THREE shillings a day to cover all expenses of life, food, raiment, shelter, a room in which to eat and sleep, and fire and light,—and recreation if recreation there might be,—is not much; but when Lucy Graham, the heroine of this tale, found herself alone in the world, she was glad to think that she was able to earn so much by her work, and that thus she possessed1 the means of independence if she chose to be independent. Her story up to the date with which we are dealing2 shall be very shortly told. She had lived for many years with a married brother, who was a bookseller in Holborn,—in a small way of business, and burdened with a large family, but still living in decent comfort. In order, however, that she might earn her own bread she had gone into the service of the Crown as a “Telegraph Girl” in the Telegraph Office.[A] And{264} there she had remained till the present time, and there she was earning eighteen shillings a week by eight hours’ continual work daily. Her life had been full of occupation, as in her spare hours she had been her brother’s assistant in his shop, and had made herself familiar with the details of his trade. But the brother had suddenly died, and it had been quickly decided3 that the widow and the children should take themselves off to some provincial4 refuge.
Then it was that Lucy Graham had to think of her independence and her eighteen shillings a week on the one side, and of her desolation and feminine necessities on the other. To run backwards5 and forwards from High Holborn to St. Martin’s-le-Grand had been very well as long as she could comfort herself with the companionship of her sister-in-law and defend herself with her brother’s arm;—but how would it be with her if she were called upon to live all alone in London? She was driven to consider what else she could do to earn her bread. She might become a nursemaid, or perhaps a nursery governess. Though she had been well and in some respects carefully educated, she knew that she could not soar above that. Of music she did not know a note. She could draw a little and understood enough French,—not to read it, but to teach herself to read it. With English literature she was better acquainted than is usual with young women of her age and class; and, as her only personal treasures, she had managed to save a few books which had become hers through her brother’s kindness. To be a servant was{265} distasteful to her, not through any idea that service was disreputable, but from a dislike to be subject at all hours to the will of others. To work and work hard she was quite willing, so that there might be some hours of her life in which she might not be called upon to obey.
When, therefore, it was suggested to her that she had better abandon the Telegraph Office and seek the security of some household, her spirit rebelled against the counsel. Why should she not be independent, and respectable, and safe? But then the solitude6! Solitude would certainly be hard, but absolute solitude might not perhaps be necessary. She was fond too of the idea of being a government servant, with a sure and fixed7 salary,—bound of course to her work at certain hours, but so bound only for certain hours. During a third of the day she was, as she proudly told herself, a servant of the Crown. During the other two-thirds she was lord,—or lady,—of herself.
But there was a quaintness8, a mystery, even an awe9, about her independence which almost terrified her. During her labours she had eight hundred female companions, all congregated10 together in one vast room, but as soon as she left the Post Office she was to be all alone! For a few months after her brother’s death she continued to live with her sister-in-law, during which time this great question was being discussed. But then the sister-in-law and the children disappeared, and it was incumbent11 on Lucy to fix herself somewhere. She must begin life after what seemed to her{266} to be a most unfeminine fashion,—“just as though she were a young man,”—for it was thus that she described to herself her own position over and over again.
At this time Lucy Graham was twenty-six years old. She had hitherto regarded herself as being stronger and more steadfast12 than are women generally of that age. She had taught herself to despise feminine weaknesses, and had learned to be almost her brother’s equal in managing the affairs of his shop in his absence. She had declared to herself, looking forward then to some future necessity which had become present to her with terrible quickness, that she would not be feckless, helpless, and insufficient13 for herself as are so many females. She had girded herself up for a work-a-day life,—looking forward to a time when she might leave the telegraphs and become a partner with her brother. A sudden disruption had broken up all that.
She was twenty-six, well made, cheery, healthy, and to some eyes singularly good-looking, though no one probably would have called her either pretty or handsome. In the first place her complexion14 was—brown. It was impossible to deny that her whole face was brown, as also was her hair, and generally her dress. There was a pervading15 brownness about her which left upon those who met her a lasting16 connection between Lucy Graham and that serviceable, long-enduring colour. But there was nobody so convinced that she was brown from head to foot as was she herself. A good lasting colour she would call it,—one that did not{267} require to be washed every half-hour in order that it might be decent, but could bear real washing when it was wanted; for it was a point of her inner creed17, of her very faith of faith, that she was not to depend upon feminine good looks, or any of the adventitious18 charms of dress for her advance in the world. “A good strong binding19,” she would say of certain dark-visaged books, “that will stand the gas, and not look disfigured even though a blot20 of ink should come in its way.” And so it was that she regarded her own personal binding.
But for all that she was to some observers very attractive. There was not a mean feature in her face. Her forehead was spacious21 and well formed. Her eyes, which were brown also, were very bright, and could sparkle with anger or solicitude22, or perhaps with love. Her nose was well formed, and delicately shaped enough. Her mouth was large, but full of expression, and seemed to declare without speech that she could be eloquent23. The form of her face was oval, and complete, not as though it had been moulded by an inartistic thumb, a bit added on here and a bit there. She was somewhat above the average height of women, and stood upon her legs,—or walked upon them,—as though she understood that they had been given to her for real use.
Two years before her brother’s death there had been a suitor for her hand,—as to whose suit she had in truth doubted much. He also had been a bookseller, a man in a larger way of business than her brother,{268} some fifteen years older than herself,—a widower24, with a family. She knew him to be a good man, with a comfortable house, an adequate income, and a kind heart. Had she gone to him she would not have been required then to live among the bookshelves or the telegraphs. She had doubted much whether she would not go to him. She knew she could love the children. She thought that she could buckle25 herself to that new work with a will. But she feared,—she feared that she could not love him.
Perhaps there had come across her heart some idea of what might be the joy of real, downright, hearty26 love. If so it was only an idea. No personage had come across her path thus to disturb her. But the idea, or the fear, had been so strong with her that she had never been able to induce herself to become the wife of this man; and when he had come to her after her brother’s death, in her worst desolation,—when the prospect27 of service in some other nursery had been strongest before her eyes,—she had still refused him. Perhaps there had been a pride in this,—a feeling that as she had rejected him in her comparative prosperity, she should not take him now when the renewal28 of his offer might probably be the effect of generosity29. But she did refuse him; and the widowed bookseller had to look elsewhere for a second mother for his children.
Then there arose the question, how and where she should live? When it came to the point of settling herself, that idea of starting in life like a young man{269} became very awful indeed. How was she to do it? Would any respectable keeper of lodgings30 take her in upon that principle? And if so, in what way should she plan out her life? Sixteen hours a day were to be her own. What should she do with them? Was she or was she not to contemplate31 the enjoyment32 of any social pleasures; and if so, how were they to be found of such a nature as not to be discreditable? On rare occasions she had gone to the play with her brother, and had then enjoyed the treat thoroughly33. Whether it had been Hamlet at the Lyceum, or Lord Dundreary at the Haymarket, she had found herself equally able to be happy. But there could not be for her now even such rare occasions as these. She thought that she knew that a young woman all alone could not go to the theatre with propriety34, let her be ever so brave. And then those three shillings a day, though sufficient for life, would hardly be more than sufficient.
But how should she begin? At last chance assisted her. Another girl, also employed in the Telegraph Office, with whom there had been some family acquaintance over and beyond that formed in the office, happened at this time to be thrown upon the world in some such fashion as herself, and the two agreed to join their forces.
She was one Sophy Wilson by name,—and it was agreed between them that they should club their means together and hire a room for their joint35 use. Here would be a companionship,—and possibly, after awhile, sweet friendship. Sophy was younger than herself, and might{270} probably need, perhaps be willing to accept, assistance. To be able to do something that should be of use to somebody would, she felt, go far towards giving her life that interest which it would otherwise lack.
When Lucy examined her friend, thinking of the closeness of their future connection, she was startled by the girl’s prettiness and youth, and thorough unlikeness to herself. Sophy had long, black, glossy36 curls, large eyes, a pink complexion, and was very short. She seemed to have no inclination37 for that strong, serviceable brown binding which was so valuable in Lucy’s eyes; but rather to be wedded38 to bright colours and soft materials. And it soon became evident to the elder young woman that the younger looked upon her employment simply as a stepping-stone to a husband. To get herself married as soon as possible was unblushingly declared by Sophy Wilson to be the one object of her ambition,—and as she supposed that of every other girl in the telegraph department. But she seemed to be friendly and at first docile39, to have been brought up with aptitudes40 for decent life, and to be imbued41 with the necessity of not spending more than her three shillings a day. And she was quick enough at her work in the office,—quicker even than Lucy herself,—which was taken by Lucy as evidence that her new friend was clever, and would therefore probably be an agreeable companion.
They took together a bedroom in a very quiet street in Clerkenwell,—a street which might be described as genteel because it contained no shops; and here they{271} began to keep house, as they called it. Now the nature of their work was such that they were not called upon to be in their office till noon, but that then they were required to remain there till eight in the evening. At two a short space was allowed them for dinner, which was furnished to them at a cheap rate in a room adjacent to that in which they worked. Here for eightpence each they could get a good meal, or if they preferred it they could bring their food with them, and even have it cooked upon the premises42. In the evening tea and bread and butter were provided for them by the officials; and then at eight or a few minutes after they left the building and walked home. The keeping of house was restricted in fact to providing tea and bread and butter for the morning meal, and perhaps when they could afford it for the repetition of such comfort later in the evening. There was the Sunday to be considered,—as to which day they made a contract with the keeper of the lodging-house to sit at her table and partake of her dishes. And so they were established.
From the first Lucy Graham made up her mind that it was her duty to be a very friend of friends to this new companion. It was as though she had consented to marry that widowed bookseller. She would then have considered herself bound to devote herself to his welfare. It was not that she could as yet say that she loved Sophy Wilson. Love with her could not be so immediate43 as that. But the nature of the bond between them was such, that each might possibly do so much either for the happiness, or the unhappiness of the other!{272} And then, though Sophy was clever,—for as to this Lucy did not doubt,—still she was too evidently in many things inferior to herself, and much in want of such assistance as a stronger nature could give her. Lucy in acknowledging this put down her own greater strength to the score of her years and the nature of the life which she had been called upon to lead. She had early in her days been required to help herself, to hold her own, and to be as it were a woman of business. But the weakness of the other was very apparent to her. That doctrine44 as to the necessity of a husband, which had been very soon declared, had,—well,—almost disgusted Lucy. And then she found cause to lament45 the peculiar46 arrangement which the requirements of the office had made as to their hours. At first it had seemed to her to be very pleasant that they should have their morning hours for needlework, and perhaps for a little reading; but when she found that Sophy would lie in bed till ten because early rising was not obligatory47, then she wished that they had been classed among those whose presence was demanded at eight.
After awhile, there was a little difference between them as to what might or what might not be done with propriety after their office hours were over. It must be explained that in that huge room in which eight hundred girls were at work together, there was also a sprinkling of boys and young men. As no girls were employed there after eight there would always be on duty in the afternoon an increasing number of the other{273} sex, some of whom remained there till late at night,—some indeed all night. Now, whether by chance,—or as Lucy feared by management,—Sophy Wilson had her usual seat next to a young lad with whom she soon contracted a certain amount of intimacy48. And from this intimacy arose a proposition that they two should go with Mr. Murray,—he was at first called Mister, but the formal appellation49 soon degenerated50 into a familiar Alec,—to a Music Hall! Lucy Graham at once set her face against the Music Hall.
“But why?” asked the other girl. “You don’t mean to say that decent people don’t go to Music Halls?”
“I don’t mean to say anything of the kind, but then they go decently attended.”
“How decently? We should be decent.”
“With their brothers,” said Lucy;—“or something of that kind.”
“Brothers!” ejaculated the other girl with a tone of thorough contempt. A visit to a Music Hall with her brother was not at all the sort of pleasure to which Sophy was looking forward. She did her best to get over objections which to her seemed to be fastidious and absurd, observing, “that if people were to feel like that there would be no coming together of people at all.” But when she found that Lucy could not be instigated51 to go to the Music Hall, and that the idea of Alec Murray and herself going to such a place unattended by others was regarded as a proposition too monstrous52 to be discussed, Sophy for awhile gave way.{274} But she returned again and again to the subject, thinking to prevail by asserting that Alec had a friend, a most excellent young man, who would go with them,—and bring his sister. Alec was almost sure that the sister would come. Lucy, however, would have nothing to do with it. Lucy thought that there should be very great intimacy indeed before anything of that kind should be permitted.
And so there was something of a quarrel. Sophy declared that such a life as theirs was too hard for her, and that some kind of amusement was necessary. Unless she were allowed some delight she must go mad, she must die, she must throw herself off Waterloo Bridge. Lucy, remembering her duty, remembering how imperative53 it was that she should endeavour to do good to the one human being with whom she was closely concerned, forgave her, and tried to comfort her;—forgave her even though at last she refused to be guided by her monitress. For Sophy did go to the Music Hall with Alec Murray,—reporting, but reporting falsely, that they were accompanied by the friend and the friend’s sister. Lucy, poor Lucy, was constrained54 by certain circumstances to disbelieve this false assertion. She feared that Sophy had gone with Alec alone,—as was the fact. But yet she forgave her friend. How are we to live together at all if we cannot forgive each other’s offences?
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1
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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adventitious
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| adj.偶然的 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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29
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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aptitudes
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| （学习方面的）才能，资质，天资( aptitude的名词复数 ) | |
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41
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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45
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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53
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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