My mother contrived to keep the small household going on
resources which must have been incredibly small; we lived in a remote
country village, because most of the necessaries of life were cheaper
than in a town, but even so we were brought up with the severest
economy. My father was a clever and well-read man, and left behind him a
small but select collection of books, containing the best Greek, Latin,
and English classics, and these books were the only amusement we
possessed. My brother, I remember, learned Latin out of Descartes'
"Meditationes," and I, in place of the little tales which children are
usually told to read, had nothing more charming than a translation of
the "Gesta Romanorum." We grew up thus, quiet and studious children, and
in course of time my brother provided for himself in the manner I have
mentioned. I continued to live at home; my poor mother had become an
invalid, and demanded my continual care, and about two years ago she
died after many months of painful illness. My situation was a terrible
one; the shabby furniture barely sufficed to pay the debts I had been
forced to contract, and the books I despatched to my brother, knowing
how he would value them. I was absolutely alone. I was aware how poorly
my brother was paid; and though I came up to London in the hope of
finding employment, with the understanding that he would defray my
expenses, I swore it should only be for a month, and that if I could not
in that time find some work, I would starve rather than deprive him of
the few miserable pounds he had laid by for his day of trouble. I took a
little room in a distant suburb, the cheapest that I could find. I lived
on bread and tea, and I spent my time in vain answering of
advertisements, and vainer walks to addresses I had noted. Day followed
on day, and week on week, and still I was unsuccessful, till at last the
term I had appointed drew to a close, and I saw before me the grim
prospect of slowly dying of starvation. My landlady was good-natured in
her way; she knew the slenderness of my means, and I am sure that she
would not have turned me out of doors. It remained for me then to go
away, and to try and die in some quiet place. It was winter then, and a
thick white fog gathered in the early part of the afternoon, becoming
more dense as the day wore on; it was a Sunday, I remember, and the
people of the house were at chapel. At about three o'clock I crept out
and walked away as quickly as I could, for I was weak from abstinence. The white mist wrapped all the streets in silence, and a hard frost had
gathered thick upon the bare branches of the trees, and frost crystals
glittered on the wooden fences, and on the cold cruel ground beneath my
feet. I walked on, turning to right and left in utter haphazard, without
caring to look up at the names of the streets, and all that I remember
of my walk on that Sunday afternoon seems but the broken fragments of an
evil dream. In a confused vision I stumbled on, through roads half town
and half country; gray fields melting into the cloudy world of mist on
one side of me, and on the other comfortable villas with a glow of
firelight flickering on the walls; but all unreal, red brick walls, and
lighted windows, vague trees, and glimmering country, gas-lamps
beginning to star the white shadows, the vanishing perspectives of the
railway line beneath high embankments, the green and red of the signal
lamps,--all these were but momentary pictures flashed on my tired brain
and senses numbed by hunger. Now and then I would hear a quick step
ringing on the iron road, and men would pass me well wrapped up, walking
fast for the sake of warmth, and no doubt eagerly foretasting the
pleasures of a glowing hearth, with curtains tightly drawn about the
frosted panes, and the welcomes of their friends; but as the early
evening darkened and night approached, foot-passengers got fewer and
fewer, and I passed through street after street alone. In the white
silence I stumbled on, as desolate as if I trod the streets of a buried
city; and as I grew more weak and exhausted, something of the horror of
death was folding thickly round my heart. Suddenly, as I turned a
corner, some one accosted me courteously beneath the lamp-post, and I
heard a voice asking if I could kindly point the way to Avon Road. At
the sudden shock of human accents I was prostrated and my strength gave
way, and I fell all huddled on the side-walk and wept and sobbed and
laughed in violent hysteria. I had gone out prepared to die, and as I
stepped across the threshold that had sheltered me, I consciously bade
adieu to all hopes and all remembrances; the door clanged behind me with
the noise of thunder, and I felt that an iron curtain had fallen on the
brief passages of my life, and that henceforth I was to walk a little
way in a world, of gloom and shadow; I entered on the stage of the first
act of death. Then came my wandering in the mist, the whiteness wrapping
all things, the void streets, and muffled silence, till when that voice
spoke to me, it was as if I had died and life returned to me. In a few
minutes I was able to compose my feelings, and as I rose I saw that I
was confronted by a middle-aged gentleman of specious appearance, neatly
and correctly dressed. He looked at me with an expression of great pity,
but before I could stammer out my ignorance of the neighborhood, for
indeed I had not the slightest notion of where I had wandered, he spoke. "My dear madam," he said, "you seem in some terrible distress. You
cannot think how you alarmed me. But may I inquire the nature of your
trouble? I assure you that you can safely confide in me." "You are very kind," I replied; "but, I fear there is nothing to be
done. My condition seems a hopeless one." "Oh, nonsense, nonsense! You are too young to talk like that. Come, let
us walk down here, and you must tell me your difficulty. Perhaps I may
be able to help you." There was something very soothing and persuasive in his manner, and as
we walked together, I gave him an outline of my story, and told of the
despair that had oppressed me almost to death. "You were wrong to give in so completely," he said, when I was silent. "A month is too short a time in which to feel one's way in London. London, let me tell you, Miss Lally, does not lie open and undefended;
it is a fortified place, fossed and double-moated with curious
intricacies. As must always happen in large towns, the conditions of
life have become hugely artificial; no mere simple palisade is run up to
oppose the man or woman who would take the place by storm, but serried
lines of subtle contrivances, mines, and pitfalls which it needs a
strange skill to overcome. You, in your simplicity, fancied you had only
to shout for these walls to sink into nothingness, but the time is gone
for such startling victories as these. Take courage; you will learn the
secret of success before very long."