The Odd Women (Feminist Classic). George Gissing

I had to work hard for next to no payment and live in solitude. Now I should be ashamed to complain of what falls to the lot of thousands of girls.’

      ‘Do you like Miss Nunn?’ asked Monica.

      ‘Not so well as Miss Barfoot, but I think very highly of her. Her zeal makes her exaggerate a little now and then, but then the zeal is so splendid. I haven’t it myself — not in that form.’

      ‘You mean —’

      ‘I mean that I feel a shameful delight when I hear of a girl getting married. It’s very weak, no doubt; perhaps I shall improve as I grow older. But I have half a suspicion, do you know, that Miss Barfoot is not without the same weakness.’

      Monica laughed, and spoke of something else. She was in good spirits; already her companion’s view of life began to have an effect upon her; she thought of people and things in a more lightsome way, and was less disposed to commiserate herself.

      The bedroom which both were to occupy might with advantage have been larger, but they knew that many girls of instinct no less delicate than their own had to endure far worse accommodation in London — where poverty pays for its sheltered breathing-space at so much a square foot. It was only of late that Miss Vesper had been able to buy furniture (four sovereigns it cost in all), and thus to allow herself the luxury of two rooms at the rent she previously paid for one. Miss Barfoot did not remunerate her workers on a philanthropic scale, but strictly in accordance with market prices; common sense dictated this principle. In talking over their arrangements, Monica decided to expend a few shillings on the purchase of a chair-bedstead for her own use.

      ‘I often have nightmares,’ she remarked, ‘and kick a great deal. It wouldn’t be nice to give you bruises.’

      A week passed. Alice had written from Yatton, and in a cheerful tone. Virginia, chronically excited, had made calls at Rutland Street and at Queen’s Road; she talked like one who had suddenly received a great illumination, and her zeal in the cause of independent womanhood rivalled Miss Nunn’s. Without enthusiasm, but seemingly contented, Monica worked at the typewriting machine, and had begun certain studies which her friends judged to be useful. She experienced a growth of self-respect. It was much to have risen above the status of shop-girl, and the change of moral atmosphere had a very beneficial effect upon her.

      Mildred Vesper was a studious little person, after a fashion of her own. She possessed four volumes of Maunder’s ‘Treasuries’, and to one or other of these she applied herself for at least an hour every evening.

      ‘By nature,’ she said, when Monica sought an explanation of this study, ‘my mind is frivolous. What I need is a store of solid information, to reflect upon. No one could possibly have a worse memory, but by persevering I manage to learn one or two facts a day.’

      Monica glanced at the books now and then, but had no desire to cultivate Maunder’s acquaintance. Instead of reading, she meditated the problems of her own life.

      Edmund Widdowson, of course, wrote to her at the new address. In her reply she again postponed their meeting. Whenever she went out in the evening, it was with expectation of seeing him somewhere in the neighbourhood; she felt assured that he had long ago come to look at the house, and more likely than not his eyes had several times been upon her. That did not matter; her life was innocent, and Widdowson might watch her coming and going as much as he would.

      At length, about nine o’clock one evening, she came face to face with him. It was in Hampstead Road; she had been buying at a draper’s, and carried the little parcel. At the moment of recognition, Widdowson’s face so flushed and brightened that Monica could not help a sympathetic feeling of pleasure.

      ‘Why are you so cruel to me?’ he said in a low voice, as she gave her hand. ‘What a time since I saw you!’

      ‘Is that really true?’ she replied, with an air more resembling coquetry than any he had yet seen in her.

      ‘Since I spoke to you, then.’

      ‘When did you see me?’

      ‘Three evenings ago. You were walking in Tottenham Court Road with a young lady.’

      ‘Miss Vesper, the friend I live with.’

      ‘Will you give me a few minutes now?’ he asked humbly. ‘Is it too late?’

      For reply Monica moved slowly on. They turned up one of the ways parallel with Rutland Street, and so came into the quiet district that skirts Regent’s Park, Widdowson talking all the way in a strain of all but avowed tenderness, his head bent towards her and his voice so much subdued that occasionally she lost a few words.

      ‘I can’t live without seeing you,’ he said at length. ‘If you refuse to meet me, I have no choice but to come wandering about the places where you are. Don’t, pray don’t think I spy upon you. Indeed, it is only just to see your face or your form as you walk along. When I have had my journey in vain I go back in misery. You are never out of my thoughts — never.’

      ‘I am sorry for that, Mr. Widdowson.’

      ‘Sorry? Are you really sorry? Do you think of me with less friendliness than when we had our evening on the river?’

      ‘Oh, not with less friendliness. But if I only make you unhappy —’

      ‘In one way unhappy, but as no one else ever had the power to. If you would let me meet you at certain times my restlessness would be at an end. The summer is going so quickly. Won’t you come for that drive with me next Sunday? I will be waiting for you at any place you like to appoint. If you could imagine what joy it would give me!’

      Presently Monica assented. If it were fine, she would be by the southeast entrance to Regent’s Park at two o’clock. He thanked her with words of the most submissive gratitude, and then they parted.

      The day proved doubtful, but she kept her appointment. Widdowson was on the spot with horse and trap. These were not, as he presently informed Monica, his own property, but hired from a livery stable, according to his custom.

      ‘It won’t rain,’ he exclaimed, gazing at the sky. ‘It shan’t rain! These few hours are too precious to me.’

      ‘It would be very awkward if it did,’ Monica replied, in merry humour, as they drove along.

      The sky threatened till sundown, but Widdowson was able to keep declaring that rain would not come. He took a south-westward course, crossed Waterloo Bridge, and thence by the highways made for Herne Hill. Monica observed that he made a short detour to avoid Walworth Road. She asked his reason.

      ‘I hate the road!’ Widdowson answered, with vehemence.

      ‘You hate it?’

      ‘Because you slaved and suffered there. If I had the power, I would destroy it — every house. Many a time,’ he added, in a lower voice, ‘when you were lying asleep, I walked up and down there in horrible misery.’

      ‘Just because I had to stand at a counter?’

      ‘Not only that. It wasn’t fit for you to work in that way — but the people about you! I hated every face of man or woman that passed along the street.’

      ‘I didn’t like the society.’

      ‘I should hope not. Of course, I know you didn’t. Why did you ever come to such a place?’

      There was severity rather than sympathy in his look.

      ‘I was tired of the dull country life,’ Monica replied frankly. ‘And then I didn’t know what the shops and the people were like.’

      ‘Do you need a life of excitement?’ he asked, with a sidelong glance.

      ‘Excitement? No, but one must have change.’

      When they reached Herne Hill, Widdowson became silent, and presently he allowed the horse to walk.

      ‘That is my house, Miss Madden — the right-hand one.

      Monica