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The Time of Roses, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 13. A Weary Wait |
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_ CHAPTER XIII. A WEARY WAIT 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. _ |
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