Once more I found myself in London, a city so strange to me that I did
not know the name of any street in it. I had more acquaintance with
almost every great city on the Continent. Fortunately, Tardif had given
me the address of a boarding-house, or rather a small family hotel,
where he had stayed two or three times, and I drove there at once. It
was in a quiet back street, within sound of St. Paul's clock. The hour
was so late, nearly midnight, that I was looked upon with suspicion, as
a young woman travelling alone, and with little luggage. It was only
when I mentioned Tardif, whose island bearing had made him noticeable
among the stream of strangers passing through the house, that the
mistress of the place consented to take me in.
This was my first difficulty, but not the last. By the advice of the
mistress of the boarding-house, I went to several governess agencies,
which were advertising for teachers in the daily papers. At most of
these they would not even enter my name, as soon as I confessed my
inability to give one or two references to persons who would vouch for
my general character, and my qualifications. This was a fatal
impediment, and one that had never occurred to me; yet the request was a
reasonable one, even essential. What could be more suspicious than a
girl of my age without a friend to give a guarantee of her
respectability? There seemed no hope whatever of my entering into the
ill-paid ranks of governesses.
When a fortnight had passed with no opening for me, I felt it necessary
to leave the boarding-house which had been my temporary home. I must
economize my funds, for I did not know how long I must make them hold
out. Wandering about the least fashionable suburbs, where lodgings would
cost least, I found a bedroom in the third story of a house in a
tolerably respectable street. The rent was six shillings a week, to be
paid in advance. In this place, I entered upon a new phase of life, so
different from that in Sark that, in the delusions which solitude often
brings, I could not always believe myself the same person.
A dreamy, solitary, gloomy life; shut in upon myself, with no outlet for
association with my fellow creatures. My window opened upon a back-yard,
with a row of half-built houses standing opposite to it. These houses
had been left half-finished, and were partly falling into ruin. A row of
bare, empty window-frames faced me whenever I turned my wearied eyes to
the scene without. Not a sound or sign of life was there about them.
Within, my room was; small and scantily furnished, yet there was
scarcely space enough for me to move about it. There was no table for me
to take my meals at, except the top of the crazy chest of drawers, which
served as my dressing-table. One chair, broken in the back, and tied
together with a faded ribbon, was the only seat, except my box, which,
set in a corner where I could lean against the wall, made me the most
comfortable place for resting. There was a little rusty grate, but it
was still summer-time, and there was no need of a fire. A fire indeed
would have been insupportable, for the sultry, breathless atmosphere of
August, with the fever-heat of its sun burning in the narrow streets and
close yards, made the temperature as parching as an oven. I panted for
the cool cliffs and sweet fresh air of Sark.
In this feverish solitude one day dragged itself after another with
awful monotony. As they passed by, the only change they brought was that
the sultry heat grew ever cooler, and the long days shorter. The winter
seemed inclined to set in early, and with unusual rigor, for a month
before the usual time fires became necessary. I put off lighting mine,
for fear of the cost, until my sunless little room under the roof was
almost like an ice-house. A severe cold, which made me afraid of having
to call in a doctor, compelled me to have a fire; and the burning of it,
and the necessity of tending it, made it like a second person and
companion in the lonely place. Hour after hour I sat in front of it on
my box, with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands, watching the
changeful scenery of its embers, and the exquisite motion of the flames,
and the upward rolling of the tiny columns of smoke, and the fiery,
gorgeous colors that came and went with a breath. To see the tongues of
fire lap round the dull, black coal, and run about it, and feel it, and
kindle it with burning touches, and never quit it till it was glowing
and fervid, and aflame like themselves--that was my sole occupation for
hours together.
Think what a dreary life for a young girl! I was as fond of
companionship, and needed love, as much as any girl. Was it strange that
my thoughts dwelt somewhat dangerously upon the pleasant, peaceful days
in Sark?
When I awoke in the morning to a voiceless, solitary, idle day, how
could I help thinking of Martin Dobrée, of Tardif, even of old Mother
Renouf, with her wrinkled face and her significant nods and becks?
Martin Dobrée's pleasant face would come before me, with his eyes
gleaming so kindly under his square forehead, and his lips moving
tremulously with every change of feeling. Had he gone back to his cousin
Julia again, and were they married? I ought not to feel any sorrow at
that thought. His path had run side by side with mine for a little
while, but always with a great barrier between us; and now they had
diverged, and must grow farther and farther apart, never to touch again.
Yet, how my father would have loved him had he known him! How securely
he would have trusted to his care for me! But stop! There was folly and
wickedness in thinking that way. Let me make an end of that.
There was no loneliness like that loneliness. Twice a day I exchanged a
word or two with the overworked drudge of a servant in the house where I
lived; but I had no other voice to speak to me. No wonder that my
imagination sometimes ran in forbidden and dangerous channels.
When I was not thinking and dreaming thus, a host of anxieties crowded
about me. My money was melting away again, though slowly, for I denied
myself every thing but the bare necessaries of life. What was to become
of me when it was all gone? It was the old question; but the answer was
as difficult to find as ever. I was ready for any kind of work, but no
chance of work came to me. With neither work nor money, what was I to
do? What was to be the end of it?