AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN
Virginia’s reply to Miss Nunn’s letter brought another note next
morning—Saturday. It was to request a call from the sisters that same
afternoon.
Alice, unfortunately, would not be able to leave home. Her disorder had
become a feverish cold—caught, doubtless, between open window and door
whilst the bedroom was being aired for breakfast. She lay in bed, and
her sister administered remedies of the chemist’s advising.
But she insisted on Virginia leaving her in the afternoon. Miss Nunn
might have something of importance to tell or to suggest. Mrs.
Conisbee, sympathetic in her crude way, would see that the invalid
wanted for nothing.
So, after a dinner of mashed potatoes and milk (“The Irish peasantry
live almost entirely on that,” croaked Alice, “and they are physically
a fine race”), the younger sister started on her walk to Chelsea. Her
destination was a plain, low roomy old house in Queen’s Road, over
against the hospital gardens. On asking for Miss Nunn, she was led to a
back room on the ground floor, and there waited for a few moments.
Several large bookcases, a well-equipped writing-table, and kindred
objects, indicated that the occupant of the house was studious; the
numerous bunches of cut flowers, which agreeably scented the air,
seemed to prove the student was a woman.
Miss Nunn entered. Younger only by a year or two than Virginia, she was
yet far from presenting any sorrowful image of a person on the way to
old-maidenhood. She had a clear though pale skin, a vigorous frame, a
brisk movement—all the signs of fairly good health. Whether or not she
could be called a comely woman might have furnished matter for male
discussion; the prevailing voice of her own sex would have denied her
charm of feature. At first view the countenance seemed masculine, its
expression somewhat aggressive—eyes shrewdly observant and lips
consciously impregnable. But the connoisseur delayed his verdict. It
was a face that invited, that compelled, study. Self-confidence,
intellectual keenness, a bright humour, frank courage, were traits
legible enough; and when the lips parted to show their warmth, their
fullness, when the eyelids drooped a little in meditation, one became
aware of a suggestiveness directed not solely to the intellect, of
something like an unfamiliar sexual type, remote indeed from the
voluptuous, but hinting a possibility of subtle feminine forces that
might be released by circumstance. She wore a black serge gown, with
white collar and cuffs; her thick hair rippled low upon each side of
the forehead, and behind was gathered into loose vertical coils; in
shadow the hue seemed black, but when illumined it was seen to be the
darkest, warmest brown.
Offering a strong, shapely hand, she looked at her visitor with a smile
which betrayed some mixture of pain in the hearty welcome.
“And how long have you been in London?”
It was the tone of a busy, practical person. Her voice had not much
softness of timbre, and perhaps on that account she kept it carefully
subdued.
“So long as that? How I wish I had known you were so near! I have been
in London myself about two years. And your sisters?”
Virginia explained Alice’s absence, adding,—
“As for poor Monica, she has only Sunday free—except one evening a
month. She is at business till half-past nine, and on Saturday till
half-past eleven or twelve.”
“Oh, dear, dear, dear!” exclaimed the other rapidly, making a motion
with her hand as if to brush away something disagreeable. “That will
never do. You must put a stop to that.”
“I am sure we ought to.”
Virginia’s thin, timid voice and weak manner were thrown into painful
contrast by Miss Nunn’s personality.
“Yes, yes; we will talk about it presently. Poor little Monica! But do
tell me about yourself and Miss Madden. It is so long since I heard
about you.”
“Indeed I ought to have written. I remember that at the end of our
correspondence I remained in your debt. But it was a troublesome and
depressing time with me. I had nothing but groans and moans to send.”
“You didn’t stay long, I trust, with that trying Mrs. Carr?”
“Three years!” sighed Virginia.
“Oh, your patience!”
“I wished to leave again and again. But at the end she always begged me
not to desert her—that was how she put it. After all, I never had the
heart to go.”
“Very kind of you, but—those questions are so difficult to decide.
Self-sacrifice may be quite wrong, I’m afraid.”
“Do you think so?” asked Virginia anxiously.
“Yes, I am sure it is often wrong—all the more so because people
proclaim it a virtue without any reference to circumstances. Then how
did you get away at last?”
“The poor woman died. Then I had a place scarcely less disagreeable.
Now I have none at all; but I really must find one very soon.”
She laughed at this allusion to her poverty, and made nervous motions.
“Let me tell you what my own course has been,” said Miss Nunn, after a
short reflection. “When my mother died, I determined to have done with
teaching—you know that. I disliked it too much, and partly, of course,
because I was incapable. Half my teaching was a sham—a pretence of
knowing what I neither knew nor cared to know. I had gone into it like
most girls, as a dreary matter of course.”
“Like poor Alice, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, it’s a distressing subject. When my mother left me that little sum
of money I took a bold step. I went to Bristol to learn everything I
could that would help me out of school life. Shorthand, book-keeping,
commercial correspondence—I had lessons in them all, and worked
desperately for a year. It did me good; at the end of the year I was
vastly improved in health, and felt myself worth something in the
world. I got a place as cashier in a large shop. That soon tired me,
and by dint of advertising I found a place in an office at Bath. It was
a move towards London, and I couldn’t rest till I had come the whole
way. My first engagement here was as shorthand writer to the secretary
of a company. But he soon wanted some one who could use a typewriter.
That was a suggestion. I went to learn typewriting, and the lady who
taught me asked me in the end to stay with her as an assistant. This is
her house, and here I live with her.”
“How energetic you have been!”
“How fortunate, perhaps. I must tell you about this lady—Miss Barfoot.
She has private means—not large, but sufficient to allow of her
combining benevolence with business. She makes it her object to train
young girls for work in offices, teaching them the things that I learnt
in Bristol, and typewriting as well. Some pay for their lessons, and
some get them for nothing. Our workrooms are in Great Portland Street,
over a picture-cleaner’s shop. One or two girls have evening lessons,
but our pupils for the most part are able to come in the day. Miss
Barfoot hasn’t much interest in the lower classes; she wishes to be of
use to the daughters of educated people. And she is of use. She is
doing admirable work.”
“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.