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 joyful y 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 wel for the spirit of their set. Up there in the big office-rooms, year in year out, these refined, wel -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.
Smal wonder that many of them, having to help support others as wel 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 som Government departments, as, for instance, the Army Clothing Department, it is a known fact that the women are actual y 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 fal out of the ranks numbers wil 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 wel -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
- al 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 to-day 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.
Wheter women work or not, they are the mothers of the future; and because this fact is greater than the sum of al other facts brought forward by the narrowness and short- sightedness of men, we may safely believe that, since they _must_ work, nature wil 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 stil 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 to-day wil agitate not only for the highest possible efficiency in the Navy and Army; but, with no less resolve and sincerety, for the best possible conditions obtainable for al 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_ wil 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 wil 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 shal 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 dul -wittedness of some bril iant brains.
They wonder gaily how these enlightened, clever gentlemen would like it if they al 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 to-day; 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 Hol oway, 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 unwil ing 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 pitiful y 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 crystal ised into the great feature of her life at the time when, in silent, heroic endeavour, he had given of al 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 Hol oway, 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 compel ed 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 front". 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 to-day is less disposed than ever of yore to calmly fold the hands and say, "It is the wil 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 surley to accept bravely the enigma of the universe, and strive to lessen the suffering in our own little sphere, believing that same Divine Wil is striving with us to mitigate the il s 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 mysgtery, that Ethel was able to witness her passionately loved brother's martyrdom, and give al 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 shal ow, selfish little heart behind Doris's charming exterior.
That he, of al people, should be drawn to such an one was only the contradiction seen on al 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 ful wel 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 litte 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 stil 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 graceful y about, putting the finishing touches to the table.
Afterwards she sat on a low chair under the lamp, so that the light fel full on her pretty hair, while she bowed her head with unwonted industry over a piece of sewing.
Occasional y 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 wil 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 het 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 fel upon them. Doris wished she had been later stil ; 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 to-morrow."
"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 wel that she was just as able with her fingers as her brain, and did nearly al 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 dulness 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 smal and fragile. It made him feel big and protective; and he liked it. Has was so tal and straight and slim and boyish - not in the least the sort of person one could real y 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 grateful y - "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 wel , 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 al right, chum. Doris won't leave before six and you wil get in by half-past seven. I shal 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 wil feel damped after you start," Ethel replied quietly, and they went to bed in silence.