The house in which Miss Jean Brodie rented a single room stood in a by-street in the heart of Camberwell. Despite the knowledge that any feelings of fastidiousness were now entirely unseemly and out of place, Evarne could not avoid a certain dismay at the prospect of actually residing amid such abject poverty, disorder and squalor. Threading their way between the swarming dirty children, who shouted and played and disputed on every side, numerous as rabbits in a warren, they entered a dark, narrow passage and proceeded to mount the uncarpeted stairs.
"My room is on the top floor," explained Miss Brodie, as the first landing was gained. "Rents are very high in London. There are seven separate lots of people living in this house."
At this juncture a voice came from one of the half-open doors they were passing—
"What did I do? Why, I says quite perlite-like, ''Ave a drop o' gin, ol' dear,' but she ups and says to me, she says——"
But what "she" had responded to this invitation was lost in a peal of laughter from several throats. Miss Brodie looked supercilious.
"That's Mrs. Harbert. You won't need to talk to her at all. She's not a very respectable old woman. I'm sure I wonder the landlord has her in the house; but there, he doesn't heed anything so long as he gets his rent punctually."
Evarne glanced back over her shoulder, and surveyed this wicked personage! She saw a cleanly, neatly-clad, comfortable-looking old dame of about sixty, who still retained traces of unusual good looks. She seemed so good-natured and happy that Evarne inquired with some interest into the character of her misdemeanours. She was more entertained than appalled by the information. The culprit had been an artist's model, and the walls of her room were now absolutely covered with innumerable paintings and drawings depicting herself in the days of her youth, "but with not a decent stitch of clothing among the whole lot, my dear."
Miss Brodie's own apartment, though poor in the extreme, was certainly respectability itself. As was most suitable in a room principally designed for needlework, the floor was uncarpeted, while the bed, with the narrow rug by its side, the washing-stand and the few clothes-pegs, were all huddled as much out of the way as possible. The place of honour in the centre of the room was given to the substantial table necessary for cutting out, while by the light of the window stood the sewing-machine. On the mantelpiece were china ornaments in couples, a pair of pink vases, and some cheap frames holding family photographs. On the walls were coloured texts and several gloomy memorial cards.
And within these precincts Evarne started upon a life the conditions of which she had hitherto never dreamed of, far less realised. Work commencing at eight in the morning, the stretch of hours until eight at night was unbroken save by a brief time for meals. Day in and day out—except for the blessed Sabbath—week following week in slow procession, still found her bent over her needle, stitch, stitch, stitching as fast as her skill allowed.
At first, while yet unbroken to the yoke, she many a time seriously feared that the day then passing would be the very last of its kind that she could possibly manage to endure. The nerve-pangs of irritability and impatience, of well-nigh uncontrollable rebellion and revolt—all concealed with difficulty, but not thereby conquered—seared her spirit far more deeply than her left forefinger was pricked and torn by the needle driven at unaccustomed speed. Sometimes she would stop working for a minute, straighten her back, let her hands, together with the material, drop loosely upon her lap, while she would glance over at Jean with an expression that said plainly, "Is it really possible to endure this?"