Florence settled down in her attic,
and made herself as comfortable as circumstances would
permit.
With all her faults, and she had plenty,
Florence had a straightforward sort of nature.
She was alive to temptation, and when occasion rose,
as has been already seen, could and did yield to it.
But just now she was most anxious to eat the bread
of independence, not to sink under the sway of Bertha
Keys, to fight her own battle, and to receive her own
well-earned reward.
She made her little attic look as
neat and cheery as she could; she was extremely saving
with regard to her food, and set to work at once trying
to obtain employment.
Now, Florence honestly hated the idea
of teaching. She was a fairly clever girl, but
no more. She had certain aptitudes and certain
talents, but they did not lie in the teacher’s
direction. For instance, she was no musician,
and her knowledge of foreign languages was extremely
small; she could read French fairly well, but could
not speak it; she had only a smattering of German,
and was not an artist. Her special forte was
English history and literature, and she also had a
fair idea of some of the sciences.
With only these weapons in hand, and
the sum of twenty pounds in her pocket, she was about
to fight the world.
She herself knew well, none better,
that her weapons were small and her chance of success
not particularly brilliant.
With a good heart, however, she started
out from her lodging on the morning after her arrival
in town.
She went to a registry-office in the
Strand and entered her name there. From this
office she went to two or three in the West End, and,
having put down her name in each office and answered
the questions of the clerk who took her subscription,
returned home.
She had been assured in four different
quarters that it was only a matter of time; that as
soon as ever the schools began she would get employment.
“There is no difficulty,”
one and all said to her. “You want to get
a teacher’s post; you are quite sure to succeed.
There will be plenty of people requiring assistance
of all sorts at the schools when the holidays are
over.”
“What shall I do in the meantime?”
said Florence, who knew that several weeks of the
holidays had yet to run.
“In the meantime,” said
all these people, “there is nothing to do but
wait.”
Florence wondered if she had really
left her mother too soon.
“It would have been cheaper
to stay on with the little Mummy,” she said
to herself; “but, under the circumstances, I
could not stay. I dared not leave myself in Bertha’s
power. August is nearly through, and the schools
will open again about the 20th of September. By
then I shall surely hear of something. Oh, it
is hateful to teach; but there is no help for it.”
Accordingly Florence returned home
in as fair spirits as was to be expected.
She wrote and told her mother what
she had done, and resolved to spend her time studying
at the British Museum.
There were not many people yet in
London, and she felt strange and lonely. A great
longing for her old school life visited her. She
wondered where her schoolfellows had gone, and what
they were doing, and if they were also as hard pressed
as she was.
Her money seemed to her to be already
melting away in a remarkably rapid manner. She
wanted new boots and a neat new serge dress, and thought
she might as well get these necessary articles of
apparel now, while she was waiting for a situation,
as later; but, although she bought boots at the very
cheapest place she could find, her funds melted still
further, and before September was half through she
had spent between five and six pounds of her small
stock of money.
“This will never do,”
she said to herself; “I shall get so frightened
that I shall become nervous. What am I to do?
How am I to eke out the money till I get a post as
teacher?”
It was already time for different
mistresses at schools to be applying to her for her
valuable services; but, although she listened with
a beating heart as she heard the postman run up the
stairs and deposit letters in the different hall doors
of the various flats, very seldom indeed did the good
man come up as far as her attic, and then it was a
letter from her mother.
She decided to go again to the offices
where she had entered her name, and enquire if there
were any post likely to suit her which she could apply
for. She was now received in a totally different
spirit.
“It is extremely unlikely, miss,”
said one and all of the clerks who had been so specious
on the occasion of her first visit, “that we
can get you anything to do. You are not a governess,
you know, in the ordinary sense. You cannot teach
music, nor languages, nor drawing. What can you
expect, madam?”
“But you told me,” began
poor Florence, “you told me when I paid my fee
on the previous occasion of calling that you could
get me a post without the slightest difficulty.”
“We will do our utmost, of course,
madam; but, with your want of experience, we can make
no definite promise. We certainly made none in
the past,” and the clerk whom Florence was interrogating
gave her a severe glance, which was meant as a dismissal.
“If you cannot get me anything
to do as a teacher, is there nothing else you can
think of to suit me? Secretaries are sometimes
employed, are they not?”
“Secretaryships are not in our
line,” said the clerk; “at least, not for
ladies. People prefer men for the post clever
men who understand shorthand. You, of course,
know nothing of that accomplishment?”
“Certainly not! Girls never
learn shorthand,” said Florence.
She left one office after the other,
feeling sadder and sadder.
“What is to be done?”
she said to herself, almost in tones of despair.