But Miss Brodie during work-hours was as a part of her machine—she never ceased, never looked either to the right or to the left—so that after a minute or two nothing remained for the as yet unresigned apprentice but to stifle a sigh—or maybe even a groan—and again take up the labour at which her whole nature was vigorously protesting.
She wondered if she was naturally idle, or if all other needlewomen had had to get the mastery over similar feelings to those that ramped in her breast, when the monotonous occupation had to be continued for long weary hours after it had become thoroughly uncongenial? Did Miss Brodie, for instance, not know what it was to feel every pulse of her body aching and crying for movement—change—liberty? Was she never conscious that her brain was frantically protesting against the maddening monotony—the unvarying sameness—the crushing tedium of pushing that needle in, then pulling that needle out, again and again and again, as steadily as her pulses beat or her heart throbbed? Did Jean never have to fight against an almost uncontrollable impulse to scream, shout, wave her arms, stamp, swear, play ball with her work, tear down "God Bless our Home," and throw it out of the window; do something—anything—wild, mad and unseemly, to relieve the tedium and assuage the awful tumult of overwrought nerves?
But whatever storms might rage within the recesses of her own mind, Miss Brodie was ever outwardly calm—but then Evarne was to all appearances equally passive, equally resigned. She never once complained. While pitying herself as frankly as she sorrowed over a squirrel upon the wheel; a wood-bird shut in a tiny cage; a young dog fastened to its kennel in a walled-in yard, strangling itself frantically against its collar; she suffered all in total silence.
However, Jean had an outside interest—a hope that beyond a doubt served to lighten and brighten the tedium of these days of toil. She was engaged to be married to a dashing red-coated soldier, and many of the ends of her evenings were spent in his inspiriting society.
Evarne's spare hours were passed in absolute loneliness and solitude. After supper she would wander out, generally along the Embankment, but if she had sufficient energy she would persevere as far as Hyde Park. At all events she would walk about somewhere until she was wearied, not returning home until it was time to go to bed. It was a grey, soul-crushing existence, and she grew depressed and spiritless beneath its burden.
She made no effort to change it for anything better. Miss Brodie was satisfied with her, and was always kind. One thing was as good as another, and incompetence was a drug in the labour market. Everyone, too, by whom she was now surrounded laboured more or less incessantly; work made up their lives. She was no miserable exception, no victim, no martyr. Her fate seemed but the common fate of all.
"It's a real pity you can't get a young man, Miss Stornway," said Miss Brodie, worried by her apprentice's unconcealable pallor and listlessness. "It certainly does seem to make everything so much easier."
The girl smiled and shook her head. Indeed, Camberwell was as likely to produce a "young man" for Evarne as was a desert island. Not that she was overlooked by the male sex; on the contrary, in common with every girl who is at once poor and beautiful, practically every man who had any sort of opportunity commenced, sooner or later, to make love to her. Quite often strange men turned and walked by her side in the parks, seeking to engage her in conversation. But not for one instant was the proud purity of the beautiful face disturbed. Evarne had loved Morris Kenyon as truly and purely as ever any young girl loved. By the shameful arts of the street roué she was profoundly repelled. So as far as masculine society went, she lived the life of a young nun.
She seemed to have nothing left save memories, and these were all tainted with cruel bitterness. As the weary weeks lengthened into months the acuteness of all past emotions—joys and anguish alike—became dimmed, and then faded away. What had been once her life seemed now only a story she had read long ago. That brilliant room at "Mon Bijou"; the lovely garden with its winding mosaic walks; the blueness of the Naples Bay; the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland; her dainty flat and her carriage here in London; the vivid sun of Egypt—none of this was real, surely? Reality was scanty fare in a top garret—incessant stitching—loneliness—and nothing else!
And her love for Morris that she would once have sworn could have survived all blows, all passing of time, was as much a thing of the past as were all these other memories. Morris had slain it himself once and for ever. For some time she had cherished the corpse, not knowing it to be lifeless; but gradually the deceptive outward tokens of vitality faded away. A little longer and the dead thing fell to dust and was no more. The glamour of Morris's presence removed enabled her to see more clearly, not only the unforgivable nature of the insults with which he had cast her off, but the great wrong he had done her in the first place, and which had directly led down to these dregs wherein she was now drowning.