Nora smiled; the child said it as if she wished the fact to be
properly appreciated.
"I meant, what is your Christian name?"
"Angelina; though I'm generally known as Angel, you see it's shorter;
though I don't pretend that there's anything of the angel about me,
because there isn't."
"I fancy I'm tired, my head aches; do you think you could let me have
some tea?"
"Course I could; are you going to do for yourself, or are we going to
do for you?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Are we going to do your marketing, or are you going to do it for
yourself? If you take my advice you'll do it for yourself; it'll save
you trouble in the end, and then there won't be no bother about the
bills. The last lodger we had in these rooms he never could be got to
see that he'd had what he had had, there was always a rumpus. Quarter
of a pound of tea a week he used to have, yet he never could
understand how ever it got into his bill. I'll let you have a cup of
tea, and some bread and butter, and perhaps an egg; then afterwards I
dare say you might like to go out and lay in a few stores for
yourself." The girl turned as she was leaving the room to supply the
new-comer with a piece of information. "Number 1, Swan Street, Stoke
Newington, S.E., that's the address you're now in, in case you might
be wanting to tell your friends."
In Swan Street Nora continued to reside, while the days went by,
though she never told her friends. From Cloverlea, and the position of
a great heiress, with all the world at her feet to pick and choose
from, to Swan Street and less than eight pounds between her and
beggary, was a change indeed. Used only to a scale of expenditure in
which cost was never counted she was incapable of making the best of
such resources as she had. Miss Gibb took her to task, on more than
one occasion, for what that young woman regarded as her extravagance.
"Don't want it again? What's the matter with the bread? Why, there's
the better part of half a loaf here."
"Yes, but I had it the day before yesterday."
Nora spoke with something like an air of timidity, as she stood rather
in awe of Miss Gibb when that young person showed a disposition to
expand herself on questions of domestic economy.
"Day before yesterday? Let's hope you'll never be wanting bread. I've
known the time when I'd have been glad to have the week before last's.
Then look at those two rashers of bacon you told me to take away
yesterday, what was the matter with them?"
"They weren't--quite nice."
"Not nice?"
"I didn't think they were--quite fresh."
"Not fresh? I know I cooked them for my dinner and there didn't seem
to be anything wrong about them to me. Then there was that lump of
cheese which you said was all rind, it made me and Eustace a handsome
supper. Of course I know it's none of my business, and of course any
one can see you're a lady from the clothes you send to the wash; but
if there's one thing I can't stand it's waste; perhaps that's because
I've known what want is."
Nora had been in the house more than a week without seeing or hearing
anything of her landlady, or of any managing person except Miss Gibb.
She made constant inquiries, but each time it seemed that Mrs. Gibb
was "not very well just now," though what ailed her Miss Gibb did not
explain. One afternoon, as she was removing the tea-things, Nora was
struck by the look of unusual weariness which was on the
preternaturally old young face; something in the look determined her
to make an effort to solve the mystery of the invisible and inaudible
landlady.
"Angel, whenever I ask you how your mother is you always say she's not
very well just now; but the only person I've seen or heard moving
about the house is you. I'm beginning to wonder if your mother is a
creature of your imagination." Angel said nothing; she continued to
scrape the crumbs off the tablecloth with the blunt edge of a knife.
"Are you alone in the house?"
"Course I'm not; how about my brother, Eustace? You've seen and heard
him, haven't you?"
Eustace, it appeared, was only slightly his sister's senior, and
almost as old; though Nora felt that no one could really be as old as
Angel seemed; she admitted that she had seen Eustace.
"Very well then; he don't go till after nine and he's back most days
before six, so how can I be alone in the house?"
"I know about Eustace; as you say, I've seen him. But I was thinking
of your mother. Where is she; or have you reasons why you would rather
not tell me?"
"What do you mean by have I reasons?"
The light of battle came into the child's eyes; it was extraordinary
how soon it did come there.
"I was wondering if, for any reason, you would prefer to keep your own
counsel."
"We don't all of us care to turn ourselves inside out; seems to me you
don't for one."
The accusation was so true that Nora was routed.
"I beg your pardon, Angel; I didn't mean to seem to pry."
"No harm done that I know of; bones aren't broke by questions." She
folded the tablecloth. As she placed it in its drawer, and her back
was turned to Nora, she said, as with an effort, "Mother's paralyzed."
"Paralyzed? Oh, Angel, I'm so sorry; where is she?"
Miss Gibb faced round, again all battle.
"Where is she? This is her own house, isn't it? In whose house do you
suppose she'd be if she wasn't in her own? I can't think what you mean
by keeping on asking where is she?"
Nora was properly meek.
"You see, I only asked because I never hear her moving about; I never
hear any one but you, and Eustace."
"Mean I make a clatter?"
"Angel! you know I don't. You are nearly, as quiet as a mouse; but
your mother is so very quiet. I hope the paralysis is only slight."
"That's the trouble, it isn't. It's been coming on for years; during
the last three years it's been downright bad; and during the last
twelve months she's hardly been able to move so much as a finger."
Nora reflected; how old could the child have been when the mother was
taken "downright bad"?
"Can she do nothing for herself?"
"Can't even feed herself."
"But how does she manage?"
"What do you mean, how does she manage?"
"Who does everything for her?"
"I never heard such questions as you do ask! Who do you suppose does
everything for her? Isn't there me? and isn't there Eustace? Me and
Eustace always have done everything for her; she wouldn't have anybody
else do anything for her not if it were ever so."
"Has she any income of her own?"
"I wish she had; that would be heaven below."
"But on what do you live?"
"Don't we let lodgings? What do you think we let 'em for? We live on
our lodgings, that's what we live on; leastways mother and me; Eustace
keeps himself, and a bit over now that Mr. Hooper's started giving him
his old clothes. I only hope he'll keep on giving him them. The way
Eustace wears out his clothes is something frightful; it always has
been Eustace's weakness, wearing out his clothes."
Later Nora did a sum in arithmetic. Miss Gibb had previously told her
that, including rent, rates, and taxes the house cost more than forty
pounds a year. Nora paid ten shillings a week; Mr. Carter, on the
floor below, paid twelve and six; which meant twenty-two and sixpence
a week, or fifty-eight pounds ten shillings a year; so that when rent,
rates, and taxes had been paid under eighteen pounds per annum were
left for the support of the Gibb family, or less than seven shillings
a week. And this when times were flourishing! The rooms Nora had had
been vacant more than a month before she came; small wonder Miss
Gibb--as she would have put it--had "chanced" a lady.
More than another week elapsed before Nora was permitted to see her
landlady. She found her in the front room in the basement, which was
used by Miss Gibb as well as herself to live and sleep in. There,
also, were performed most of the necessary cooking operations.
"Mother," explained Miss Gibb, "always does feel the cold; we can't
have a fire going both in the kitchen and in here, so that's how it
is. Besides, mother likes to see what's going on, don't you, mother?"
Mother said she did; for she could talk, and that was the only thing
she still could do; it seemed to Nora that even the faculty of speech
was threatened. Mrs. Gibb spoke very quietly and very slowly, and
sometimes she paused, even in the middle of a word; as she listened
Nora wondered how long it would be before that pause remained
unbroken. Her landlady lay on a chair bedstead. Miss Gibb and her
brother, between them, had contrived a method, of which every one was
proud, by means of an arrangement of sloping boards, to raise her head
and shoulders, when she desired to be raised. Nora was not surprised
to find that, in common with the rest of the house, she was spotlessly
neat and clean; but she was conscious of something akin to a feeling
of surprise when she observed the expression which was on her face;
and the more attentively she observed the more the feeling grew.
Although she seemed so old--the cares of this world had pressed
heavily on her--still, in a sense, she seemed younger than her
daughter; for on her face was a look of peace, as on the face of those
who are conscious that they also serve although they only stand and
wait.
"I have nothing of which to complain," she told her lodger;
"only--it's hard on Angelina." Nora noticed that she always referred
to her daughter by her full Christian name. Angelina remonstrated.
"Now, mother, don't you be silly; if you are going to say things like
that I shall have to send Miss Lindsay away."
The mother looked at her daughter with a look in her eyes which, when
she saw it, brought the tears into Nora's; there was in it an
eloquence which she wondered if, with all her wisdom, Angelina
comprehended. If she had only been able to take the burden of the
mother off the daughter's shoulders, how gladly she would have done
it. But the days when she was able to bear the burdens of others were
gone; it seemed not unlikely that she would be crushed out of
existence by her own.