Sophy went back to her work, and in a very few days was permanently1 moved from the seat which she had hitherto occupied next to Alec Murray and near to Lucy, to a distant part of the chamber2 in which the tinkling3 instruments were used. And as a part of the arrangement consequent on this she was called on to attend from ten till six instead of from noon till eight.{287} And her hour for dining was changed also. In this way a great separation between the girls was made, for neither could they walk to the office together, nor walk from it. To Lucy, though she was sometimes inclined to be angry with her friend, this was very painful. But Sophy triumphed in it greatly. “I think we are to have a step up to 21s. in the musical box,” she said laughing. For it was so that she called the part of the room in which the little bells were always ringing. “Won’t it be nice to have 3s. 6d. instead of 3s.?” Lucy said solemnly that any increase of income was always nice, and that when such income was earned by superiority of acquirement it was a matter of just pride. This she enunciated4 with something of a dogmatic air; having schooled herself to give all due praise to Sophy, although it had to be given at the expense of her own feelings. But when Sophy said in reply that that was just what she had been thinking herself, and that as she could do her work by ear she was of course worth more than those who could not, then the other could only with difficulty repress the soreness of her heart.
But to Sophy I think the new arrangements were most pleasant because it enabled her to reach the street in which she lived just when Abraham Hall was accustomed to return from his work. He would generally come home,—to clean himself as she called it,—and would then again go out for his employment or amusement for the evening; and now, by a proper system of lying in wait, by creeping slow or walking quick, and{288} by watching well, she was generally able to have a word or two with him. But he was so very bashful! He would always call her Miss Wilson; and she of course was obliged to call him Mr. Hall. “How is Miss Graham?” he asked one evening.
“She is very well. I think Lucy is always well. I never knew anybody so strong as she is.”
“It is a great blessing5. And how are you yourself?”
“I do get so tired at that nasty office. Though of course I like what I am doing now better than the other. It was that rolling up the bands that used to kill me. But I don’t think I shall ever really be strong till I get away from the telegraphs. I suppose you have no young ladies where you are?”
“There are I believe a lot of them in the building, stitching bindings; but I never see them.”
“I don’t think you care much for young ladies, Mr. Hall.”
“Not much—now.”
“Why not now? What does that mean?”
“I dare say I never told you or Miss Graham before. But I had a wife of my own for a time.”
“A wife! You!”
“Yes indeed. But she did not stay with me long. She left me before we had been a year married.”
“Left you!”
“She died,” he said, correcting very quickly the false impression which his words had been calculated to make.{289}
“Dear me! Died before a year was out. How sad!”
“It was very sad.”
“And you had no,—no,—no baby, Mr. Hall?”
“I wish she had had none, because then she would have been still living. Yes, I have a boy. Poor little mortal! It is two years old I think to-day.”
“I should so like to see him. A little boy! Do bring him some day, Mr. Hall.” Then the father explained that the child was in the country, down in Hertfordshire; but nevertheless he promised that he would some day bring him up to town and show him to his new friends.
Surely having once been married and having a child he must want another wife! And yet how little apt he was to say or do any of those things by saying and doing which men are supposed to express their desire in that direction! He was very slow at making love;—so slow that Sophy hardly found herself able to make use of her own little experiences with him. Alec Murray, who, however, in the way of a husband was not worth thinking of, had a great deal more to say for himself. She could put on her ribbons for Mr. Hall, and wait for him in the street, and look up into his face, and call him Mr. Hall;—but she could not tell him how dearly she would love that little boy and what an excellent mother she would be to him, unless he gave her some encouragement.
When Lucy heard that he had been a married man and that he had a child she was gratified, though she{290} knew not why. “Yes, I should like to see him of course,” she said, speaking of the boy. “A child, if you have not the responsibility of taking care of it, is always nice.”
“I should so like to take care of it.”
“I should not like to ask him to bring the boy up out of the country.” She paused a moment, and then added, “He is just the man whom I should have thought would have married, and just the man to be made very serious by the grief of such a loss. I am coming to think it does a person good to have to bear troubles.”
“You would not say that if you always felt as sick as I do after your day’s work.”
About a week after that Sophy was so weak in the middle of the day that she was obliged to leave the office and go home. “I know it will kill me,” she said that evening, “if I go on with it. The place is so stuffy6 and nasty, and then those terrible stairs. If I could get out of it and settle down, then I should be quite well. I am not made for that kind of work;—not like you are.”
“I think I was made for it certainly.”
“It is such a blessing to be strong,” said poor Sophy.
“Yes; it is a blessing. And I do bless God that he has made me so. It is the one good thing that has been given to me, and it is better, I think, than all the others.” As she said this she looked at Sophy and thought that she was very pretty; but she thought{291} also that prettiness had its dangers and its temptations; and that good strong serviceable health might perhaps be better for one who had to earn her bread.
But through all these thoughts there was a great struggle going on within her. To be able to earn one’s bread without personal suffering is very good. To be tempted7 by prettiness to ribbons, pomatum, and vanities which one cannot afford is very bad. To do as Sophy was doing in regard to this young man, setting her cap at him and resolving to make prey8 of him as a fowler does of a bird, was, to her way of thinking, most unseemly. But to be loved by such a man as Abraham Hall, to be chosen by him as his companion, to be removed from the hard, outside, unwomanly work of the world to the indoor occupations which a husband would require from her; how much better a life according to her real tastes would that be, than anything which she now saw before her! It was all very well to be brown and strong while the exigencies9 of her position were those which now surrounded her; but she could not keep herself from dreaming of something which would have been much better than that.
A month or two passed away during which the child had on one occasion been brought up to town on a Saturday evening, and had been petted and washed and fed and generally cared for by the two girls during the Sunday,—all which greatly increased their intimacy10 with the father. And now, as Lucy quickly observed, Abraham Hall called Sophy by her Christian11 name. When the word was first pronounced in Lucy{292}’s presence Sophy blushed and looked round at her friend. But she never said that the change had been made at her own request. “I do so hate to be called Miss Wilson,” she had said. “It seems among friends as though I were a hundred years old.” Then he had called her Sophy. But she did not dare,—not as yet,—to call him Abraham. All which the other girl watched very closely, saying nothing.
But during these two months Sophy had been away from her office more than half the time. Then the doctor said she had better leave town for awhile. It was September, and it was desired that she should pass that month at Hastings. Now it should be explained that in such emergencies as this the department has provided a most kindly12 aid for young women. Some five or six at a time are sent out for a month to Hastings or to Brighton, and are employed in the telegraph offices in those towns. Their railway fares are paid for them, and a small extra allowance is made to them to enable them to live away from their homes. The privilege is too generally sought to be always at the command of her who wants it; nor is it accorded except on the doctor’s certificate. But in the September Sophy Wilson was sent down to Hastings.
In spite, however, of the official benevolence13 which greatly lightened the special burden which illness must always bring on those who have to earn their bread, and which in Sophy Wilson’s case had done so much for her, nevertheless the weight of the misfortune fell heavily on poor Lucy. Some little struggle had to be{293} made as to clothes before the girl could be sent away from her home; and, though the sick one was enabled to support herself at Hastings, the cost of the London lodgings14 which should have been divided fell entirely15 upon Lucy. Then at the end of the month there came worse tidings. The doctor at Hastings declared that the girl was unfit to go back to her work,—was, indeed, altogether unfit for such effort as eight hours’ continued attendance required from her. She wanted at any rate some period of perfect rest, and therefore she remained down at the seaside without the extra allowance which was so much needed for her maintenance.
Then the struggle became very severe with Lucy,—so severe that she began to doubt whether she could long endure it. Sophy had her two shillings a day, the two-thirds of her wages, but she could not subsist16 on that. Something had to be sent to her in addition, and this something could only come from Lucy’s wages. So at least it was at first. In order to avoid debt she gave up her more comfortable room and went upstairs into a little garret. And she denied herself her accustomed dinner at the office, contenting herself with bread and cheese,—or often simply with bread,—which she could take in her pocket. And she washed her own clothes and mended even her own boots, so that still she might send a part of her earnings17 to the sick one.
“Is she better?” Abraham asked her one day.
“It is hard to know, Mr. Hall. She writes just as{294} she feels at the moment. I am afraid she fears to return to the office.”
“Perhaps it does not suit her.”
“I suppose not. She thinks some other kind of life would be better for her. I dare say it would.”
“Could I do anything?” asked the man very slowly.
Could he do anything? well; yes. Lucy at least thought that he could do a great deal. There was one thing which, if he would do it, would make Sophy at any rate believe herself to be well. And this sickness was not organic,—was not, as it appeared, due to any cause which could be specified18. It had not as yet been called by any name,—such as consumption. General debility had been spoken of both by the office doctor and by him at Hastings. Now Lucy certainly thought that a few words from Mr. Hall would do more than all the doctors in the way of effecting a cure. Sophy hated the telegraph office, and she lacked the strength of mind necessary for doing that which was distasteful to her. And that idea of a husband had taken such hold of her, that nothing else seemed to her to give a prospect19 of contentment. “Why don’t you go down and see her, Mr. Hall?” she said.
Then he was silent for awhile before he answered,—silent and very thoughtful. And Lucy as the sound of her own words rested on her ears felt she had done wrong in asking such a question. Why should he go down, unless indeed he were in love with the girl and prepared to ask her to be his wife? If he were to go down expressly to visit her at Hastings{295} unless he were so prepared, what false hopes he would raise; what damage he would do instead of good! How indeed could he possibly go down on such a mission without declaring to all the world that he intended to make the girl his wife? But it was necessary that the question should be answered. “I could do no good by that,” he said.
“No; perhaps not. Only I thought——”
“What did you think?” Now he asked a question and showed plainly by his manner that he expected an answer.
“I don’t know,” said Lucy blushing. “I suppose I ought not to have thought anything. But you seemed to be so fond of her.”
“Fond of her! Well; one does get fond of kind neighbours. I suppose you would think me impertinent, Miss Lucy,”—he had never made even this approach to familiarity before,—“if I were to say that I am fond of both of you.”
“No indeed,” she replied, thinking that as a fondness declared by a young man for two girls at one and the same moment could not be interesting, so neither could it be impertinent.
“I don’t think I should do any good by going down. All that kind of thing costs so much money.”
“Of course it does, and I was very wrong.”
“But I should like to do something, Miss Lucy.” And then he put his hand into his trousers pocket, and Lucy knew that he was going to bring forth20 money.{296}
She was very poor; but the idea of taking money from him was shocking to her. According to her theory of life, even though Sophy had been engaged to the man as his promised wife, she should not consent to accept maintenance from him or pecuniary21 aid till she had been made, in very truth, flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone. Presents an engaged girl might take of course, but hardly even presents of simple utility. A shawl might be given, so that it was a pretty thing and not a shawl merely for warmth. An engaged girl should rather live on bread and water up to her marriage, than take the means of living from the man she loved, till she could take it by right of having become his wife. Such were her feelings, and now she knew that this man was about to offer her money. “We shall do very well,” she said, “Sophy and I together.”
“You are very hard pinched,” he replied. “You have given up your room.”
“Yes, I have done that. When I was alone I did not want so big a place.”
“I suppose I understand all about it,” he said somewhat roughly, or, perhaps, gruffly would be the better word. “I think there is one thing poor people ought never to do. They ought never to be ashamed of being poor among themselves.”
Then she looked up into his face, and as she did so a tear formed itself in each of her eyes. “Am I ashamed of anything before you?” she asked.
“You are afraid of telling the truth lest I should{297} offer to help you. I know you don’t have your dinner regular as you used.”
“Who has dared to tell you that, Mr. Hall? What is my dinner to anybody?”
“Well. It is something to me. If we are to be friends of course I don’t like seeing you go without your meals. You’ll be ill next yourself.”
“I am very strong.”
“It isn’t the way to keep so, to work without the victuals22 you’re used to.” He was talking to her now in such a tone as to make her almost feel that he was scolding her. “No good can come of that. You are sending your money down to Hastings to her.”
“Of course we share everything.”
“You wouldn’t take anything from me for yourself I dare say. Anybody can see how proud you are. But if I leave it for her I don’t think you have a right to refuse it. Of course she wants it if you don’t.” With that he brought out a sovereign and put it down on the table.
“Indeed I couldn’t, Mr. Hall,” she said.
“I may give it to her if I please.”
“You can send it her yourself,” said Lucy, not knowing how else to answer him.
“No, I couldn’t. I don’t know her address.” Then without waiting for another word he walked out of the room, leaving the sovereign on the table. This occurred in a small back parlour on the ground floor, which was in the occupation of the landlady23, but was{298} used sometimes by the lodgers24 for such occasional meetings.
What was she to do with the sovereign? She would be very angry if any man were to send her a sovereign; but it was not right that she should measure Sophy’s feelings by her own. And then it might still be that the man was sending the present to the girl whom he intended to make his wife. But why—why—why, had he asked about her dinner? What were her affairs to him? Would she not have gone without her dinner for ever rather than have taken it at his hands? And yet, who was there in all the world of whom she thought so well as of him? And so she took the sovereign upstairs with her into her garret.
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1
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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2
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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3
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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enunciated
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| v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的过去式和过去分词 )；确切地说明 | |
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5
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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6
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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7
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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10
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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12
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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13
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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14
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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15
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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16
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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17
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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18
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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19
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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20
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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21
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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22
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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23
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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