About the time that the three in the Chelsea flat were leave-taking, a
stream of women-clerks in the long passages of the General Post Office
proclaimed that pressure of work had again meant “overtime” to these
energetic City-workers.
In consequence, there was a lack of elasticity in the many passing
feet, and the suggestion of a tired silence in the cloak-room; for
though the girls hastened to get away from the dreary monotony of the
huge building, they were, many of them, too tired to depart as joyfully
as was their wont.
Yet most of them, behind the tiredness, looked out upon the world with
clear, capable eyes, and strong, self-reliant faces, that spoke well
for the spirit of their set. Up there in the big office-rooms, year in
year out, these refined, well-educated women kept ledgers and accounts
and did the general office work of the Civil Service with a precision
and neatness and correctness equal to the work of any men, and
invariably to the astonishment of any interested visitor who was
permitted to inquire into the system.
Yet the majority of their salaries ranged from £90 a year to £210, and
they were obliged to pas an examination of no mean stamp to attain a
post. Small wonder that many of them, having to help support others as
well as keep themselves, had the delicate, listless, anaemic appearance
of underfed women badly in need of fresh air, good food, and wholesome
exercise.
The policy of Great Britain towards her women workers is surely one of
the greatest contradictions of our enlightened age. Even putting aside
the vexed question of suffragism, how little has she ever done to try
and cope with the needs of working womanhood?
In some Government departments, as, for instance, the Army Clothing
Department, it is a known fact that the women are actually sweated; and
that in the higher branches, employing gentlewomen, they pay them the
lowest possible wage, not because the work is ill-done, but because,
owing to present conditions, plenty of gentlewomen are found to accept
the offer.
Many of these gentlewomen lose their health in their struggle to obtain
good food, decent lodging, and a neat appearance on Government
salaries, knowing full well that the moment they fall out of the ranks
numbers will be waiting to fill their places.
And in the meantime enlightened authors and politicians write articles,
and make speeches, holding forth upon the charm and beauty of the Home
Woman, and drawing unflattering comparisons between her and the worker.
Comfortable elderly gentlemen, who have had successful careers and can
now afford to dine unwisely every night, and keep their daughters in
well-dressed indolence, self-satisfied, self-aggrandising,
self-advertising young politicians, who, having obtained an attentive
public, delight to cant about the rights of the citizen and the good of
the Empire, clever, intuitive, charming novelists, who apparently
possess an unaccountable vein of dense non-comprehension on some
points—all harp upon this theme of the Home Woman, and the Home Sphere,
and the infinite superiority, in their own lordly eyes, of the gentle,
domesticated scion of the family hearth.
As if one-fourth of the women wage-earners, gentle or otherwise, in
England today had any choice in the matter whatever. The rapidity with
which a vacant place in the ranks is filled and the numbers waiting for
it is surely sufficient proof of that; to say nothing of the pitiful
conditions under which many, gentle and otherwise, cling to their posts
long after a merciful fate should have given them the opportunity to
save the remnants of their shattered health amidst country breezes.
It is useless to cry out to the woman that work and competition with
men is unbecoming to her. She _must_ work, and she _must_ compete, and
seeing this, it is surely time the British Government accepted the fact
magnanimously, and took more definite steps to assure her welfare.
If it can only be done through woman’s suffrage, then woman’s suffrage
must surely come, because, whether British legislators care for the
good of women or not, nature does care, and as the race moves forward
the working woman will have to be protected.
It has been seen over and over again that no band of politicians, nor
powerful men, nor tape-bound State can long defy any advancing good for
the needs of the whole.
Whether women work or not, they are the mothers of the future; and
because this fact is greater than the sum of all other facts brought
forward by the narrowness and short-sightedness of men, we may safely
believe that, since they _must_ work, nature will see to it that they
work under the most favourable conditions, no matter what rich men have
to go the poorer for it.
Pity is that the hour is so delayed; that narrowness, and selfishness,
and self-aggrandisement still flourish, to the eternal cost of those of
England’s mothers who bring weaklings into the world, through the hard
conditions of their enforced labour.
The _true patriot_ of today will agitate not only for the highest
possible efficiency in the Navy and Army; but, with no less resolve and
sincerity, for the best possible conditions obtainable for all
women-workers, that the Empire may not later sink suddenly to decay, in
spite of her defences, through the impoverished, feeble, sickly
off-spring who are all the men she has left.
The _true patriot_ will accept the ever-strengthening fact, however
unpalatable, that the development and emancipation of womanhood has
brought women to the front as workers, _to stay_; and he will perceive
that therefore it is incumbent upon the men to endeavour to find that
happy mean, where they can work together to the advantage of both, and
to the stability and greatness of a beloved country.
Only now the women-workers toil bravely on, heartening each other with
jests under conditions in which it is extremely likely men would merely
cavil and sulk and fill the air with their complainings; dressing
themselves daintily through personal effort in spite of meagre purses;
throwing themselves with a splendid joyousness into their few precious
days of freedom; banding themselves together often and often to wring
occasional hours of gaiety from the months of toil; keeping brave eyes
to the front and brave hearts to the task, while they wait steadfastly
for the day when their worth shall be appreciated and their claims
recognised.
Hastening to the office in the morning, or hastening home (probably to
cook their own dinner) at night, they read those clever, carefully
worded articles and speeches by the men of power and weight, harping
upon the charm and beauty and superiority of the Home Woman; and they
laugh across to each other with a frank, rather pitying, rather
irritated laughter, at the extraordinary dull-wittedness of some
brilliant brains.
They wonder gaily how these enlightened, clever gentlemen would like it
if they all became sweet Home women in the workhouses, cultivating
elegant gardens, and floating round in flowing gowns at their expense.
The men call them “new women” with derision, or mannish, or unsexed;
but those who have been among them, and known them as friends, know
that they hold in their ranks some of the most generous-hearted,
unselfish, big-souled women to exist in England today; and that it is
just because of that they are able to plod cheerfully on, and laugh
that indulgent, pitying little laugh, when an outraged man swells with
virtuous indignation, and waxes eloquent upon their want of womanly
attributes.
Of such as the best of these was Ethel Hayward. Among the crowd now
hurrying more or less tiredly into the open air, she might not have
been noticed. So many had white faces, dark-circled eyes,
shabby-genteel clothing, and just a commonplace fairness, that in the
throng it was difficult to discover distinguishing attributes.
One had to see her apart, and note the quick, urgent step, the
independent, lofty poise of her head, and the steadfastness of the
tired eyes, and firm, strong mouth, to feel that life had given her a
heavy burden, which only a noble soul could have supported with
heroism.
As she left the portals of the General Post Office she hesitated a few
seconds as to her direction. “Should she go straight back to the little
flat in Holloway, or should she go west, and get the drawing-paper
Basil was wanting?”
Doris could easily get the drawing-paper the next day, if she chose;
and at the flat Dudley Pritchard would have arrived for the evening.
She surmised hastily that it was extremely probable Doris had made some
other engagement for herself that she would be unwilling to delay, and
that Dudley would in no wise regret her own tardy return.
The last thought caused her eyes to grow a little strained, as she
walked quickly westwards—strained with the determination to face the
fact unflinchingly, and try to overcome the deep, insistent ache it
caused.
But the love of a lifetime is not dismissed at will, and looking a
little pitifully backward, though she was but twenty-eight, Ethel felt
she could not remember the time when she did not love Dudley Pritchard,
though it had perhaps only crystallised into the great feature of her
life at the time when, in silent, heroic endeavour, he had given of all
he had to win his friend back to life and health.
It was Dudley’s careful savings that he had paid for the great
specialist and the big operation; Dudley’s courage and devotion that
had nerved the stricken man to take up the awful burden of perpetual
invalidism; Dudley’s never-failing encouragement and friendship that
helped him still to bear the dreary months of utter weariness, in the
little home kept together by his sister’s salary.
High up in the dreary-looking block of flats in Holloway, attended
through the day by the erratic ministrations of Doris, and at night by
the yearning tenderness of Ethel, Basil Hayward dragged out a weary
martyrdom, that prayed only for release. In vain Ethel murmured over
him, that to work for him was a glory compared to what it would be to
live without him; in the silent, tedious hours of her absence, his soul
broke itself in hopeless, passionate protest against the decree that
compelled him to accept his daily bread at the hands of the sister he
would gladly have striven for day and night.
It as a martyrdom across which one can but draw a curtain, and stand
“eyes frontt”. Look this way, look that, what answer is there, what
reason, what explanation, of the hidden martyrdoms of the work-a-day
world, which the blank wall of heaven seems to regard with utter
unconcern?
Mankind today is less disposed than ever of yore to calmly fold the
hands and say, “It is the will of God.” They can no longer do so
honestly without either blaming or criticising the Divine Will that not
merely permits, but is said to send, such martyrdoms.
Better surely to accept bravely the enigma of the universe, and strive
to lessen the suffering in our own little sphere, believing that same
Divine Will is striving with us to mitigate the ills humanity has
brought upon itself through blind disobedience and careless
indifference to the laws of nature.
Uncomplaining resignation may help by its example, but the resignation
which sits with folded hands and makes no effort to amend, is only a
form of feebleness. The strong soul accepts life silently as a field of
battle, asking for energy, resource, courage, and that fine spirit
which obeys the unseen general in unquestioning faith.
It was only in such a spirit, through those years of pain and mystery,
that Ethel was able to witness her passionately loved brother’s
martyrdom, and give all the years of her youth to earn that pour salary
from a wealthy Empire, to keep some sort of a home for the three of
them in the little, dingy Holloway flat.
For even if Doris had been capable of sustained endeavour, the
bedridden man could not have been left alone for long, and no choice
was left them but to eke out Ethel’s pitiful £110 salary between them.
Often perhaps a passionate resentment burned in her heart concerning
the heavy handicaps under which a woman achieves work equal to a man’s;
but she had no time to lend herself to any open protest, and toiled on,
silently fighting her individual daily battle the better encouraged by
those brave women taking all the opprobrium of the warfare upon their
own shoulders, for the sake of working womanhood as a whole.
Only, of late a fresh burden had been added in the fear that Dudley was
growing to care for her sister Doris.
It was not that she grudged Doris the happiness, nor the prospect of a
home in which she and Dudley might together take care of Basil; but she
saw ahead the tragedy of the awakening, when Dudley learnt of the
shallow, selfish little heart behind Doris’s charming exterior.
That he, of all people, should be drawn to such an one was only the
contradiction seen on all sides in life. Because he had that
old-fashioned distrust of the independent, self-reliant woman, he must
needs go to the opposite extreme, and let himself be drawn to one
capable of little else in the world but ornamentation. Doris, she knew,
was fitted only to be a rich man’s plaything. Dudley, she felt
instinctively, would start off by expecting of her things she had never
had to give, and in his dismay and disappointment might wreck both
their lives.
Yet she felt powerless to take any step that might save them from each
other, knowing full well that Doris, bored with her life at the flat,
had decided that even life with Dudley would be better. And even as
Ethel hastened westwards, instead of towards home, Doris with infinite
pains put the finishing touches to her pretty hair, and took a last
survey of her dainty person before the well-known step should sound on
the stone staircase outside their unpretentious little door.
She had been very irritable with the invalid, because he was trying to
get a plan copied quickly, and wanted a special arrangement of light,
just when she was ready to go and dress after preparing the dinner; but
when at last Dudley knocked on the door, Doris opened it to him with a
face of such charming innocence and smiles that irritability would
never have been imagined in the répertoire of her characteristics. A
little helpless, a little childish, she might be, but what clever man
does not love a clinging woman?
“It was so nice of you to come,” she said. “It is such a dreary place
to turn out to after your long day at the office.”
“But I love coming,” he answered simply. “You know I do.”
He looked at her with unconscious admiration, and Doris noted for the
hundredth time that although he was not particularly tall, nor
particularly good-looking, nor particularly anything, yet his thin,
clean-shaven face had a clever, distinguished air, and he had
unmistakably the cut and breeding of a gentleman. She knew that even if
he were only moderately well off, and could not afford the dash she
loved, he was at least good to be seen with, and a man who might one
day make his mark. So, though she deprecated most of the qualities
which were in reality his best points, she decided in her calculating
little head she would seriously contemplate becoming Mrs. Dudley
Pritchard.
His greeting with the invalid was, for Dudley, a little boisterous—the
result of a hint from Ethel. He would probably never have had time to
see for himself that such a man as Basil Hayward would hate a pitying
air or invalid manner, but he was sympathetic enough to respond quickly
to a suggestion that the latest cricket or football news, gaily
imparted, was far more pleasing to the invalid than a sympathetic
inquiry after his health.
For Basil Hayward, sufferer and martyr, was prouder of his near
relationship to a celebrated international cricketer than he would ever
had been of his own sublime courage had it been lauded to the skies.
Life had left him little enough, but “give me the power still to glory
in every manly and athletic achievement of my countrymen,” was his
unspoken request.
So they discussed the latest sporting news of the world, and then had a
great argument on a plan of Dudley’s for a competition for a
grand-stand and pavilion on a celebrated aviation ground, while they
waited for Ethel.
The small flat had only one sitting-room, and while they talked Doris
flitted gracefully about, putting the finishing touches to the table.
Afterwards she sat on a low chair under the lamp, so that the light
fell full on her pretty hair, while she bowed her head with unwonted
industry over a piece of sewing.
Occasionally she glanced up at the two men, meeting Dudley’s eyes with
a pretty confiding look that only added to her charm.
“Ethel is so late. I wonder if we had better wait,” she said at last.
“She told me on no account to do so.”
Basil glanced at the clock a little anxiously.
“It is too bad,” he murmured; “they have no right to expect so much
overtime work. She is sure to come soon.”
“Yes; but I think she would like us to begin”; and Doris rose slowly.
“It will save time when she does come in.”
It was plain Basil disapproved, but she pretended not to see it, and in
a short time she and Dudley were seated tête-à-tête, while the invalid
remained on his couch. They were gay from spontaneity of pleasure, and
Hal would have been surprised at the cheeriness of her grave brother,
had she seen how he responded to Doris’s playful mood.
Then Ethel’s key sounded in the door, and it was as though a slight
shadow fell upon them. Doris wished she had been later still; Dudley
seemed to grow grave again, from habit, and Basil watched the door like
a big devoted dog, with eyes of hungry love.
As she entered her first glance was for him, and her nod and smile ere
she turned to greet the visitor hid all her own weariness, and was
reflected in a light of glad welcome on the sick man’s face.
“I’m so glad you didn’t wait,” she said; “I stayed to get the
drawing-paper.”
“But why did you, dear?” he asked, with quick remonstrance. “Doris
could easily have gone tomorrow.”
“Of course I could”; and Doris skilfully threw a hurt tone in her
voice, which Dudley was quick to detect.
“I wanted to walk,” was all Ethel said, as she moved away to take off
her hat and coat.
But in spite of her efforts the gaiety did not return, and Doris grew a
little pensive and sad.
Dudley, with his surface reasoning, saw in her attitude something that
suggested the other two were in the habit of being entirely wrapped up
in each other, to the exclusion of the young sister.
Ethel might be a remarkably clever and capable woman; he knew perfectly
well that she was just as able with her fingers as her brain, and did
nearly all the upholstering and dressmaking of the household in her
evening free time; but wasn’t she just a little superior and
self-satisfied also—just a little unkindly indifferent to the monotony
and dullness of her young sister’s existence?
Dudley found his sympathy go out more and more to those childlike eyes,
and the pretty, clinging ways; and a sort of half-fledged resentment
grew up against the elder sister. He could not choose but admire her,
if it were only for her devotion to her brother, but he felt a vague
something, in his thoughts of her, that he could not express, and
remained grave.
Ethel, watching them both covertly while she moved about helping Doris
to clear away the dinner things, guessed at much that was passing in
his mind, and unconsciously grew a little strained in her manner to
him. That he should pity Doris and blame her seemed at last irony, but
it could not be helped; and not even to win his love could she attempt
to change her natural manner, and appear what might better please him.
She even said “good-night” a little coldly, and remained beside Basil
while Doris went out into the tiny hall with him to get his hat and
coat.
Doris seemed to Dudley a lonely little figure out there in the dim
light, with just the suggestion of a droop about her lips and
wistfulness in her eyes. He believed that she found herself left out in
the cold with those other two, but was too proud to complain. He felt a
tenderness springing up in his heart and spreading to his eyes as he
leaned towards her with a protecting air.
She was small and fragile. It made him feel big and protective; and he
liked it. Hal was so tall and straight and slim and boyish—not in the
least the sort of person one could really feel protective to; and he
liked clinging women… His head bent down quite near to hers as he said
in a low tone: “I suppose they are like lovers, those two, and you feel
a little out of it, eh?”
“Yes”—confidingly and gratefully—“and it makes me very unhappy, because
I love to slave for Basil just as much as Ethel does. But he does not
want me…” with a little sad air.
“Oh, I think you are mistaken. It could never be that. It is only that
they have always been so devoted, and I expect it is too lonely for you
here. You do not get enough change. Would you care to go to the White
City with me on Thursday evening?”
“Oh, I should love it!” and there was a quick gleam in her eyes.
“Very well, I will arrange it.” His hand closed over hers lingeringly.
“Good-bye. Don’t be despondent. I will let you know where to meet me.
We might have dinner at a restaurant first; shall we?”
Again she expressed her delight, and Dudley went off with a glow of
pleasure that was a surprise to him.
But behind the closed door Doris smiled a little smile in the darkness,
that had none of the artless innocence of the smiles reserved for him.
“Ethel would just give her head to go with him,” was her first thought;
and then, “I hope he won’t go to a cheap restaurant.”
In the sitting-room Ethel was putting the last touches to the invalid’s
comfort for the night, moving about busily. Doris leaned against the
table, and made no attempt to help her.
“Dudley wants me to go to the White City with him on Thursday evening.
I said I would.”
“Thursday is the night I have to go and see Dr. Renshaw”; and Ethel
glanced round with a shadow of vexation on her face.
“I know it is, but you will not be very late.” She paused, then added,
“I do not get so many treats that I can afford to miss one.”
“Dudley could probably have gone any other night. Did you ask him?”
Ethel spoke a little quickly, and Doris looked ready with a sharp
retort, when Basil interposed.
“Thursday will be all right, chum. Doris won’t leave before six and you
will get in by half-past seven. I shall have nearly two whole hours in
which to do any silly thing I like, without getting scolded”; and his
smile was very winsome.
“I don’t like you to have to wait so long for your dinner. You always
get faint. Perhaps Dr. Renshaw would see me another evening... I—”
“Oh, nonsense, chum”—in the same cheery voice—“I’ll have a tin of
sardines, and eat one every ten minutes until you come.”
Ethel let the matter drop, seeing it would please him best, and Doris
retired to their room with a slightly sulky air.
“There always seems to be something to damp it if I am to have a
treat,” was her complaint.
“I don’t think you will feel damped after you start,” Ethel replied
quietly, and they went to bed in silence.