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Sparrows: The Story of an Unprotected Girl

by Horace W. C. Newte · English · Gutenberg #4345 · 925,319 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Sparrows: The Story of an Unprotected Girl

Author: Horace W. C. Newte


        
Release date: August 1, 2003 [eBook #4345]
                Most recently updated: December 27, 2020

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPARROWS: THE STORY OF AN UNPROTECTED GIRL ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.










SPARROWS

THE STORY OF AN UNPROTECTED GIRL


by

Horace W. C. Newte




CONTENTS

          ONE  THE DEVITTS
          TWO  MAVIS KEEVES
        THREE  FRIENDS IN NEED
         FOUR  MAVIS LEAVES HER NEST
         FIVE  BARREN WAYS
          SIX  "DAWES"
        SEVEN  WIDER HORIZONS
        EIGHT  SPIDER AND FLY
         NINE  AWING
          TEN  "POULTER'S"
       ELEVEN  MAVIS'S PRAYER
       TWELVE  MRS HAMILTON'S
     THIRTEEN  MAVIS GOES OUT TO SUPPER
     FOURTEEN  THE SEQUEL
      FIFTEEN  A GOOD SAMARITAN
      SIXTEEN  SURRENDER
    SEVENTEEN  SPRINGTIME
     EIGHTEEN  CHARLIE PERIGAL
     NINETEEN  THE MOON GODDESS
       TWENTY  THE WAY OF ALL FLESH
   TWENTY-ONE  THE AWAKENING
   TWENTY-TWO  O LOVE, FOR DELIGHTS!
 TWENTY-THREE  THE CURSE OF EVE
  TWENTY-FOUR  SNARES
  TWENTY-FIVE  A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
   TWENTY-SIX  TRAVAIL
 TWENTY-SEVEN  THE NURSING HOME
 TWENTY-EIGHT  MISS 'PETT'S APOTHEOSIS
  TWENTY-NINE  THE ORDEAL
       THIRTY  THE "PERMANENT"
   THIRTY-ONE  PIMLICO
   THIRTY-TWO  MISS TOOMBS REVEALS HERSELF
 THIRTY-THREE  AN OLD FRIEND
  THIRTY-FOUR  MAVIS GOES TO MELKBRIDGE
  THIRTY-FIVE  THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
   THIRTY-SIX  A VISIT
 THIRTY-SEVEN  MAVIS AND HAROLD
 THIRTY-EIGHT  MAVIS'S REVENGE
  THIRTY-NINE  A SURPRISE
        FORTY  A MIDNIGHT WALK
    FORTY-ONE  TRIBULATION
    FORTY-TWO  THE WELL-BELOVED




CHAPTER ONE

THE DEVITTS


Everyone at Melkbridge knew the Devitts: they lived in the new,
pretentious-looking house, standing on the right, a few minutes after
one left the town by the Bathminster road. It was a blustering,
stare-one-in-the-face kind of house, which defied one to question the
financial stability of its occupants. The Devitts were like their home
in being new, ostentatious folk; their prosperity did not extend
further back than the father of Montague, the present head of the
family.

Montague Devitt did little beyond attending board meetings of the
varied industries which his father's energy had called into being. He
was a bluff, well-set-up man, who had married twice; both of his wives
had brought him money. Each time Montague chose a mate, he had made
some effort to follow the leanings of his heart; but money not lying in
the same direction as love, an overmastering instinct of his blood had
prevailed against his sentimental inclinations; in each case it had
insisted on his marrying, in one instance an interest in iron works, in
another, a third share of a Portland cement business.

His first wife had borne him two sons and a daughter; his second was
childless.

Montague was a member of two or three Bohemian clubs in London, to
which, as time went on, he became increasingly attached. At these, he
passed as a good fellow, chiefly from a propensity to stand drinks to
any and everyone upon any pretence; he was also renowned amongst his
boon companions for his rendering of "The Village Blacksmith" in dumb
show, a performance greeted by his thirsty audience with thunders of
applause.

Harold, his first born, will be considered later.

Lowther, his second son, can be dismissed in a few words. He was a
good-looking specimen of the British bounder. His ideas of life were
obtained from the "Winning Post," and the morality (or want of it)
suggested by musical comedy productions at the Gaiety Theatre. He
thought coarsely of women. While spending money freely in the society
of ladies he met at the Empire promenade, or in the Cafe d' l'Europe,
he practised mean economics in private.

Victoria, Montague's daughter, was a bit of a puzzle to friends and
relations alike, all of whom commenced by liking her, a sentiment
which, sooner or later, gave place to a feeling of dissatisfaction. She
was a disappointment to her father, although he would never admit it to
himself; indeed, if he had tried to explain this displeasure, he would
have been hard put to it to give a straightforward cause for a
distressing effect. On first acquaintance, it would seem as if she were
as desirable a daughter as heart of father could want. She was tall,
good-looking, well educated; she had abundance of tact,
accomplishments, and refinement; she had never given her parents a
moment of anxiety. What, then, was wrong with her from her father's
point of view? He was well into middle age; increasing years made him
yearn for the love of which his life had been starved; this craving
would have been appeased by love for his daughter, but the truth was
that he was repelled by the girl's perfection. She had never been known
to lose her temper; not once had she shown the least preference for any
of the eligible young men of her acquaintance; although always
becomingly dressed, she was never guilty of any feminine foibles, which
would have endeared her to her father. To him, such correctness
savoured of inhumanity; much of the same feeling affected the girl's
other relatives and friends, to the ultimate detriment of their esteem.

Hilda, Montague's second wife, was the type of woman that successful
industrialism turns out by the gross. Sincere, well-meaning, narrow,
homely, expensively but indifferently educated, her opinion on any
given subject could be predicted; her childlessness accentuated her
want of mental breadth. She read the novels of Mrs Humphry Ward; she
was vexed if she ever missed an Academy; if she wanted a change, she
frequented fashionable watering-places. She was much exercised by the
existence of the "social evil"; she belonged to and, for her,
subscribed heavily to a society professing to alleviate, if not to
cure, this distressing ailment of the body politic. She was the
honorary secretary of a vigilance committee, whose operations extended
to the neighbouring towns of Trowton and Devizeton. The good woman was
ignorant that the starvation wages which her husband's companies paid
were directly responsible for the existence of the local evil she
deplored, and which she did her best to eradicate.

Miss Spraggs, Hilda Devitt's elder sister, lived with the family at
Melkbridge House. She was a virgin with a taste for scribbling, which
commonly took the form of lengthy letters written to those she thought
worthy of her correspondence. She had diligently read every volume of
letters, which she could lay hands on, of persons whose performance was
at all renowned in this department of literature (foreign ones in
translations), and was by way of being an agreeable rattle, albeit of a
pinchbeck, provincial genus. Miss Spraggs was much courted by her
relations, who were genuinely proud of her local literary reputation.
Also, let it be said, that she had the disposal of capital bringing in
five hundred a year.

Montague's eldest son, Harold, was, at once, the pride and grief of the
Devitts, although custom had familiarised them with the calamity
attaching to his life.

He had been a comely, athletic lad, with a nature far removed from that
of the other Devitts; he had seemed to be in the nature of a reversion
to the type of gentleman, who, it was said, had imprudently married an
ancestress of Montague's first wife. Whether or not this were so, in
manner, mind, and appearance Harold was generations removed from his
parents and brother. He had been the delight of his father's eye, until
an accident had put an end to the high hopes which his father had
formed of his future. A canal ran through Melkbridge; some way from the
town this narrowed its course to run beneath a footbridge, locally
known as the "Gallows" bridge.

It was an achievement to jump this stretch of water; Harold Devitt was
renowned amongst the youth of the neighbourhood for the performance of
this feat. He constantly repeated the effort, but did it once too
often. One July morning, he miscalculated the distance and fell, to be
picked up some while after, insensible. He had injured his spine. After
many weeks of suspense suffered by his parents, these learned that
their dearly loved boy would live, although he would be a cripple for
life. Little by little, Harold recovered strength, till he was able to
get about Melkbridge on a self-propelled tricycle; any day since the
year of the accident his kindly, distinguished face might be seen in
the streets of the town, or the lanes of the adjacent country, where he
would pull up to chat with his many friends.

His affliction had been a terrible blow to Harold; when he had first
realised the permanent nature of his injuries, he had cursed his fate;
his impotent rage had been pitiful to behold. This travail occurred in
the first year of his affliction; later, he discovered, as so many
others have done in a like extremity, that time accustoms the mind to
anything: he was now resigned to his misfortune. His sufferings had
endowed him with a great tolerance and a vast instinct of sympathy for
all living things, qualities which are nearly always lacking in young
men of his present age, which was twenty-nine. The rest of the family
stood in some awe of Harold; realising his superiority of mind, they
feared to be judged at the bar of his opinion; also, he had some
hundreds a year left him, in his own right, by his mother: it was
unthinkable that he should ever marry. Another thing that
differentiated him from his family was that he possessed a sense of
humour.

It may be as well to state that Harold plays a considerable part in
this story, which is chiefly concerned with a young woman, of whom the
assembled Devitts were speaking in the interval between tea and dinner
on a warm July day. Before setting this down, however, it should be
said that the chief concern of the Devitts (excepting Harold) was to
escape from the social orbit of successful industrialism, in which they
moved, to the exalted spheres of county society.

Their efforts, so far, had only taken them to certain halfway houses on
their road. The families of consequence about Melkbridge were
old-fashioned, conservative folk, who resented the intrusion in their
midst of those they considered beneath them.

Whenever Montague, a borough magistrate, met the buffers of the great
families upon the bench, or in the hunting field, he found them civil
enough; but their young men would have little to do with Lowther, while
its womenfolk ignored the assiduities of the Devitt females.

The drawing-room in which the conversation took place was a large,
over-furnished room, in which a conspicuous object was a picture, most
of which, the lower part, was hidden by padlocked shutters; the portion
which showed was the full face of a beautiful girl.

The picture was an "Etty," taken in part payment of a debt by
Montague's father, but, as it portrayed a nude woman, the old Puritan
had employed a Melkbridge carpenter to conceal that portion of the
figure which the artist had omitted to drape. Montague would have had
the shutters removed, but had been prevailed upon by his wife to allow
them to remain until Victoria was married, an event which, at present,
she had no justification for anticipating.

The late afternoon post had brought a letter for Mrs Devitt, which gave
rise to something of a discussion.

"Actually, here is a letter from Miss Annie Mee," said Mrs Devitt.

"Your old schoolmistress!" remarked Miss Spraggs.

"I didn't know she was alive," went on Mrs Devitt. "She writes from
Brandenburg College, Aynhoe Road, West Kensington Park, London, asking
me to do something for her."

"Of course!" commented the agreeable rattle.

"How did you know?" asked Mrs Devitt, looking up from the letter she
was reading with the help of glasses.

"Didn't you know that there are two kinds of letters: those you want
and those that want something?" asked Miss Spraggs, in a way that
showed she was conscious of saying a smart thing.

"I can hardly believe human nature to be so depraved as you would make
it out to be, Eva," remarked Mrs Devitt, who disliked the fact of her
unmarried sister possessing sharper wits than her own.

"Oh! I say, is that your own?" guffawed Devitt from his place on the
hearthrug.

"Why shouldn't it be?" asked Miss Spraggs demurely.

"Anyway," continued Mrs Devitt impatiently, "she wishes to know if I am
in want of a companion, or anything of that sort, as she has a teacher
she is unable to keep owing to her school having fallen on bad times."

"Then she's young!" cried Lowther, who was lolling near the window.

"'Her name is Mavis Keeves; she is the only daughter of the late
Colonel Keeves, who, I believe, before he was overtaken by misfortune,
occupied a position of some importance in the vicinity of Melkbridge,'"
read Mrs Devitt from Miss Annie Mee's letter.

"Keeves! Keeves!" echoed her husband.

"Do you remember him?" asked his wife.

"Of course," he replied. "He was a M.F.H. and knew everyone" (everyone
was here synonymous with the elect the Devitts were pining to meet on
equal terms). "His was Sir Henry Ockendon's place."

The prospects of Mavis Keeves securing employment with the Devitts had,
suddenly, increased.

"How was it he came 'down'?" asked the agreeable rattle, keenly
interested in anything having to do with the local aristocracy, past or
present.

"The old story: speculatin' solicitors," replied Montague, who made a
point of dropping his "g's." "One week saw him reduced from money to
nixes."

Mrs Devitt raised her eyebrows.

"I mean nothin'," corrected Devitt.

"How very distressing!" remarked Victoria in her exquisitely modulated
voice. "We should try and do something for her."

"We will," said her father.

"We certainly owe a duty to those who were once our neighbours,"
assented Miss Spraggs.

"Do you remember her?" asked Mrs Devitt of her husband.

"Of course I do, now I come to think of it," he replied.

"What was she like?"

He paused for a moment or two before replying.

"She'd reddy sort of hair and queer eyes. She was a fine little girl,
but a fearful tomboy," said Devitt.

"Pretty, then!" exclaimed Mrs Devitt, as she glanced apprehensively at
her step-daughter.

"She was then. It was her hair that did it," answered her husband.

"H'm!" came from his wife.

"The pretty child of to-day is the plain girl of to-morrow" commented
Miss Spraggs.

"What was her real disposition?" asked Mrs Devitt.

"I know nothin' about that; but she was always laughin' when I saw her."

"Frivolous!" commented Mrs Devitt.

"Perhaps there's more about her in the letter," suggested Lowther, who
had been listening to all that had been said.

"There is," said his step-mother; "but Miss Mee's writing is very
trying to the eyes."

Montague took the schoolmistress's letter from his wife's hand. He read
the following in his big, blustering voice:

"'In all matters affectin' Miss Keeves's educational qualifications, I
find her comme il faut, with the possible exception of freehand
drawing, which is not all that a fastidious taste might desire. Her
disposition is winnin' and unaffected, but I think it my duty to
mention that, on what might appear to others as slight provocation,
Miss Keeves is apt to give way to sudden fits of passion, which,
however, are of short duration. Doubtless, this is a fault of youth
which years and experience will correct.'"

"Rebellious!" commented Mrs Devitt.

"Spirit!" said Harold, who all this while had been reclining in his
invalid chair, apparently reading a review.

Mrs Devitt looked up, as if surprised.

"After all, everything depends on the point of view," remarked Miss
Spraggs.

"Is there any more?" asked Harold.

By way of reply, his father read from Miss Mee's letter:

"'In conclusion, I am proud to admit that Miss Keeves has derived much
benefit from so many years' association with one who has endeavoured to
influence her curriculum with the writin's of the late Mr Ruskin, whose
acquaintance it was the writer's inestimable privilege to enjoy. With
my best wishes for your welfare, I remain, dear Madam, your obedient
servant, Annie Allpress Mee.' That's all," he added, as he tossed the
letter on to the table at his wife's side.

"Did she know Ruskin?" asked Harold.

"When I was at her school--it was then at Fulham--she, or her sister,
never let a day go by without making some reference to him," replied
his step-mother.

"What are you going to do for Miss Keeves?" asked Harold.

"It's so difficult to decide off-hand," his step-mother replied.

"Can't you think of anything, father?" persisted Harold.

"It's scarcely in my line," answered Montague, glancing at his wife as
he spoke.

Harold looked inquiringly at Mrs Devitt.

"It's so difficult to promise her anything till one has seen her," she
remarked.

"Then why not have her down?" asked Harold.

"Yes, why not?" echoed his brother.

"She can get here and back again in a day," added Harold, as his eyes
sought his review.

"Very well, then, I'll write and suggest Friday," said Mrs Devitt, not
too willingly taking up a pen.

"You can always wire and put her off, if you want to do anything else,"
remarked her sister.

"Won't you send her her fare?" asked Harold.

"Is that necessary?" queried Mrs Devitt.

"Isn't it usual?"

"I can give it to her when she comes," said Mrs Devitt, who hated
parting with money, although, when it was a question of entertaining
the elect of Melkbridge, she spent her substance lavishly.

Thus it came about that a letter was written to Miss Annie Mee,
Brandenburg College, Aynhoe Road, West Kensington Park, London, W.,
saying that Mrs Devitt would expect Miss Keeves, for an interview, by
the train that left Paddington for Melkbridge at ten on Friday next;
also, that she would defray her third-class travelling expenses.




CHAPTER TWO

MAVIS KEEVES


The following Friday morning, Mavis Keeves sprang from bed on waking.
It was late when she had gone to sleep the previous night, for she had
been kept up by the festivities pertaining to breaking-up day at
Brandenburg College, and the inevitable "talk over" the incidents of
the event with Miss Helen and Miss Annie Mee, which conversation had
been prolonged till nearly twelve o'clock; but the excitement of
travelling to the place of her birth, and the certainty of getting an
engagement in some capacity or another (Mavis had no doubt on this
point) were more than enough to curtail her slumbers. She had fallen
asleep laughing to herself at the many things which had appealed to her
sense of humour during the day, and it was the recollection of some of
these which made her smile directly she was awake. She tubbed and
dressed quickly, although she had some bother with her hair, which,
this morning, seemed intent on defying the efforts of her fingers.
Having dressed herself to her somewhat exigent satisfaction, she went
downstairs, passing the doors of those venerable virgins, the Misses
Helen and Annie Mee, as she descended to the ground-floor, on which was
the schoolroom. This was really two rooms, but the folding doors, which
had once divided the apartment, had long since been removed from their
hinges; they were now rotting in the strip of garden behind the house.

The appearance of Brandenburg College belied its pretentious name. Once
upon a time, its name-plate had decorated the gates of a stately old
mansion in the Fulham of many years ago; here it was that Mrs Devitt,
then Miss Hilda Spraggs, had been educated. Since those fat days, the
name-plate of Brandenburg College had suffered many migrations, always
in a materially downward direction, till now it was screwed on the
railings of a stuffy little road in Shepherd's Bush, which, as Mavis
was in the habit of declaring, was called West Kensington Park for
"short."

The brass plate, much the worse for wear, told the neighbourhood that
Brandenburg College educated the daughters of gentlemen; perhaps it was
as well that this definition, like the plate, was fallen on hard times,
inasmuch as it was capable of such an elastic interpretation that it
enabled the Misses Mee to accept pupils whom, in their prosperous days,
they would have refused. Mavis looked round the familiar, shabby
schoolroom, with its atmosphere of ink and slate pencil, to which she
was so soon to say "good-bye."

It looked desolate this morning, perhaps because there leapt to her
fancy the animated picture it had presented the day before, when it had
been filled by a crowd of pupils (dressed in their best), their
admiring parents and friends.

Yesterday's programme had followed that of all other girls' school
breaking-up celebrations, with the difference that the passages
selected for recital had been wholly culled from the writings of Mr
Ruskin. Reference to the same personage had occurred in the speech to
the prize-winners (every girl in the school had won a prize of sorts)
made by Mr Smiley, the curate, who performed this office; also, the
Misses Mee, when opportunity served, had not been backward in making
copious references to the occasion on which they had drunk tea with the
deceased author. Indeed, the parents and friends had breathed such an
atmosphere of Ruskin that there were eight requests for his works at
the local free library during the following week.

"Good old Ruskin!" laughed Mavis, as she ran downstairs to the
breakfast room, which was situated in the basement. Here, the only
preparation made for the meal was a not too clean table-cloth spread
upon the table. Mavis went into the kitchen, where she found Amelia,
the general servant, doing battle with a smoky kitchen-fire.

"How long before breakfast is ready?" asked Mavis.

"Is that you, miss? Oi can't see you properly," said Amelia, as she
turned her head. "This 'ere smoke had got into my best oye."

Amelia spoke truly; there was a great difference between the seeing
capacity of her two eyes, one of these being what is known as "walled."
Amelia was an orphan; she had been dragged up by the "Metropolitan
Association for Befriending Young Servants," known to its familiars as
the "Mabys," such designation being formed by the first letter of each
word of the title. Every week, dozens of these young women issued from
the doors of the many branches of this institution, who became, to
their respective mistresses, a source of endless complaint; in times of
domestic stress, one or two of these "generals" had been known to keep
their situations for three months. Amelia was a prodigy of success, a
record in the annals of the society, inasmuch as she had been at
Brandenburg College for two years and a half. She kept her situation
because she was cheap; also, because she did her best to give
satisfaction, as she appreciated the intellectual atmosphere of the
place, which made her hope that she, too, might pick up a few
educational crumbs; moreover, she was able to boast to her intimates,
on the occasions when she visited her parent home, how her two
mistresses could speak four languages, which was certainly true.

"Wasn't it all beautiful, miss?" asked Amelia, who had listened to
yesterday's entertainment halfway down the stairs leading to the
basement.

"Wonderful," replied Mavis, as she tied on a kitchen apron, a
preliminary to giving Amelia a helping hand with the breakfast.

"And the 'reverend'! He did make me laugh when he gave four prizes to
fat Miss Robson, and said she was a good all round girl."

This joke had not been intentional on Mr Smiley's part; he had been
puzzled by the roar of laughter which had greeted his remark; when he
divined its purport, he was quite willing to take credit for having
deliberately made the sally.

"You managed to hear that?" asked Mavis.

"Yes, miss; an' what the 'reverend' said about dear Mr Fuskin. I 'eard
that too."

"Ruskin," corrected Mavis, as she set about making coffee.

Amelia, with a hurt expression on her face, turned to look at Miss
Keeves, who, noticing the girl's dejection, said:

"Call him what you like, Amelia. It's only the Miss Mees who're so
particular."

"Dear gentleman," continued Amelia. "Next to being always with you,
miss, I should like to have been with 'im."

"I'm afraid you can't even be with me. I have to earn my own living."

"Yes, miss; but when you marry a rich gentleman, I should like to come
with you as 'general.'"

"Don't talk nonsense, Amelia."

"But it ain't, miss; didn't the music master, 'im with the lovely,
long, shiny 'air, promise me a shillin' to give you a note?"

"Did he?" laughed Mavis. "It's nearly eight: you'd better take in the
breakfast things."

"Oh, well, if I can't be here, or with you, I'd sooner be with that
dear Mr--"

"Ruskin, Amelia," interrupted Mavis. "Try and get it right, if only for
once."

Amelia took no notice of the interruption, but went on, as she dusted
the cups, before putting them on the tray:

"Dear Mr Fuskin! 'Ow I would have looked after 'im, and 'ow carefully
I'd 'ave counted 'is washing!"

Punctually, as the clock struck eight, the two Miss Mees entered the
breakfast room; they kissed Mavis on the cheek before sitting down to
the meal. They asked each other and Mavis how they had slept, as was
their invariable custom; but the sensitive, observant girl could not
help noticing that the greetings of her employers were a trifle less
cordial than was their wont. Mavis put down this comparative coldness
to their pride at the success of yesterday's festival.

To the indifferent observer, the Miss Mees were exactly alike, being
meagre, dilapidated, white-haired old ladies, with the same beaked
noses and receding chins; both wore rusty black frocks, each of which
was decorated with a white cameo brooch; both walked with the same
propitiatory shuffle. They were like a couple of elderly, moulting,
decorous hens who, in spite of their physical disabilities, had
something of a presence. This was obtained from the authority they had
wielded over the many pupils who had passed through their hands.

Nearer inspection showed that Miss Annie Mee was a trifle stouter than
her sister, if this be not too robust a word to apply to such a wisp of
a woman; that her eyes were kinder and less watery than Helen's; also,
that her face was less insistently marked with lines of care.

The Miss Mees' dispositions were much more dissimilar than their
appearance. Miss Helen, the elder, loved her home and, in her heart of
hearts, preferred the kitchen to any other part of the house. It was
she who attended to the ordering of the few wants of the humble
household; she arranged the meals, paid the bills, and generally looked
after the domestic economy of the college; she took much pride in the
orderliness of her housekeeper's cupboard, into which Amelia never
dared to pry. In the schoolroom, she received the parents, arranged the
fees and extras, and inflicted the trifling punishment she awarded to
delinquents, which latter, it must be admitted, gave her a faint
pleasure.

Annie Mee, her sister, had a natural inclination for the flesh-pots of
life. She liked to lie abed on Sunday and holiday mornings; she spread
more butter on her breakfast toast than Helen thought justified by the
slenderness of their resources; she was indulgent to the pupils, and
seized any opportunity that offered of going out for the evening. She
frequented (and had been known to enjoy) entertainments given in
schoolrooms for church purposes she welcomed the theatre or concert
tickets which were sometimes sent her by the father of one of the
pupils (who was behind with his account), when, however paltry the
promised fare, she would be waiting at the door, clad in her faded
garments, a full hour before the public were admitted, in order not to
miss any of the fun. Mavis usually accompanied her on these excursions;
although she was soon bored by the tenth-rate singers and the poor
plays she heard and saw, she was compensated by witnessing the pleasure
Miss Annie Mee got from these sorry dissipations.

The two sisters' dispositions were alike in one thing: the good works
they unostentatiously performed. The sacrifices entailed by these had
much contributed to their declining fortunes. This unity of purpose did
not stay them from occasionally exchanging embittered remarks when
heated by difference of opinion.

When they sat down to breakfast, Helen poured out the coffee.

"What day does the West London Observer come out?" asked Annie,
presently, of Mavis.

"Friday, I believe."

"There should be some account of yesterday's proceedings," said Miss
Helen. "The very proper references which Mr Smiley made to our
acquaintance with the late Mr Ruskin are worthy of comment."

"I have never known the applause to be so hearty as it was yesterday,"
remarked Annie, after she had eaten her first piece of toast.

"What is the matter, Mavis?" asked Miss Helen.

"A crumb stuck in my throat," replied Mavis, saying what was untrue, as
she bent over her plate. This action was necessary to hide the smile
that rose to her lips and eyes at the recollection of yesterday's
applause, to which Miss Annie had referred. It had amused Mavis to
notice the isolated clapping which followed the execution of an item,
in the programme by a solitary performer; this came from her friends in
the room. The conclusion of a duet would be greeted by two patches of
appreciation; whilst a pianoforte concerto, which engaged sixteen
hands, merged the eight oases of applause into a roar of approval.

"How do you get to Paddington, Mavis?" asked Miss Helen, after she had
finished her meagre breakfast.

"From Addison Road," replied Mavis, who was still eating.

"Wouldn't Shepherd's Bush be better?" asked Annie, who was wondering if
she could find accommodation for a further piece of toast.

"I always recommend parents to send their daughters from Paddington via
Addison Road," remarked Helen severely.

"There are more trains from Shepherd's Bush," persisted Annie.

"Maybe, dear Annie" (when relations between the sisters were strained,
they made use of endearing terms), "but more genteel people live on the
Addison Road connection."

"But, Helen dear, the class of residence existing upon a line of
railway does not enable a traveller to reach his or her destination the
quicker."

"I was not aware, dear Annie, that I ever advanced such a proposition."

"Then there is no reason, dearest Helen, why Mavis shouldn't reach
Paddington by going to Shepherd's Bush."

"None, beyond the fact that it is decided that she shall travel by way
of Addison Road. Besides, Addison Road is nearer, dear."

"But the exercise of walking to Shepherd's Bush would do Mavis good
after the fatigues of yesterday, Helen."

"That is altogether beside the point, dear Annie."

"I am never listened to," complained her sister angrily.

"You argue for the sake of talking," replied the other crossly.

They continued in that strain for some moments, and were still at it
when Mavis went upstairs to put on her hat; here, she gave a last look
at herself in the glass.

"I wonder if I'll do?" she thought, as she dealt with one or two
strands of tawny coloured hair, which were still inclined to be
rebellious.

"I wonder if I'll meet anyone who remembers me?" she thought, as she
left the room.

Downstairs, the two old ladies were awaiting her in the hall. Miss
Helen was full of good advice for the journey, whilst Miss Annie
dangled a packet of sandwiches, "In case dear Mavis should need
refreshment on the way."

"Thanks so much," said Mavis, as she took the little packet, the
brown-paper covering of which was already grease-stained from the fat
of the sandwiches.

"Don't fail to remember me to Mrs Devitt," urged Helen.

"I won't forget," said Mavis.

"I put salt and mustard in the sandwiches," remarked Annie.

"Thanks so much," cried Mavis, as she opened the front door.

"And don't forget to be sure and travel in a compartment reserved for
ladies," quavered Helen.

"I won't forget; wish me luck," answered Mavis.

"We do; good-bye," said the two old ladies together.

Directly the door was closed, Miss Annie, followed at a distance by
Miss Helen, hurried into the schoolroom, where, pulling aside the
Venetian blind of the front window, they watched the girl's trim figure
walk down the street. The two old ladies were really very fond of her
and not a little proud of her appearance.

"She has deportment," remarked Helen, as Mavis disappeared from their
ken.

"Scarcely that--distinction is more the word," corrected Annie.

"I fear for her in the great world," declared Helen with trembling
lips; "they say that good looks are a girl's worst enemy."

"But Mavis has profited by the example of our lives, Helen."

"There is much in that, Annie. Also, she should have derived much
benefit from being, in school hours, and often out of them, in an
atmosphere influenced by the writings of the late Mr Ruskin."

With these consolations, the two old ladies toiled upstairs, and set
about packing for a fortnight's stay they proposed making with an old
friend at Worthing, for which place they proposed starting in two days'
time.

Meanwhile, the subject of their thoughts was walking to Addison Road
Station, happily ignorant of the old ladies' fears concerning the
perils of her path. To look at her, she seemed the least likely girl in
London who was about to take a journey on the chance of obtaining a
much-needed engagement. Her glowing eyes, flushed cheeks, and light
step were eloquent of a joyousness not usually associated with an all
but penniless girl on the look-out for something to do. Her clothes,
also, supported the impression that she was a young woman well removed
from likelihood of want. She was obliged to be careful with the few
pounds that she earned at Brandenburg College: being of an open-handed
disposition, this necessity for economy irked her; but however much she
stinted her inclinations in other directions, she was determined, as
are so many other young women who are thrown on their own resources, to
have one good turn-out in which to make a brave show to the world. Not
that Mavis spent her money, shop-girl fashion, in buying cheap flummery
which was, at best, a poor and easily recognisable imitation of the
real thing; her purchases were of the kind that any young gentlewoman,
who was not compelled to take thought for the morrow, might becomingly
wear. As she walked, most of the men she met looked at her admiringly;
some turned to glance at her figure; one or two retraced their steps
and would have overtaken her, had she not walked purposefully forward.
She was so used to these tributes to her attractiveness, that she did
not give them heed. She could not help noticing one man; he glanced at
her and seemed as if he were about to raise his hat; when she looked at
him to see if she knew him, she saw that he was distinguished looking,
but a stranger. She hurried on; presently, she went into a draper's
shop, where she bought a pair of gloves, but, when she came out, the
good-looking stranger was staring woodenly at the window. She hastened
forward; turning a corner, she slipped into a tobacconist's and
newsagent's, where she bought a packet of her favourite cigarettes,
together with a box of matches. When she got to the door, her
good-looking admirer was entering the shop. He made way for her, and,
raising his hat, was about to speak: she walked quickly away and was
not troubled with him any more. When she got to Paddington, she
disobeyed Miss Helen's injunctions to travel in a compartment reserved
for ladies, but went into an ordinary carriage, which, by the
connivance of the guard, she had to herself. When the train left
Paddington, she put her feet on the cushions of the opposite seat, with
a fine disregard of railway bye-laws, and lit a cigarette.

It was, perhaps, inevitable that the girl's thoughts should incline to
the time and the very different circumstances in which she had last
journeyed to Melkbridge. This was nine years ago, when she had come
home for the holidays from Eastbourne, where she had been to school.
Then, she had had but one care in the world, this on account of a
jaundiced pony to which she was immoderately attached. Then she
suffered her mind to dwell on the unrestrained grief with which she had
greeted her favourite's decease; as she did so, half-forgotten fares,
scenes, memories flitted across her mind. Foremost amongst these was
her father's face--dignified, loving, kind. Whenever she thought of
him, as now, she best remembered him as he looked when he told her how
she should try to restrain her grief at the loss of her pet, as her
distress gave him pain. She had then been a person of consequence in
her little world, she being her father's only child; she had been made
much of by friends and acquaintances, amongst whom, so far as she could
recollect, no member of the Devitt family was numbered. Perhaps, she
thought, they have lately come to Melkbridge. Then aspects of the old
home passed through her mind. The room in which she used to sleep; the
oak-panelled dining-room; the garden, which was all her very own,
passed in rapid review; then, the faces of playmates and sweethearts,
for she had had admirers at that early age. There was Charlie Perigal,
the boy with the steely blue eyes and the pretty curls, with whom she
had quarrelled on the ground that he was in the habit of catching birds
in nasty little brick traps; also, because, when taxed with this
offence, he had defended his conduct and, a few moments later, had
attempted to stone a frog in her highly indignant presence.

Then there was Archie Windebank, whose father had the next place to
theirs; he was a fair, solemn boy, who treated her with an immense
deference; he used to blush when she asked him to join her in play. The
day before she had left for school, he had confessed his devotion in
broken accents; she had thought of him for quite a week after she had
left home. How absurd and trivial it all seemed, now that she was to
face the stern realities of life!

The next thing she recalled was the news of her father's ruin. This
calamity was more conveyed to her by the changed look in his face, when
she next saw him, than by anything else.

She had been, at once, taken away from the expensive school at which
she was being educated and had been sent to Brandenburg College, then
languishing in Hammersmith Terrace, while her father went to live at
Dinan, in Brittany, where he might save money in order to make some
sort of a start, which might ultimately mean a provision for his
daughter.

Next, she remembered--this she would never forget--the terrible day on
which Miss Helen Mee had called her into the study to tell her that she
would never again see her dear father in this world. Tears came to
Mavis's eyes whenever she thought of it. Orphaned, friendless, with no
one to give her the affection for which her lonely soul craved, Mavis
had stayed on at Brandenburg College, where the little her father had
left sufficed to pay for her board and schooling. This sum lasted till
she was sixteen, when, having passed one or two trumpery examinations,
she was taken on the staff of the college. The last few months, Mavis's
eyes had been opened to the straitened circumstances in which her
employers lived; she had lately realised that she owed her bread and
butter more to the kindness of the Miss Mees, than to the fact of her
parts as a teacher being in request at the school. She informed the
kind ladies that she was going to seek her bread elsewhere; upon their
offering the mildest of protests, she had made every effort to
translate her intentions into performance.

This was by no means an easy matter for a comparatively friendless
girl, as Mavis soon discovered. Her numerous applications had, so far,
only resulted in an expenditure of stationery and postage stamps. Then,
Miss Annie Mee kindly volunteered to write to the more prosperously
circumstanced of the few one-time pupils with whom she had kept up
something of a correspondence. Those who replied offered no suggestion
of help, with the exception of Mrs Devitt. So much for the past: the
future stretched, an unexplored country, before her, which, to one of
her sanguine disposition, seemed to offer boundless opportunities of
happiness. It appeared a strange conjunction of circumstances that she
should have been sent for by a person living in her native place. It
seemed fortuitous to Mavis that she should earn her bread in a
neighbourhood where she would be known, if only because of the high
reputation which her dear father had enjoyed. It all seemed as if it
had been arranged like something out of a book. Amelia's words,
referring to the certainty of her marrying, came into her mind; she
tried to dismiss them, but without success. Then, her thoughts flew
back to Charlie Perigal and Archie Windebank, youthful admirers, rivals
for her favours. She wondered what had become of them; if she should
see them again: a thousand things in which she allowed her imagination
to wing itself in sentimental flight.

She was of an ardent temperament; men attracted her, although, since
she had been grown up, she had never exchanged anything that could be
construed into a love passage with a member of the opposite sex,
opportunities for meeting those whom she considered her equals being
wanting in her dull round of daily teaching. Sometimes, a face she had
seen in the street, or a character she encountered in a book attracted
her, when she would think of her hero, allowing her mind to place him
in tender situations with herself, for the few hours her infatuation
lasted, showing her to be of an impressionable and romantic
disposition. Although she often felt her loneliness, and the consequent
need of human companionship, her pride would never suffer her to take
advantage of the innumerable facilities which the streets of London
offer a comely girl to make chance friendships, facilities which, for
thousands of friendless young women in big towns, are their only chance
for meeting the male of their species.

Mavis's pride was not of the kind with which providence endows millions
of foolish people, apparently by way of preventing them from realising
their insignificance, or, at the worst, making their smallness
tolerable. It arose from knowledge of the great and inexhaustible
treasure of love which was hers to bestow; so convinced was she of the
value of this wealth, that she guarded it jealously, not permitting it
to suffer taint or deterioration from commerce with those who, if only
from curiosity, might strive to examine her riches.

She feared with a grave dread the giving of the contents of this
treasure house, knowing full well that, if she gave at all, she would
bestow with a lavish hand, believing the priceless riches of her love
to be but a humble offering upon the shrine of the loved one.

For all this consciousness that she would be as wax in the hands of the
man she would some day love, she had much of a conviction that,
somehow, things would come right.

Beyond thanking the Almighty for the beauties of nature, sunlight, and
the happiness that danced in her veins, she did not bother herself
overmuch with public religious observances. She had a fixed idea that,
if she did her duty in life, and tried to help others to the best of
her small ability, God would, in some measure, reward her very much as
her dear father would have done, if he had been spared; also, that, if
she did ill, she would offend Him and might be visited with some sign
of His displeasure, just as her own father might have done if he had
been still on earth to advise and protect her.

Then, all such thoughts faded from her mind; she looked out of the
carriage window as the train rushed through Didcot Junction. She felt
hungry after the meagre breakfast she had made; she remembered the
sandwiches, and, untying the greasy little parcel, was glad to eat
them. When she had finished the sandwiches, she lit another cigarette;
after smoking this, she closed her eyes the better to reflect.

Then she remembered nothing till the calling of "Melkbridge!"
"Melkbridge!" seemed to suffuse her senses. She awoke with a start, to
find that she had reached her destination.




CHAPTER THREE

FRIENDS IN NEED


Mavis scrambled out of the train, just in time to prevent herself from
being carried on to the next stopping--place. She smoothed her ruffled
plumage and looked about her. She found the station much smaller than
she had believed it to be; she hardly remembered any of its features,
till the scent of the stocks planted in the station-master's garden
assisted her memory. She gave up her ticket, and looked about her,
thinking that very likely she would be met, if not by a member of the
Devitt family, by some conveyance; but, beyond the station 'bus and two
or three farmers' gigs, there was nothing in the nature of cart or
carriage. She asked the hobbledehoy, who took her ticket, where Mrs
Devitt lived, at which the youth looked at her in a manner that
evidently questioned her sanity at being ignorant of such an important
person's whereabouts. Mavis repeated her question more sharply than
before. The ticket-collector looked at her open--mouthed, glanced up
the road and then again to Mavis, before saying:

"Here her be."

"Mrs Devitt?"

"Noa. Her."

"The housekeeper?"

"Noa. The trap. Mebbe your eyes hain't so 'peart' as mine."

The grating of wheels called her attention to the fact that a smart,
yellow-wheeled dogcart had been driven into the station yard by a man
in livery.

"Be you Miss Keeves, miss?" asked the servant.

"Yes."

"Then you're for Melkbridge House. Please get in, miss."

Mavis clambered into the cart and was driven quickly from the station.
At the top of the hill, they turned sharp to the right, and rolled
along the Bathminster road. Mavis first noticed how much the town had
been added to since she had last set foot in it; then she became
conscious that distances, which in her childhood had seemed to be
considerable, were now trivial.

The man driving her had been a gentleman's servant; seeing that Mavis
belonged to a class of life which he had been accustomed to serve, he
treated her with becoming respect. Mavis incorrectly argued from the
man's deference that it had been decided to secure her services: her
heart leapt, her colour heightened at her good fortune.

If a few moments of pleasure are worth purchasing at a cost of many
hours of crowded disappointment, it was as well that Mavis was ignorant
of the way in which her prospects had been prejudiced by the trend of
events at Melkbridge House since Mrs Devitt had replied to Miss Mee's
letter. To begin with, Mavis's visit had been within an ace of being
indefinitely postponed; it was owing to Harold's expressed wish that
the original appointment had been allowed to stand. The reason for this
indifference to Mavis's immediate future was that, the day after the
schoolmistress had written, Harold had been seriously indisposed. His
symptoms were so alarming that his doctor had insisted on having a
further opinion; this was obtained from a Bathminster physician, who
had confirmed the local medical man's diagnosis; he had also advised
Harold a month's rest on his back, this to be followed by a nine
months' residence abroad. As if this were not enough to interfere with
Mavis's visit, Montague Devitt had met young Sir Archibald Windebank,
the bachelor owner of Haycock. Abbey, when going to discharge his
duties as borough magistrate, the performance of which he believed
might ease his mind of the pain occasioned by his son's illness.

After he had told Windebank his bad news, and the latter had expressed
his genuine concern, Devitt had said:

"Do you remember Keeves--Colonel Keeves?"

"Of Melkbridge Court? Of course. Why?"

"I heard something of his daughter the other day."

"Little Mavis!"

"She's big Mavis now," remarked Devitt.

"Have you seen her?" asked Windebank eagerly.

"Not yet, but I may very soon."

"She promised to be an awfully pretty girl. Is she?"

"I haven't seen her. But if she comes down you might care to call."

"Thanks," replied Windebank. "When you see her, you might mention I
asked after her."

"I will."

"Although I don't suppose she'll remember me after all these years."

Devitt had left Windebank and gone about his business. When he came out
of the court house, and was about to get into his motor, Windebank
again approached him, but in such a manner that made Devitt wonder if
he had been hanging about on purpose to speak to him.

Windebank made one or two remarks about nothing in particular. Devitt
was about to start, when the other said:

"By the way, when you do see Miss Keeves, you might tell her that the
mater and my sister will be down here next week and that they'll be
awfully pleased to see her, if she'd care to come and stay."

"I won't forget," replied Devitt dryly.

"Tell her to come for as long as she cares to, as the mater and Celia
were always fond of her. None of us could ever make out what became of
her."

"I won't forget," said Devitt again.

"Thanks. Good-bye."

Montague told his wife of this; she had replied:

"We will decide nothing till we see her," which meant that, if Mavis
had not fulfilled the promise of her childhood, and had grown up plain,
there would be some prospect of her being engaged in some capacity in
the Devitt family, as her acquaintance with the big people about
Melkbridge might result in introducing Victoria within the charmed
circle, without prejudicing the latter's chances of making a brilliant
match. Mrs Devitt's words likewise meant that, if Mavis were charming
or pretty, her prospects of securing an engagement would be of the
slenderest.

Mavis, ignorant of these considerations, was driven to the door of
Melkbridge House. On getting out of the cart, the front door was opened
by Hayter, the fat butler, who showed her into the drawing-room. Left
to herself, Mavis looked about the expensively furnished room. Noticing
a mirror, she walked to it in order to see if hair or hat had been
disarranged by her journey and drive; as she looked at her comely
reflection, she could not help seeing with a thrill of satisfaction
that already the change of air, together with the excitement of the
occasion, had flushed her cheeks with colour; she was looking her best.
She walked to the window and looked in the direction of her old home,
which was on a slight eminence about a mile from where she stood: were
the time of year other than summer, its familiar outlines would not
have been obscured by foliage. Mavis sighed, turned her back on the
window and walked towards the fireplace; something moving in the cool,
carefully shaded room caught her eye. It was the propitiatory wagging
of a black, cocker spaniel's tail, while its eyes were looking
pleadingly up to her. Mavis loved all animals; in a moment the spaniel
was in her lap, her arms were about its neck, and she was pressing her
soft, red lips to its head. The dog received these demonstrations of
affection with delight; although it pawed and clawed the only decent
frock which Mavis possessed, she did not mind a bit.

"I shall be here a long time and we shall always be the best of
friends," murmured Mavis, as she pressed the affectionate animal to her
heart.

Mavis waited half an hour in the drawing-room before anyone came.

Victoria was the first to join her; she entered the room with a frank
smile, together with an apology for having kept Mavis waiting. The
latter took to Miss Devitt at once, congratulating herself on her good
fortune at the prospect of living with such congenial companions as
Miss Devitt and the dog. Victoria explained that her brother's illness
was responsible for Mavis having been treated with apparent neglect.

"I am so sorry," replied Mavis. "Is it serious?"

"Not at present, but it may be."

"How dreadful it must be for you, who love him!"

"We are all of us used to seeing my brother more or less ill; he has
been a cripple for the last eight years."

"How very sad! But if your brother is worse, why didn't you wire and
put me off?"

"You would have been disappointed if we had."

"I should have understood."

Then, after making further sympathetic reference to Harold's condition,
Mavis said:

"What a dear dog this is! Is he yours?"

"It's Harold's. She's no business to be in here. She'll dirty your
dress."

"I don't mind in the least."

"Let me turn her out," said Victoria, as she rose from her seat.

"Please don't. I love to have her with me," pleaded Mavis, adding, as
Victoria acceded to her request:

"Don't you like dogs?"

"In their proper place. Jill wouldn't be allowed in at all if Harold
didn't sometimes wish it."

"If I had a house, it should be full of dogs," remarked Mavis.

"I understand that you were born near here."

"Yes, at Melkbridge Court."

"I don't know what time you go back, but, after luncheon--of course
you'll stay--you might take the opportunity of your being down here to
have a look at the old place."

"I--I might," faltered Mavis, who suddenly felt as if all the happiness
had been taken out of her life; for Miss Devitt's words hinted that her
family was not going to keep Mavis at Melkbridge House.

She looked regretfully at the dog, then inquiringly at Victoria, when
Mrs Devitt came into the drawing-room.

Her eyes at once fell on Mavis's comeliness; looking at her
step-daughter, she found herself comparing the appearance of the two
girls. Before she had offered her hand to Mavis, she had decided that,
beside her, Victoria appeared at a disadvantage.

Although Mavis's hair and colouring might only appeal to a certain
order of taste, the girl's distinction, to which one of the Miss Mees
had alluded earlier in the day, was glaringly patent to Mrs Devitt's
sharp eyes; beside this indefinable personal quality, Mrs Devitt
observed with a shudder, Victoria seemed middle-class. Mavis's fate, as
far as the Devitts were concerned, was decided in the twinkling of an
eye. For all this decision, so suddenly arrived at, Mrs Devitt greeted
Mavis kindly; indeed, the friendliness that she displayed caused the
girl's hopes to rise.

"Luncheon will be ready directly. We are only waiting for my husband,"
said Mrs Devitt.

"You must be hungry after your journey," added Victoria.

"I've always a healthy appetite, whatever I do," remarked Mavis, who
was fondly regarding the black spaniel.

Then Montague Devitt, Lowther, and Miss Spraggs entered the
drawing-room, to all of whom Mavis was introduced.

The men were quite cordial, too cordial to a girl who, after all, was
seeking a dependant's place, thought Mrs Devitt.

Already she envied Mavis for her family, the while she despised her for
her poverty.

The attentions that her husband and stepson were already paying her
were a hint of what Mrs Devitt might expect where the eligible men of
her acquaintance were concerned. She felt the necessity of striking a
jarring note in the harmony of the proceedings. Jill, the spaniel, who,
at that moment, sprang upon Mavis's lap, supplied the means.

"What is Jill doing here?"

"I really don't mind," exclaimed Mavis.

"She shouldn't be in the house. There's no reason for her being here at
all, now Harold is ill."

"If you wish her to go," said Mavis ruefully.

Jill was ordered from the room, but refused to quit her new friend's
side. Lowther approached the dog; to emphasise his wishes, he kicked
her in the side.

Mavis looked up quickly.

"Come along, you brute!" cried Lowther, who seized the spaniel by the
ear, and, despite its yell of agony, was carrying it by this means from
the room.

Mavis felt the blood rush to her head.

"Stop!" she cried.

Lowther turned to look at her.

"Stop--, please don't," she pleaded, as she went quickly to Jill and
caught her in her arms.

Lowther looked down, surprised, into Mavis's pleading, yet defiant face.

"It was all my fault: you're hurting her and she's such a dear,"
continued Mavis.

"Better let her stay," said Devitt, while Mrs Devitt, seeing the girl's
flushed face, recalled the passage in Miss Mee's letter which referred
to Mavis's sudden anger.

Mrs Devitt hated a display of emotion; she put down Mavis's
interference with Lowther's design to bad form. She was surprised that
Lowther and her husband were so assiduous in their attentions to Mavis;
indeed, as Mrs Devitt afterwards remarked to Miss Spraggs:

"They hardly ever took their eyes off her face."

"Never trust a man further than you can see him," had remarked the
agreeable rattle, who had never had reason to complain of want of
respect on the part of any man with whom she may have been temporarily
isolated.

"And did you notice how her eyes flashed when she seized Jill from
Lowther? They're usually a sort of yellow. Then, as perhaps you saw,
they seemed to burst into a fierce glare."

"My dear Hilda, is there anything I don't notice?" Miss Spraggs had
replied, a remark which was untrue in its present application, as, at
the moment when Mavis had taken Jill's part, Eva Spraggs had been
looking out of the window, as she wondered if the peas, that were to
accompany a roast duckling at luncheon, would be as hard and as
unappetising as they had been when served two days previously.

This was later in the day. Just now, Mavis was about to be taken down
to luncheon by Montague Devitt; she wondered if her defence of dear
Jill had prejudiced her chance of an engagement.

"What's that picture covered with a shutter for?" asked Mavis, as her
eye fell on the padlocked "Etty."

"Oh, well-it's an 'Etty': some people might think it's scarcely the
thing for some young people, you know," replied Devitt, as they
descended the stairs.

"Really! Is that why it's kept like that?" asked Mavis, who could
scarcely conceal her amusement.

Mrs Devitt, who was immediately behind, had detected the note of
merriment in Mavis's voice. "Scarcely a pure-minded girl," she said to
herself, unconscious of the fact that there is nothing so improper as
the thoughts implied by propriety.

It was not a very pleasant time for Mavis. Although the luncheon was a
good meal, and served in a manner to which she had been unaccustomed
for many years, she did not feel at home with the Devitts. Montague,
the head of the house, she disliked least; no one could be long
insensible to his goodness of heart. Already, she could not "stand"
Lowther, for the reason that he hardly took his eyes from her face. As
for the women, she was soon conscious of the social gulf that, in
reality, lay between her and them; she was, also, aware that they were
inclined to patronise her, particularly Mrs Devitt and Miss Spraggs:
the high hopes with which she had commenced the day had already
suffered diminution.

"And what are your aims in life?" Miss Spraggs asked presently; she had
found the peas to be as succulent as she had wished.

"To earn my own living," replied Mavis, who had seen that it was she to
whom the agreeable rattle had spoken.

"But, surely, that doesn't satisfy the young women of today!" continued
Miss Spraggs.

"I fear it does me; but then I don't know any young women to be
influenced by," answered Mavis.

"I thought every young woman, nowadays, was thirsting with ambition,"
said Miss Spraggs.

"I suppose everyone, who isn't an idiot, has her preferences," remarked
Mavis.

"I don't mean that. I thought every girl was determined on living her
own life to the exclusion of everything else," continued Miss Spraggs.

"Really!" asked Mavis in some surprise, as she believed that it was
only the plain and unattractive women who were of that complexion of
thought.

"Despise marriage and all that," put in Lowther, his eyes on Mavis as
he tossed off a glass of wine.

"But I don't despise marriage," protested Mavis.

"Really!" said Mrs Devitt, whose sensibilities were a trifle shocked by
this remark.

"If two people are in love with each other, and can afford to marry, it
seems a particularly natural proceeding," said Mavis simply.

"One that you would welcome?" asked Miss Spraggs, as she raised her
thin eyebrows.

"One that someone else would welcome," put in Devitt gallantly.

But Mavis took no notice of this interruption, as she said:

"Of course. Nothing I should wish for more."

Miss Spraggs made two or three further efforts to take a rise out of
Mavis; in each case, such was the younger woman's naturalness and
self-possession, that it was the would--be persecutor who appeared at a
disadvantage.

After luncheon the womenfolk moved to the drawing room; when Victoria
presently went to sit with her invalid brother, Mrs Devitt assumed a
business-like manner as she requested Mavis to sit by her. The latter
knew that her fate was about to be decided. They sat by the window
where, but for the intervening foliage, Mavis would have been able to
see her old home.

"This is our best chance of a quiet talk, so I'll come to the point at
once," began Mrs Devitt.

"By all means," said Mavis, as Miss Spraggs took up a book and
pretended to be interested in its contents.

"How soon do you require a situation?"

"At once."

"Has Miss Mee applied to anyone else in the neighbourhood on your
account?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"And you yourself, have you written to anyone here?"

"There's no one I could write to. There's not one of my father's old
friends I've kept up. They've all forgotten my very existence, years
ago."

"Sure?"

"Who am I to remember?" asked Mavis simply.

It was on Mrs Devitt's lips to give the girl Sir Archibald's message,
but the thought of her unmarried step--daughter restrained her. She
addressed Mavis rather hurriedly (she tried hard to act
conscientiously):

"I may as well say at once that the opportunity that presented itself,
when I wrote to Miss Mee, has passed."

The room seemed to move round Mavis. Mrs Devitt continued, as she
noticed the look of dismay on the girl's face:

"But I need hardly tell you that I will do all I can to do something
for you."

"Thank you," said Mavis.

"Can't you get anything to do in London?"

"I might."

"Have you tried?"

"A little."

Mavis felt tears welling into her eyes; she would never have forgiven
herself if she had displayed the extremity of weeping before these
people, who, after all, were not of her social world. She resolved to
change the subject and keep any expression of her disappointment till
she was safe from unsympathetic eyes.

"Did you know my father?" she asked.

"I didn't live here, then. I married Mr--my husband six years ago."

"I suppose he knew him?"

"I gather so."

Very soon after, the two men came into the drawing-room, having
considerably curtailed the time they usually devoted to their cigars.

"We were discussing getting something to do for Miss Keeves," said Mrs
Devitt.

"You haven't thought of anything?" asked her husband.

"Not yet," replied his wife.

"I suppose you wouldn't care to go into an office?" he continued.

"A lot of girls do that kind of thing nowadays," said Mavis.

"Or a shop?" put in Miss Spraggs.

Mavis glanced up.

"I mean a--flower shop," corrected Miss Spraggs, misliking the look in
Mavis's yellow eyes.

Mavis looked towards where she could have seen her old home but for the
intervening trees.

"I think I'd better see about my train," she said as she rose.

"Must you, dear?" asked Mrs Devitt.

The men pressed her to stay, particularly Lowther.

"I think I'll go. I want to get back in good time," said Mavis.

"I'll drive you to the station, if I may," volunteered Lowther.

"Thank you; if it's giving you no trouble," she replied.

Lowther left the room. Mavis said good-bye to the others, including
Victoria, who joined her for this purpose, from whom the girl learned
that Harold was asleep.

As Devitt conducted Mavis to the door, which the fat butler held open,
she heard the snorting of a motor; the next minute, a superb car,
driven by Lowther, pulled up before the front door. Mavis had never
before been in a petrol-propelled carriage (automobiles were then
coming into use); she looked forward to her new experience.

She got in beside Lowther, waved her hand to Devitt and was gone. She
was surprised at the swift, easy motion, but had an idea that, soon
after they left the house, Lowther Devitt was not travelling so fast as
when they set out.

"How delightful!" she cried.

"Eh!"

"I've never been in a motor before."

"What?"

"I really haven't. Don't talk: I want to enjoy it."

Seeing that the girl was disinclined for speech, he increased the pace.
Mavis was quite disappointed at the short time it took to reach the
station. They got out, when Mavis learned that she had twenty minutes
to wait. She was sorry, as she disliked the ardent way in which Lowther
looked at her. She answered his remarks in monosyllables.

"I'm afraid you're no end angry with me," he said presently.

"Why?" she said coldly.

"Because I punished Jill for disobedience."

"It was cruel of you."

"I made sure she was worrying you."

"Indeed!"

"But it was almost worth while to upset you, you looked so fine when
you were angry."

"Did it frighten you?" she asked half scornfully.

"Almost. You looked just like a young tigress."

"I've been told that before."

"Then you often get angry?"

"If I'm annoyed. But it's soon over."

"I go up to town sometimes," he said presently.

"How clever of you!"

"I go up to my club--the Junior Constitutional. May I look you up when
I run up next?"

"Here's the train coming in."

"Bother! It's so nice talking to you. I'm no end of sorry the mater
isn't taking you on."

"I am too," replied Mavis, who, at once, saw the meaning that Lowther
might misread into her words.

"Can I look you up when next I'm in town?" he asked eagerly.

"Oh yes, you can look me up," she replied diffidently.

"We ought to go out to supper one evening."

"I should be delighted."

"You would! Really you would?"

"If you brought your sister. I must find a seat."

"No hurry. It always waits some time here; milk-cans and all that. By
Jove! I wish I were going up alone with you. And that's what I meant. I
thought we'd go out to supper at the Savoy or Kettner's by ourselves,
eh?"

She looked at him coldly, critically.

"Or say the Carlton," he added, thinking that such munificence might
dazzle her.

"I'll get in here," she said.

Seeing Mavis select a third-class carriage, his appreciation of her
immediately lessened.

"Tell you what," he said to her through the window, "we won't bother
about going out to grub; we'll have a day in the country; we can enjoy
ourselves just as much there. Eh, dear? Oh, I beg your pardon, but
you're so pretty, you know, and all that."

Mavis noticed the way in which he leered at her while he said these
words. She bit her lip in order to restrain the words that were on her
tongue; it was of no avail.

"I'll tell you something," she cried.

"Yes--yes; quickly, the train is just off."

"If my father had been alive, and we'd been living here, you'd not have
dared to speak to me like that; in fact, you wouldn't have had the
chance."

It was a crestfallen, tired, and heartsick Mavis who opened the door of
Brandenburg College with her latch-key in the evening. The only thing
that sustained her was the memory of the white look of anger which
appeared in Lowther Devitt's face when she had unmistakably resented
his insult.




CHAPTER FOUR

MAVIS LEAVES HER NEST


Mavis did not tell the whole truth to the two old ladies; they gathered
from her subdued manner that she had not been successful in her quest.

The girl was too weary to give explanations, to talk, even to think;
the contemplation of the wreck of the castles that she had been
building in the air had tired her: she went to bed, resolving to put
off further thought for the future until the morrow.

Several times in the night, she awoke with a start, when she was
oppressed with a great fear of the days to come; but each time she put
this concern from her, as if conscious that she required all the rest
she could get, in order to make up her mind to the course of action
which she should pursue on the morrow.

When she definitely awoke, she determined on one thing, that, unless
pressed by circumstances, she would not ask the Devitts for help.

The old ladies were already down when she went in to breakfast. Miss
Annie, directly she saw Mavis, took up a letter that she had laid
beside her plate.

"I've heard from Mrs Devitt, dear," she said, after she had asked
Mavis, according to custom, how she had slept.

"What does she say?" asked Mavis indifferently.

"That she regrets she is unable to offer you anything at present, but
if, at any time, you would take a clerkship in one of the companies in
which her husband is interested, they might be able to provide you with
a berth," replied Annie.

"Oh!" said Mavis shortly.

"She has also sent me a postal order for your fare," continued Annie.

Mavis made no reply.

The two old maids glanced significantly at one another; presently,
Annie Mee was emboldened to ask:

"Do you think you would like to earn your living in the manner
indicated?"

"I have decided not to," replied Mavis shortly.

"Of course, if you would prefer to stay with us," began Miss Helen.

"If you have no objection, I will leave for good tomorrow morning,"
said Mavis.

"Leave for good!" cried the two old ladies together, who, now that they
believed Mavis to be going, were dismayed at the prospect of living
without her.

"It will be better for all of us," remarked Mavis.

"But have you anything in view, dear?" asked Miss Annie.

"Nothing very definite. But I've every hope of being settled in a day
or two."

The two old ladies heaved a sigh of relief; for all their affection for
the girl, they found that her healthy appetite made serious inroads
into the meager profits of the college. After breakfast, Mavis went
upstairs for her hat. She opened the drawers at the base of her
old-fashioned looking-glass and counted up her possessions. These
amounted to seven pounds, thirteen shillings and sevenpence halfpenny;
in addition to which, there was a quarter's salary of four pounds ten
shillings due to her; also, there was her fare which Mrs. Devitt had
sent, a sum which she was undecided whether or not to accept. At any
other time, Mavis would have thought that this money would have been
ample provision with which to start life; but her one time ignorance on
this matter had been rudely dissipated by her fruitless search after
employment, when she had first decided to leave Brandenburg College.
Beyond her little store of ready money, she owned a few trinkets which,
at the worst, she could sell for a little; but this was a contingency
on which she would not allow her mind to dwell just now. One or two
things she was determined not to part with; these were her mother's
wedding ring, a locket containing a piece of her father's hair, and a
bracelet which he had given her. The two old ladies would be leaving
for Worthing on the morrow; Amelia was going to Southend-on-Sea for a
fortnight. As Mavis had resolved to sever her long connection with the
college, it was necessary for her to seek lodging elsewhere.

A few minutes later, she set out upon this wearisome quest: she had
never looked for London lodgings before. Although nearly every window
in the less frequented streets displayed a card announcing that
apartments were to let, she soon discovered how difficult it was to get
anything remotely approaching her simple needs. She required a small
bedroom in a house where there was a bathroom; also, if possible, she
wanted the use of a sitting-room with a passable piano on which she
sought permission to give lessons to any pupils whom she might be
successful in getting.

Most of the doors she knocked at were answered by dirty children or by
dirtier women; these, instinctively, told Mavis that she would get
neither cleanliness nor comfort in a house frequented by such folk.
When confronted with these, she would make some excuse for knocking at
the door, and, after walking on a few yards, would attack the knocker
of another house, when, more likely than not, the door would be opened
by an even more slatternly person than before. Now and again she would
light upon a likely place, but it soon appeared to Mavis that good
landladies knew their value and made charges which were prohibitive to
the girl's slender resources.

Tired with running up and down so many steps and stairs, Mavis turned
into a milk-shop to buy a bun and a glass of milk. She asked the
kindly-faced woman who served her if she happened to know of anyone who
let clean rooms at moderate charges. The woman wrote down two
addresses, said that she would be comfortable at either of these, and
told her the quickest way of getting to them. The first name was a Mrs
Ellis, who lived at 20 Kiva Gardens. This address proved to be a neat,
two-storied house, by the side of which was a road leading to stables
and a yard. Mrs Ellis opened the door. Mavis, with a sense of elation,
saw that she was a trim, elderly, kindly-looking body.

The girl explained what she wanted. She learned that there was a small
bedroom at the back to let; also, that she could have the use of the
downstairs sitting-room, in which was a piano.

"Would you very much mind if I had one or two pupils?" asked Mavis.

"Not a bit, miss. I like young people myself, and look on music as
company."

"I'd like to see the bedroom."

Mrs Ellis took Mavis upstairs, where the girl was delighted to find
that the room was pleasant-looking and scrupulously clean.

"It's only a question of terms," said Mavis hesitatingly.

"You'd better see the sitting-room and try the piano, miss, before you
decide," remarked Mrs Ellis.

They went downstairs to another room at the back of the house; this was
adequate, although Mavis noticed that it was stuffy. Perhaps the
landlady suspected the girl's thoughts on the matter, for she said:

"I have the window shut to keep out dust and smell from the yard, miss."

Mavis, satisfied with this explanation, looked through the window, and
saw that the yard was much bigger than she had believed it to be. Three
or four men in corduroys were lounging about and chaffing each other.

"You try the piano, miss; I shan't keep you a moment," said Mrs Ellis,
who, also, had looked out of the window.

Mavis, left to herself, did as she was bid. She found the piano,
although well past its prime, to be better than the generality of those
that she had already tried. She got up and again looked out of the
window, when she saw that the men, whom she had previously seen idling
in the yard, were now hard at work.

The next moment, Mrs Ellis, looking rather hot, re-entered the room.

"I've had to talk to my men," she said.

"You employ them?" asked Mavis.

"Yes, the lazy rascals. It was my husband's business, but since he died
I've kept it on."

"You must be very clever."

"It wants managing. You didn't open the window, miss?" This question
was asked anxiously.

"No."

"How much did you wish to pay, miss?"

Mavis explained that she didn't wish to pay more than five shillings a
week for a bedroom, but after some discussion it was agreed that she
should pay six shillings a week, which would include the use of the
sitting-room, together with a morning bath, bathrooms not having been
supplied to Mrs Ellis's house.

"I'm letting it go reasonable to you, miss, because you're a real young
lady and not like most who thinks they are."

"Here's my first week's rent in advance. I can't say how long I shall
stay, because I may get a place where they may want me to live in the
house," said Mavis.

"It isn't the money I want so much as the company. And if you'd like me
to supply the meals, we shan't quarrel over L. s. d."

"I'm sure we shan't. I shall come in without fail tomorrow morning."

Mavis then took a bus to Kensington Church; here she got out and walked
the few yards necessary to take her to the Kensington Free Library,
where she put down the addresses of those advertising situations likely
to suit her. This task completed, she walked to Brandenburg College.
When dinner was over--the Misses Mee dined midday--Mavis wrote replies
to the advertisements. After parting with the precious pennies, which
bought the necessary stamps at the post-office, she came home to pack
her things. This took her some time, there being so many odds and ends
which had accumulated during her many years' association with the
college. As it was getting dark, she slipped out to tell the nearest
local agent for Carter Paterson to have her boxes removed the first
thing in the morning.

Hurrying back, she ran into Bella Goss, a pupil at the college, and her
father. Mr. Goss was the person who was behindhand with his account; he
supplied Miss Annie Mee with the theatre and concert tickets which were
the joy of her life.

"There's Miss Keeves!" cried Bella, at which her father raised his hat.

Bella, looking as if she wished to speak to Mavis, the latter stopped;
she shook hands with the child and bowed to Mr. Goss.

"You're leaving the college, aren't you, Miss Keeves?" asked Bella.

"Yes, dear," replied Mavis.

"Going to be married?" asked Mr. Goss, who secretly admired Mavis.

"I'm going to earn my living; at least, I hope so," said Mavis.

"Haven't you anything to do, then?" he asked.

"Nothing settled," Mavis answered evasively.

"I suppose you wouldn't care for anything in the theatrical line?"

Mavis did not think that she would.

"Or, if you want anything very badly, I might get you into a house of
business."

"Do you mean a shop?" asked Mavis.

"A big one where they employ hundreds," said Goss apologetically.

"It's awfully kind of you. I'll come to you if I really want anything
badly."

"Thank you, Miss Keeves. Good night."

"Good night. Good night, Bella."

Mavis hurried home and to bed, to be kept awake for quite two hours by
fears of the unknown perils which might menace the independent course
which she was about to travel.

Breakfast the next morning was a dismal meal. Mavis was genuinely sorry
to leave the old ladies, who had, in a large measure, taken the place
of the parents she had lost.

They, on their part, were conscious of the break that Mavis's departure
would make in their lives. All three women strove to conceal their
distress by an affectation of cheerfulness and appetite. But little was
eaten or drunk. Miss Annie Mee was so absent-minded that she forgot to
spread any butter upon her toast. The old ladies were leaving for
Worthing soon after eleven. Mavis purposed taking leave of them and
Brandenburg College as soon after breakfast as she could get away. When
she rose from the table, Miss Helen Mee said:

"I should like to see you in my study in five minutes from now."

The study was a small-sized room, which was reached by descending two
steps at the end of the hall further from the front door. Mavis
presented herself here at the expiration of the allotted time, where
she found Miss Helen and Miss Annie solemnly seated behind the
book-littered table, which stood in the middle of the room.

"Pray close the door," said Helen.

"Please take a seat," added Annie, when Mavis had obeyed the elder Miss
Mee's behest.

The girl sat down and wondered what was coming. It was some moments
before Helen spoke; she believed that delay would enhance the
impressiveness of the occasion.

"Dear Mavis," she presently began, "before I say a few parting words,
in which my sister most heartily joins, words which are not without a
few hints of kindly admonishment, that may help you along the path you
have--er--elected--yes, elected to pursue, I should like to press on
you parting gifts from my sister and myself."

Here she handed Mavis her treasured copy of The Stones of Venice, which
contained the great Mr Ruskin's autograph, together with a handsomely
bound Bible; this latter was open at the fly-leaf.

"Read," said Helen, as she looked at Mavis over her spectacles.

Mavis read as follows:

"TO DEAR MAVIS, FROM HER FRIEND, HELEN ALLPRESS MEE.

"ARE NOT TWO SPARROWS SOLD FOR A FARTHING? AND ONE OF THEM SHALL NOT
FALL ON THE GROUND WITHOUT YOUR FATHER.

"FEAR YE NOT THEREFORE, YE ARE OF MORE VALUE THAN MANY SPARROWS.--St
Matthew x. 29, 31."

Mavis thanked Miss Mee and was about to press on her the trinket that
she had previously purchased as a parting gift for her old friend; but
Helen checked the girl with a gesture signifying that her sister was
about to speak.

Mis Annie was less prosy than her sister.

"Take this, dear, and God bless you."

Here she handed Mavis her much-prized copy of Sesame and Lilies,
likewise containing the autograph of the great Mr. Ruskin; at the same
time, she presented Mavis with a box of gloves.

Mavis thanked the generous old ladies and gave them the little presents
she had bought for this purpose. To Miss Helen she handed a quaint old
workbox she had picked up in the shop of a dealer in antiquities; to
Miss Annie she gave her A three-quarter-length photograph in a silver
frame.

The two old ladies' hands shook a little when they took these
offerings; they both thanked her, after which Miss Helen rose to take
formal farewell of Mavis.

She spoke the words that she always made use of when taking final leave
of a pupil; usually, they came trippingly to her tongue, without the
least effort of memory; but this morning they halted; she found herself
wondering if her dignity were being compromised in Mavis's eyes.

"Dear Mavis," she said, "in--in issuing from the doors--er--portals of
Brandenburg College to the new er--er--world that awaits you beyond,
you--you may rest assured that you carry--"

The old lady stopped; she did not say any more; she sat down and seemed
to be carefully wiping her spectacles. Mavis rose to go, girl-like; she
hated anything in the nature of a scene, especially when made over such
an insignificant person as herself. At the same time, her farewell of
the two old ladies, with whom she had lived for so long, affected her
far more than she would ever have thought possible. Halfway to the
door, she hesitated; the noise made by Miss Annie blowing her nose
decided her. In a moment, she had placed her arms about Miss Helen and
Miss Annie, and all three women were weeping to their hearts' content.

Some seventy minutes later, it was two very forlorn-looking old ladies
who stumbled into the train that was to take them to Worthing.
Meanwhile, Mavis had packed her few remaining things and had gone down
to the kitchen to say good-bye to Amelia.

Directly Amelia caught sight of her and she burst into tears. Mavis,
somewhat disconcerted by this evidence of esteem, gave Amelia five
shillings, at which the servant wept the more.

"Oh, miss! what shall I do without you?"

"You'll get on all right. Besides, you're going for a holiday to
Southend."

"Moind you let me come to you when you're married," sobbed Amelia.

"I shouldn't count on that if I were you."

"Do 'ave me, miss. I'll always troi and 'and things so no one sees my
bad oye."

"It isn't that I don't want you; but it's so unlikely that I shall ever
have a home."

Mavis offered her hand. Amelia wiped her wet hand (she had been washing
up) upon her apron before taking it.

"Oh, miss, you are good to me, and you a reel lydy."

"Be a good girl and look after your mistresses."

"That I will, miss. Whatever should I sy to that there Mr. Fuskin, when
I meet 'im in 'eaven, if I didn't?"

"Good-bye, Amelia."

"There! I forgot," cried Amelia. She went to the drawer of the dresser
and brought out something wrapped in tissue paper.

Mavis undid this, to find Amelia's offering to consist of a silver
brooch forming the word "May."

"It's the nearest I could get to your nime, miss," she explained.

"Thank you so much."

"It ain't good enough for you: nothin' ain't good enough for you.
Wasn't you loved by the music master, 'im who was so lovely and dark?"
wept Amelia.

It was with a heavy heart that Mavis left Brandenburg College, the
walls of which had sheltered her for so long: she did her best to be
self-possessed as she kissed the Misses Mee and walked to her new
address, to which her two boxes had been taken the first thing by the
carriers.

The rest of the morning, and after the simple meal which Mrs Ellis
provided, Mavis unpacked her things and made her room as homelike as
possible. While she was doing this, she would now and again stop to
wonder if she had heard the postman's knock; although she could hear
him banging at doors up and down the street, he neglected to call at
No. 20, a fact which told Mavis that so far no one had troubled to
seriously consider her applications for employment. A cup of tea with
Mrs Ellis put a cheerful complexion upon matters; she spent the next
few hours in finishing her little arrangements. These completed to her
satisfaction, she leaned against the window and looked hungrily towards
the heavens. It was a blue, summer evening; there was not a cloud in
the sky.

Although the raucous voices of children playing in the streets assailed
her ears, she was scarcely conscious of these, her thoughts being far
away. She was always a lover of nature; wildflowers, especially
cowslips, affected her more than she would care to own; the scent of
hay brought a longing to her heart; the sight of a roadside stream
fascinated her. Now, she was longing with a passionate desire for the
peace of the country. Upon this July evening, the corn must now be all
but ripe for the sickle, making the fields a glory of gold. She
pictured herself wandering alone in a vast expanse of these; gold,
gold, everywhere; a lark singing overhead. Then, in imagination, she
found her way to a nook by the Avon at Melkbridge, a spot endeared to
her heart by memories that she would never forget. As a child, she
loved to steal there with her picture book; later, as a little girl,
she would go there all alone, and, lying on her back, would dream,
while her eyes followed the sun. Her fondness for this place was the
only thing which she had kept from her father's knowledge. She wondered
if this hiding place, where she had loved to take her thoughts, were
the same. She could shut her eyes and recall it: the pollard willows,
the brown river banks, the swift, running river in which the
forget-me-nots (so it appeared to her) never seemed to tire in the
effort to see their reflection.

Darkness came out of the east. Mavis's heart went out to the summer
night. Then, she was aware of a feeling of physical discomfort. The
effort of imagination had exhausted her. She became wearily conscious
of the immediate present. The last post, this time, knocked at the door
of Mrs Ellis', but it brought no letter for Mavis. It seemed that the
world had no need of her; that no one cared what became of her. She was
disinclined to go out, consequently, the limitations of her
surroundings made her quickly surrender to the feeling of desolation
which attacked her. She wondered how many girls in London were, at the
present moment, isolated from all congenial human companionship as she
was. She declined the landlady's kindly offer to partake of cold boiled
beef and spring onions in the status of guest; the girl seemed to get
satisfaction from her morbid indulgence in self-pity.

As she was about to undress, her eye fell on the Bible which Helen Mee
had given her earlier in the day. Mavis remembered something had been
written on the fly-leaf: more from idle curiosity than from any other
motive, she opened the cover of the book, to read in the old lady's
meager, pointed hand:

"Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not
fall on the ground without your Father.

"Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows."--St
Matthew x. 29, 31.

Mavis's heart was filled with contrition. She was not forgotten; there
was Someone who cared what became of her. Although she was now as one
of the sparrows, which are never certain of their daily food, she could
not fall without the knowledge of One who cared, and He---

Mavis knelt: she implored forgiveness for having believed herself to be
utterly forgotten: she thanked Him for caring that a poor, friendless
girl, such as she, should not fall.




CHAPTER FIVE

BARREN WAYS


There followed for Mavis many, many anxious days, spent from the first
thing in the morning till late at night in a fruitless search for work.
Her experiences were much the same as those of any attractive,
friendless girl seeking to earn her livelihood in London. To begin
with, she found that the summer was a time of year in which the
openings she sought were all obstinately closed, the heads of firms, or
those responsible for engaging additional assistance, being either away
on holidays, or back from these in no mood to consider Mavis'
application.

Another thing that struck her was that, whenever she went to interview
men, she was always treated civilly, cordially, or familiarly; but the
womenfolk she saw were invariably rude, directly they set eyes upon her
comeliness. Once or twice, she was offered employment by men; it was
only their free and easy behaviour which prevented her accepting it.
Mavis, as yet, was ignorant of the conditions on which some employers
of female labour engage girls seeking work; but she had a sensible head
screwed on her pretty shoulders; she argued that if a man were inclined
to be familiar after three minutes' acquaintance, what would he be when
she was dependent upon him for a weekly wage? It was not compatible
with her vast self-respect to lay herself open to risk of insult,
suggested by a scarcely veiled admiration for her person after a few
moments' acquaintance. It was not as if she had any qualification of
marketable value; she knew neither shorthand nor typewriting; she could
merely write a decent hand, was on very fair terms with French, on
nodding acquaintance with German, and had a sound knowledge of
arithmetic.

On the face of it, her best course was to get a situation as governess;
but Mavis, after a week's trial, gave up the endeavour. The mothers of
possible pupils, with whom the girl's credentials from the college
secured an interview, were scarcely civil to the handsome,
distinguished-looking girl; they were sure that such looks, seeking for
employment, boded ill for anyone indulgent enough to engage her. Mavis
could not understand such behaviour; she had read in books how people
were invariably kind and sympathetic, women particularly so, to girls
in want of work; surely she furnished opportunity for her own sex to
show consideration to one of the less fortunate of their kind.

Mavis next advertised in local papers for pupils to whom she would
teach music. Receiving no replies, she attempted to get employment in a
house of business; this effort resulted in her obtaining work as a
canvasser, remuneration being made by results. This meant tramping the
pavement in all weathers, going up and coming down countless flights of
stairs, swallowing all kinds of humiliating rebuffs in the effort to
sell some encyclopedia or somebody's set of novels, which no one
wanted. She always met with disappointment and, in time, became used to
it; but there were occasions when a purchaser seemed likely, when hope
would beat high, only to give place to sickening despair when her offer
was finally rejected. On the whole, she met with civility and
consideration from the young men (mostly clerks in offices) whom she
interviewed; but there was a type of person whose loud-voiced brutality
cut her to the quick. This was the West-end tradesman. She would walk
into a shop in Bond Street or thereabouts, when the proprietor, taking
her for a customer, would advance with cringing mien, wringing his
hands the while. No sooner did he learn that the girl wanted him to buy
something, than his manner immediately changed. Usually, in coarse and
brutal voice, he would order her from the shop; sometimes, if he were
in a facetious mood, and if he had the time to spare, he would make fun
of her and mock her before a crowd of grinning underlings. To this day,
the sight of a West-end tradesman fills Mavis with unspeakable
loathing; nothing would ever mitigate the horror which their treatment
of her inspired at this period of her life.

Then Mavis, in reply to one of her many answers to advertisements,
received a letter asking her to call at an office in Eastcheap, at a
certain time. Arrived there, she learned how she could earn a pound a
week by canvassing, together with commission, if her sales were
successful. She had eagerly accepted the offer, when she learned that
she was to make house-to-house calls in certain London suburbs (she was
to commence at Peckham), armed with a bottle of pickles and a bottle of
sauce. She was furnished with a Peckham local directory and was
instructed to make calls at every house in her district, when she was
to ask for the mistress by name, in order to disarm suspicion on the
part of whoever might open the door. When she was asked inside, she was
to do her utmost to get orders for the pickles and the sauce, supplies
of which were sent beforehand to a grocer in the neighbourhood. Mavis
did not relish the job, but was driven by the goad of necessity. On her
way home to tell Mrs. Ellis that she would be leaving immediately to
live in Peckham, she slipped on a piece of banana skin and twisted her
ankle, an accident which kept her indoors for the best part of a week.
When she had written to Eastcheap to say that she was well enough to
commence work, she had received a letter which informed her that her
place had been filled.

Now, she was sitting in her little bedroom in Kiva Street, a prey to
despair; she had no one to comfort her, not even Mrs. Ellis, this
person having gone out on a rare visit to an aunt.

Her little stock of money had sadly dwindled; eighteen shillings and
her trinkets stood between her and want. She had fought and had been
vanquished; there was nothing left for her to do but to write to Mrs
Devitt and ask if the offer, that had been mentioned in her last letter
to Miss Mee, still held good. During all these weeks of weary effort,
Mavis had been largely kept up by the thought that she was a sparrow,
who could not fall to the ground without the knowledge of the Most
High. Now, it seemed to her that she could sustain her flight but a
little while longer; yet, so far as she could see, there was no one to
whom her extremity seemed to matter in the least.

Apart from her desire to earn a living, the girl had struggled
resolutely in order that she should not seek work of the Devitts. She
disliked the family; she had resolved to apply to them only as a last
resource.

She had gone one day to Brandenburg College to call on her old
employers, but she found that the name-plate had been removed, and that
the house was to let. She had made inquiries, to learn that her old
friend Miss Annie Mee had died suddenly at Worthing, and also that Miss
Helen had sold the school for what it would fetch, and no one knew what
had become of her. Mavis grieved at the loss of her friend, but not so
deeply, or for so long, as she would if she had not been consumed with
anxiety on her own account. She had not forgotten Mr Goss's offer of
help: she had called at his house twice, to learn on each occasion that
he was out of town. Presently, Mrs Ellis came in; finding Mavis moping,
she asked her to the downstairs sitting-room for a cup of tea. The girl
gladly went: she sat by the window watching the men working in the yard
behind, while Mrs Ellis made tea in the kitchen. Mavis, wanting air,
opened the window, although she remembered her landlady's liking for
having this particular one shut. No sooner had she done so, than she
heard a woman's voice raised in raucous anger, the while it made use of
much bad language. It abused certain people for not having done their
work. The bad language getting more forceful than before, Mavis moved
from the window. Presently, the voice stopped. Soon after, Mrs Ellis,
looking red and flustered, came into the room. When she saw that Mavis
had opened the window, she became redder in the face, as she said:

"I'm sorry, miss; I couldn't help it."

"Help what?" asked Mavis.

"Talking to the men as I did. I always wanted the window down, so you
shouldn't hear."

"It was you, then?"

"Didn't you know, miss?"

"Not altogether. It was something like your voice."

"If I were to talk to them ordinary, they wouldn't listen; so I've to
talk to them in my 'usband's language, which is all they understand,"
said Mrs Ellis apologetically.

The contrast between Mrs Ellis's neat, unassuming respectability and
her language to the men made Mavis smile.

"I'm glad you've taken it sensible," remarked her landlady. "Many's the
good lodger I've lost through that there window being open."

Tea put fresh heart into Mavis. It was ten days since she had last
called on Mr Goss: she resolved to make a further attempt. He was in,
she learned from the maid-of-all-work, who opened the door of Mr Goss's
house.

On asking to see him, she was shown into a double drawing-room, the
front part of which was tolerably furnished; but Mavis could not help
noticing that the back was quite shabby; unframed coloured prints,
taken from Christmas numbers of periodicals, were fastened to the walls
with tin tacks.

Mr Goss came into the room wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.
Mavis feared that she had interrupted a meal. Whether she had or not,
he was glad to see her and asked if he could help her. Mavis told him
how she was situated. In reply, he said that he had a friend who was a
man of some importance in a West-end emporium. He asked her if she
would like a letter of introduction to this person. Mavis jumped at the
offer. When he had written the letter, Mavis asked after his daughter,
to learn that she was staying at Margate with her mother. When Mavis
thanked and said good-bye to Mr Goss, he warmly pressed the hand that
she offered.

The next day, she presented herself at the great house of business
where Mr Goss's friend was to be found. His name was Evans. It was only
after delay that she was able to see him. He was a grave,
kindly-looking man, who scanned Mavis with interest before he read Mr
Goss's letter. Mavis could almost hear the beating of her heart while
she waited to see if he could offer her anything.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he folded up the letter.

Mavis could not trust herself to speak.

"Very sorry I can't oblige you or Mr Goss," continued the man. "All our
vacancies were filled last week. I've nothing at present."

Mavis turned to go.

"You want something to do at once?" said Mr Evans, as he noticed the
girl's dismay.

Mavis nodded. The man went on:

"They'd probably take you at Dawes'."

"Dawes'!" echoed Mavis hopefully.

"Do you know anything of Dawes'?"

"Everyone knows Dawes'," smiled Mavis.

"But do you know anything of the place, as it affects girls who live
there?"

"No," answered Mavis, who scarcely heeded what Mr Evans was saying; all
her thoughts were filled by a great joy at a prospect of getting work.

She was conscious of the man saying something about her consulting Mrs
Goss before thinking of going there; but she did not give this aspect
of the matter another moment's thought.

"What name shall I ask for?" asked Mavis.

"Mr Orgles, if you go."

"Thank you so much. May I mention your name?"

"If you decide to go there, certainly."

Mavis thanked him and was gone. She, at once, made for Dawes'. The girl
knew exactly where it was, its name and situation being a household
word to women living in London. Arrived there, she glanced appealingly
at the splendid plate-glass windows, as if beseeching them to mitigate
some of their aloofness. She approached one of the glass doors, which
was opened by a gorgeously attired official. When inside, she looked
about her curiously, fearfully. She was in a long room, down either
side of which ran a counter, behind which were stationed young women,
who bore themselves with a self-conscious, would-be queenly mien. The
space between the counters, to which the public was admitted, was
promenaded by frock-coated men, who piloted inexperienced customers to
where they might satisfy their respective wants. One of these
shop-walkers approached Mavis.

"Where can I direct you, madam?"

"I want to see Mr Orgles."

The man looked at her attentively.

"I've come from Mr Evans at Poole and Palfrey's," murmured Mavis.

The man left her and spoke to one of the regal young women, who stood
behind the counter as if trying to make believe that they were there,
not from necessity, but from choice.

The man returned to Mavis and told her to wait. As she stood in the
shop, she saw the young woman whom the man had spoken to mouth
something in a speaking tube; this person then whispered to two or
three other girls who stood behind the counter, causing them to stare
continuously at Mavis. Presently, the speaking tube whistled, when a
message came to say that if Miss Keeves would walk upstairs, Mr Orgles
would see her. The shop-walker walked before Mavis to show her the way.
She could not help noticing that the man's demeanour had changed: he
had approached her, when he first saw her, with the servility peculiar
to his occupation; now, having fathomed her errand, he marched before
her with elbows stuck out and head erect, as if to convey what an
important personage he was.

She was shown into a plainly furnished office, where she was told to
wait. She wondered if, at last, she would have any luck. She sat there
for about ten minutes, when a man came into the room, shutting the door
after him. He was about sixty-five, and walked with a stoop. His face
reminded Mavis of a camel. He had large bulging eyes, which seemed to
gaze at objects sideways. He looked like the deacon at a house of
dissenting worship, which, indeed, he was. Mavis rightly concluded this
person to be Mr Orgles.

"You wished to see me?" he asked.

"Mr Orgles?"

"That's my name."

Mavis explained why she had called: it was as much as she could do to
hide her anxiety. Mr Orgles not making any reply, she went on speaking,
saying how she would do her utmost to give satisfaction in the event of
her being engaged.

While she was pleading, she was conscious that the man was looking in
his sideways fashion at her figure. He approached her. Mavis suddenly
felt an instinct of repugnance for the man. She said all she could
think of, but Mr Orgles remained silent; she anxiously scanned his face
in the hope of getting some encouragement from its expression, but she
might as well have stared at a brick wall for all the enlightenment she
got. Then followed a few moments' pause, during which her eyes were
riveted on Mr Orgles's nostrils: these were prominent, large, dilating;
they fascinated her. As he still remained silent, she presently found
courage to ask:

"Will you take me?"

He turned his face so that one of his eyes could look into hers,
fiercely as she thought. He shook his head. Mavis uttered a little cry;
she rose to go.

"Don't go," said a voice beside her.

Mr Orgles was standing quite near.

"Do you badly want a place?"

"Very badly."

"H'm!"

His big nostrils were dilating more than ever; he turned his head so
that one of his eyes again looked into hers.

"Something might be got you," continued the man.

"It all depends on influence."

Mavis looked up quickly.

"I was wondering if you'd like me to do my best for you?"

"Oh, of course I would."

"Excuse me," said Mr Orgles, as he took what seemed to be a tiny piece
of fluff from the skirt of her coat. "You must have got it coming
upstairs."

"Do you think you would speak for me?" Mavis found words to ask.

Mr Orgles's eyes again rested on Mavis, as he said:

"It depends on you."

"On me?"

"You say you have never been out in the world before?"

"Not really in the world."

"I am sorry."

"Sorry!" echoed Mavis.

"Because you haven't lived; you don't know what life can be--is," cried
Mr Orgles, who now waved his arms and moved jerkily about the girl.

She looked at him in astonishment.

"Excuse me; a further bit of fluff," said Mr Orgles.

This time he placed his hand upon the breast of her coat and seemed in
no hurry to remove it.

Mavis flushed and moved away; at any other time she would have hotly
resented his conduct, but today she was desperately anxious to get
employment, Mr Orgles took courage from her half-heartedness.

"Let me show you," he cried.

"Show me what?" she asked, perplexed.

"How to live: how to enjoy life: how to be happy. The rest is easy: you
will be employed here; you will rise to great things; and it will all
be owing to me."

Mavis looked at the excited, gesticulating old man in surprise; she
wondered if he were right in his senses. Suddenly, his gyrations
ceased; he glanced at the door and then moved his head in order to dart
a horrid glance at the girl. He then approached her with arms
outstretched.

Mavis intuitively knew what he meant. Her body quivered with rage; the
fingers of her right hand clenched. Perhaps the man saw the anger in
her eyes, because he stopped; but he was near enough for Mavis to feel
his hot breath upon her cheek.

Thus they stood for a moment, he undecided, she on the defensive, when
the door opened and a man came into the room. Mr Orgles, with an
unpleasant look on his face, turned to see who the intruder might be.

"I've been looking for you, Orgles," said the man.

"Indeed, sir! Very sorry, sir," remarked Mr Orgles, who wore such an
attitude of servility to the newcomer that Mavis could hardly believe
him to be the same man.

"I see you're busy," continued the intruder. "Engaging someone in Miss
Jackson's place?"

"I was thinking about doing so, sir."

"Why hesitate?"

Here the man--he was tall, dark, and fresh-coloured--looked kindly at
Mavis; although not a gentleman, he had an unmistakable air of
authority.

"There's no reason why I shouldn't, sir, only--"

"Only what?"

"She's had no experience, sir."

The man turned to Mavis and said:

"If your references are satisfactory, you can consider yourself as
engaged from next week."

"Oh, thank you," said Mavis, trying to voice her gratitude.

"Call to-morrow with your references at eleven and ask for Mr
Skeffington Dawes," said the stranger.

A great gladness and a great reproach came to the girl's heart: a great
gladness at having secured work; a great reproach at having believed
that there was no one who cared if a human sparrow, such as she, should
fall.

She bowed her thanks to Mr Skeffington Dawes and left the room, all
unconscious of the malignant glance that Mr Orgles shot at her, after
turning his head to bring the girl within his range of vision.




CHAPTER SIX

"DAWES"


After securing a place in "Dawes'," which Mavis did at her interview
with Mr Skeffington Dawes (one of the directors of the firm), her first
sensation was one of disappointment, perhaps consequent upon reaction
from the tension in her mind until she was sure of employment.

Now, she was resentful at having to earn her bread as a shop-girl, not
only on account of its being a means of livelihood which she had always
looked down upon, but also, because it exposed her to the insults of
such creatures as Orgles. She sat in Mrs Ellis' back sitting-room three
days before she was to commence her duties at "Dawes'"; she was moody
and depressed; on the least provocation, or none at all, she would weep
bitter tears for ten minutes at a time.

This physical lowness brought home to her the fear of possibly losing
her hitherto perfect health. The prospect of being overtaken by such a
calamity opened up a vista of terrifying possibilities which would not
bear thinking about.

Now, she was to earn fifteen pounds a year and "live in," a term
meaning that "Dawes'" would provide her with board and lodging; she
might, also, add to her salary by commissions on sales. The effort of
packing her belongings took her mind from brooding over troubles, real
or imaginary, and served to heighten her spirits. Mrs Ellis' words,
also, put heart into her.

"People will take to a nice-mannered, well-spoken, fine-looking young
lady like you, miss," she said to Mavis.

"Nonsense!" replied Mavis.

"It ain't, miss. I've kep my eyes open, and I see how young ladies,
such as you, either go 'up' or go 'down.' You're one of the 'go
uppers,' and now you've a chance, why, you might, one day, have a
business of your own."

"Mind you come and deal with me if I do. You shall always have 'tick'
for as much as you like."

"Thank you very much, miss; but I couldn't enjoy wearing a thing if I
didn't know it was paid for. I should think everyone was looking at it."

"Time to talk about that when I get my own business."

"And if things go wrong, which God forbid, you've always a home here!"

"Mrs Ellis!"

"I'm not so young as I was, and that yard gets me in the throat crool
in the cold weather. You'd be useful there too, miss, if you wouldn't
mind learning a few swear words."

"Oh, Mrs Ellis!" laughed Mavis.

"It's difficult at first, miss; but it's wonderful how soon you drop
into it if you give your mind to it," declared the landlady solemnly.

Four evenings later, Mavis arrived at "Dawes'," having sent her boxes
earlier in the day. She was to commence work on the morrow, and had
been advised by the firm that it would be as well to take up her abode
in her future quarters the night before.

Nine o'clock found her on the pavement before the firm's great windows,
now securely shuttered; she wondered how she should find her way
inside, there being no door in the spread of shutters by which she
could gain admittance. Noticing that one or two men were dogging her
footsteps, she asked a policeman how she could get into "Dawes'."

"A new hand, miss?" asked the policeman.

"Yes."

"I thought so. First to the right and first to the right again, where
you'll see two or three open doors belonging to the firm," the
policeman informed her. He had directed many fresh, comely young women,
who had arrived from the country, to the "young ladies'" entrance;
later, he had seen the same girls, when it was often with an effort
that he could believe them to have been what they once were.

Mavis followed his directions and nearly missed the first on the right,
this being a narrow turning. Many-storied buildings, looking like
warehouses, were on either side of this; their height was such that the
merest strip of sky could be seen when Mavis looked up. She then came
to an open door. Above this was a fanlight, which fitfully lighted a
passage terminating in a flight of uncarpeted stone steps. It was all
very uninviting. The girl looked about for someone of whom to make
further inquiries. No one came in or went out; all that Mavis could see
was one or two over-dressed men, who were prowling about on the further
side of the way. A little distance up the turning was another open door
lit in the same way as the first. This also admitted to a similar
passage, which, also, terminated in a flight of bare stone steps. Just
as she got there, two young women flaunted out; they were in evening
dress, but Mavis thought the petticoats that they aggressively
displayed were cheap, torn, and soiled. They pushed past Mavis, to be
joined by two of the prowlers in the street. Mavis walked inside, where
she waited for some time without seeing anyone; then, an odd-looking,
malformed creature came up, seemingly from a hole at the end of the
passage. She had scarcely any nose; she wore spectacles and the uniform
of a servant. Before she disappeared up the stairs, Mavis saw that she
carried blankets in one hand, a housemaid's pail in the other. She
breathed noisily through her nostrils. When she was well out of sight,
Mavis thought that she might have got the information she wanted from
this person. Presently, the clattering of a pail was heard, a sound
which gradually came nearer. In due course, the malformed creature
appeared at the foot of the stairs.

"I've come," said Mavis to this person.

"'Ave yer?"

The person vanished, seemingly through the floor.

Mavis was taken aback by the woman's rudeness; even to this creature,
shop-girls were, apparently, of small account. By and by, Mavis heard
her clumping up from below. When she appeared, Mavis put authority into
her voice as she said:

"Can I see anyone here?"

"If you've any eyes in your 'ead," snorted the servant, as she
disappeared from view.

Still no one came. Mavis was making up her mind to explore the
downstair regions when the footfalls of the rude person were heard
coming down.

"I've been waiting quite ten minutes," Mavis began angrily, as the
person came in view.

"'Ave yer?"

"Look here, I'm not used to be answered like that," Mavis began; but
she was wasting her breath; the servant went on her way in complete
disregard of Mavis's wrath.

Mavis thought of trying another entrance, when a young woman came
downstairs. She had a pasty face, with a turned-up nose and large,
romantic eyes. She carried a book under her arm. When she saw Mavis,
she stopped to look curiously at her.

"I've come here to start work tomorrow. Can you tell me where I'm to
go?" asked Mavis.

"I'm in a great hurry. I've a Browning--"

"If you'll only tell me where to go," interrupted Mavis.

"It's this way," cried the girl, as she led the way up the stairs.
"I've a Browning to return to--"

"If you'll only tell me where I'm to go--"

"You'd never find it. I'd have shown you round, but I've to return a
Browning to a gentleman."

"It's very kind of you," remarked Mavis, who was wondering how much
further she had to climb.

"Do you love Browning?" asked the girl with the big eyes.

"I can't say I do."

"You--don't--love--Browning?" asked the other in astonishment.

"I'm sorry, but I don't."

"I couldn't live without Browning. Here's your room: you'll probably
find someone inside. My name's Miss Meakin."

"Mine is Mavis Keeves. Thanks so much."

Mavis opened the door of a not over-large room, which was lit by a
single gas burner. Mavis looked at the four small beds, the four chests
of drawers, the four washing stands, the four cane chairs, and the four
framed bits of looking glass, which made up the furniture of the room.
Upon three of the beds were tumbled articles of feminine attire; others
had slipped on the not over-clean floor. Then Mavis noticed the back of
a girl who was craning her neck out of the one window at the further
end of the room. The atmosphere of the apartment next compelled
attention; it was a combination of gas (the burner leaked), stale body
linen, cheap scents and soapsuds; it stuck in her throat and made her
cough.

"Is that Pongo?" asked the girl, who was still staring out of the
window.

"It's me," said Mavis.

"Eh!"

The girl brought her body into the room. Mavis saw a girl who would
have had a fine figure if she had been two or three inches taller. She
was swarthy, with red lips and fine eyes; she was dressed in showy but
cheap evening finery.

"Common and vulgar-minded," was Mavis's mental comment as she looked at
this person.

"Are you the new girl?" the stranger asked.

"Yes."

"I took you for Bella, the slavey. Sorry! Pleased to meet you."

"Thank you."

"Have you just come in from outside?"

"Yes."

"You didn't see anything of a gentleman in a big motor car?"

"No."

"I'm expecting my boy in one. He promised to call for me in his motor
car to-night and take me out to dinner and supper," continued the girl.

"I'm rather hungry too," remarked Mavis.

"Are you going out to dinner and supper?"

"Don't they give supper here?"

"They do," answered the girl, emphasising the last word, as if to
disparage the meal supplied to their young ladies by "Dawes'."

"It will have to be good enough for me," said Mavis, who resented the
patronising manner of the other.

"Excuse me," remarked the dark girl suddenly, as she again craned out
of the window.

"Certainly," said Mavis dryly, as she wondered what had happened to the
boxes she had had sent on earlier in the day.

"No sign of him yet. I'm afraid he's had a breakdown," exclaimed the
girl, after looking down the street for some time, a remark to which
Mavis paid no attention. The girl went on:

"You were speaking of the supper 'Dawes'' supply. I couldn't eat it
myself. I simply lode their food."

"What?" asked Mavis, whose ears had caught the mispronunciation.

"Yes, I simply lode the food they give for supper, the same as Miss
Potter and Miss Allen, the other young ladies who sleep in this room.
Indeed, we can only eat restaurant food in the evenings."

"What's wrong with the supper here?" asked Mavis, nervously thinking of
her hearty appetite and the few shillings that remained after settling
up with Mrs Ellis.

"Taste and try: you've only to go right to the bottom of the 'ouse.
Excuse me."

Here the swarthy young woman leaned so far out of the window that Mavis
feared she would lose her balance and fall into the street. Then Mavis
heard footsteps and the clatter of a pail in the passage. The door
opened, and the misshapen person who had been rude to her when she was
waiting downstairs appeared.

"Here she is," called this person, at which two men entered with
Mavis's trunks; these they dumped on the floor.

"Thank you," said Mavis.

"Heavy work, miss," remarked one of the men.

"Be off with you," cried the servant.

"Now then, beauty," laughed the other of the men.

"Be off with you; none of your cadging here."

"But they're heavy, and if--" began Mavis.

"It's what they're paid for. Be off with you," snorted the servant.

"There he is!" cried the girl who had been leaning out of the window.

"Motor and all?" asked Mavis.

"Eh! Oh, he hasn't brought the motor; we'll 'ave to take a 'an'som.
Good-bye for the present. My name's Impett--Rose Impett."

"Mine's Keeves," said Mavis, thinking she may as well be agreeable to
those she had to live with. She then went to her boxes and saw that the
odd-looking servant had uncorded them.

"Thank you," said Mavis.

"I dessay it's more than you deserve," remarked the servant.

"I daresay," assented Mavis.

"Let's have a look at you."

"What?"

"You needn't be jealous of me; let's have a look."

The servant urged Mavis to stand by the flaring gas, where she looked
her up and down, Mavis thought maliciously.

"H'm! Wonder how long it'll be before I have to pray for you?"

"Eh!"

"Same as I has to for the others."

"I don't understand."

"Look on the bed; see 'ow they leave their clothes, and such clothes.
That's what their souls is like."

"Indeed!" said Mavis, scarcely knowing what to say.

"All the same, I prays for them, though what God A'mighty thinks o' me
for all the sinners I pray for, I can't think. Supper's downstairs, if
you can eat it; and my name's Bella."

Bella left the room. Mavis thought that she rather liked her than
otherwise, despite her rudeness earlier in the evening. Mavis unpacked
her more immediate requirements before seeking supper in the basement.
She descended to the floor on which was the passage communicating with
the street, but the staircase leading to the supper-room was unlit,
therefore she was compelled to grope her way down; as she did so, she
became aware of a disgusting smell which reminded Mavis of a time at
Brandenburg College when the drains went wrong and had to be put right.
She then found herself in a carpetless passage lit by gas flaming in a
wire cage; here, the smell of drains was even more offensive than
before. There was a half-open door on the right, from which came the
clatter of knives and plates. Mavis, believing that this was the
supper-room, went in.

She found herself in a large, low room, the walls of which were built
with glazed brick. Upon the left, the further wall receded as it
approached the ceiling, to admit, in daytime, the light that straggled
from the thick glass let into the pavement, on which the footsteps of
the passers-by were ceaselessly heard. The room was filled by a long
table covered by a scanty cloth, at which several pasty-faced,
unwholesome-looking young women were eating bread and cheese, the while
they talked in whispers or read from journals, books, or novelettes. At
the head of the table sat a dark, elderly little woman, who seemed to
be all nose and fuzzy hair: this person was not eating. Several of the
girls looked with weary curiosity at Mavis, while they mentally totted
up the price she had paid for her clothes; when they reached their
respective totals, they resumed their meal.

"Miss Keeth?" said the dark little woman at the head of the table, who
spoke with a lisp.

"Yes," replied Mavis.

"If you want thupper, you'll find a theat."

"Thank you."

Mavis sank wearily in the first empty chair. "Dawes'" had already got
on her nerves. She was sick at heart with all she had gone through;
from the depths of her being she resented being considered on an
equality with the two young women she had met and those she saw about
her. She closed her eyes as she tried to take herself, for a brief
moment, from her surroundings. She was recalled to the present by a
plate, on which was a hunk of bread and a piece of cheese, being thrust
beneath her nose. She was hungry when she came downstairs; now,
appetite had left her. Her gorge rose at the pasty-faced girls, the
brick-walled cellar, the unwholesome air, and the beady-eyed little
woman seated at the head of the table. She thought it better, if only
for her health's sake, to try and swallow something. She put a piece of
cheese in her mouth. Mavis, by now, was an authority on cheap cheese;
she knew all the varieties of flavour to be found in the lesser-priced
cheeses. Ordinarily, she had been enabled to make them palatable with
the help of vinegar, mustard, or even with an onion; but tonight none
of these resources were at hand with which to make appetising the soapy
compound on her plate. Miss Striem, the dark little woman at the head
of the table, noted her disinclination to tackle the cheese.

"You can have anything exthra if you care to pay for it," she remarked.

"What have you?" asked Mavis.

"Ham, bloater, or chicken pathte, and an exthellent brand of thardines."

"I'll try the ham paste," said Mavis.

An opened tin of ham paste was put before her. Mavis noticed that the
other girls were looking at her out of the corners of their eyes.

She put some of the paste on to her plate; it looked unusual, even for
potted meat; but ascribing its appearance to the effect of the light,
Mavis spread some on a bit of bread and put this in her mouth. Only for
a moment; the next, she had removed it with her handkerchief. One of
the girls tittered. Miss Striem looked sharply in this person's
direction.

"I can't eat this: it's bad!" cried Mavis.

"Perhaps you would prefer a thardine."

"Anything, so long as it's fit to eat."

Some of the girls raised their eyebrows at this remark. All of them
were more or less frightened of Miss Striem, the housekeeper.

An opened tin of sardines was set before Mavis. She had only to glance
inside to see that its contents were mildewed.

"Thanks," she said, pushing the tin away.

"I beg your pardon," remarked Miss Striem severely.

"They're bad too. I'm not going to eat them."

"You'll have to pay for them juth the thame."

"What?" cried Mavis.

"If you order, you pay. Ith a rule in the houth," said Miss Striem, as
if the matter were forthwith dismissed from her mind.

"To sell girls bad food?" asked Mavis.

"I cannot discuth the matter; the thum due will be deducted from your
wageth."

Mavis's blood was up. Her wage was small enough without having anything
deducted for food she could not eat.

"I shall go to the management," she remarked.

"You'll what?"

"Go to the management. I'm not going to be cheated like that."

"You call me a cheat?" screamed the little woman, as she rose to her
feet.

Mavis was, for the moment, taken aback by Miss Striem's vehemence. The
girl next to her whispered, "Go it," under her breath.

"You call me a cheat?" repeated Miss Striem.

"I shall say what I have to say to the management," replied Mavis
coolly.

"And I'll thay what I have to thay; and you'll find out who is believed
in a way you won't like."

"I shall prove my case," retorted Mavis, as she grabbed the ham paste
and the tin of sardines.

Miss Striem sat down. A giggle ran round the table.

"Can you tell me where the sitting-room is, please?" Mavis asked of the
girl next to her.

"What?" replied the girl whom she had spoked to.

Mavis repeated her question.

"There's no such thing; there's only this place open at meal times and
your bedroom."

"Thanks; I'll go there. Good night."

Mavis, carrying her ham paste and sardines, walked the evil-smelling
passage and up the stairs to her room. Once outside the supper-room,
she repented of having had words with Miss Striem, who was, doubtless,
a person of authority; but it was done now, and Mavis reflected how she
had justice and evidence on her side. The bedroom was empty. Mavis
placed the ham paste and sardines on her washing-stand; she then took
advantage of the absence of the other girls to undress and get into
bed. She fell into a heavy slumber, which gave place to a state of
dreamy wakefulness, during which she became conscious of others being
in the room; of hearing herself discussed; of a sudden commotion in the
apartment. A sequence of curious noises thoroughly awoke her. The
unaccustomed sight of three other girls in the room in which she slept
caused her to sit bolt upright. The girl, Miss Impett, to whom she had
already spoken, was sitting on her bed, yawning as she pulled off her
stockings. Another, a fine, queenly-looking girl, in evening dress, was
sitting on a chair with her hands pressed to her stomach; her eyes were
rolling as if she were in pain. The third girl, also in evening dress,
but not so handsome as the sufferer, was whispering consoling words.

"Is she ill?" asked Mavis.

"It's the indigestion," replied the last girl Mavis had noticed.

"Can I do anything?" asked Mavis.

"She always has it dreadful when she goes out to supper; now she's
paying for it and--" She got no further; her friend was seized with
another attack; all her attention was devoted to rubbing the patient's
stomach, the while the latter groaned loudly. It was a similar noise
which had awakened Mavis.

"I suppose we shan't get to sleep for an hour," yawned Miss Impett, as
she struggled into a not too clean nightdress.

"Oh, you cat, you!" gasped the sufferer.

"It's your own fault," retorted Miss Impett. "You always over-eat
yourself and drink such a lot of that filthy creme de menthe."

"Don't you wish you had the chance?" snapped the girl who was attending
her friend.

"I always drink Kummel; it's much more ladylike," remarked Miss Impett.

"You'd drink anything you can bally well get," the sufferer cried at a
moment when she was free of pain.

"I am a lady. I know how to be'ave when a gentleman offers me a drink,"
retorted Miss Impett.

"You a lady--you--!" began the sufferer's ministering angel. She got no
further, being checked by her friend casting a significant glance in
Mavis's direction.

Half an hour later, Mavis fell asleep. It was a strange experience
when, the next morning, she had to wash and dress with three other
girls doing the same thing in the little space at their disposal.

She had asked if there were any chance of getting a bath, to be
surprised at the astonished looks on the faces of the others. At a
quarter to eight, they scurried down to breakfast, at which meal Miss
Striem presided, as at supper.

Breakfast consisted of thick bread, salt butter, and the cheapest of
cheap tea. It was as much as Mavis could do to get any of it down,
although she was hungry. She could not help noticing that she was the
object of much remark to the other girls present, her words with Miss
Striem on the previous evening having attracted much attention. After
breakfast, Mavis was taken upstairs to the department in which she was
to work. It was on the roomy ground floor, for which she was thankful;
she was also pleased that the girl selected to instruct her in her
duties was her Browning friend of last night. Her work was not arduous,
and Mavis enjoyed the handling of dainty things; but she soon became
tired of standing, at which she sat on one of the seats provided by Act
of Parliament to rest the limbs of weary shop assistants.

"You mustn't do that!" urged Miss Meakin.

"Why not?"

"You'll get yourself disliked if you do."

"What are they here for, if not to sit on?"

"They have to be there; but you won't be here long if you're seen using
them, 'cept when the Government inspector is about."

"It's cruel, unfair," began Mavis, but her friend merely shrugged her
shoulders as she moved away to wait on a customer.

Mavis was disposed to rebel against the unwritten rule that seats are
not to be made use of, but a moment's reflection convinced her of the
unwisdom of such a proceeding.

Later on in the morning, Miss Meakin said to Mavis:

"I hear you had a dust up with old Striem last night."

Mavis told her the circumstances.

"She's an awful beast and makes no end of money out of the catering.
But no one dare say anything, as she's a relation of one of the
directors. All the young ladies are talking of your standing up to her."

"I suppose she'll report me," remarked Mavis.

"She daren't; she's too keen on a good thing; but I'll bet she has her
knife into you if she gets a chance."

Presently, Miss Meakin got confidential; she told Mavis how she was
engaged to be married; also, that she met her "boy" by chance at a
public library, where they both asked the librarian for Browning at the
same time, and that this had brought them together.

The girls went down to dinner in two batches. When it was time for
Mavis to go (she was in the second lot), she was weary with exhaustion;
the continued standing, the absence of fresh air, her poor breakfast,
all conspired to cause her mental and physical distress.

The contaminated air of the passage leading to the eating-room brought
on a feeling of nausea. Miss Meakin, noticing Mavis change colour,
remarked:

"We're all like that at first: you'll soon get used to it."

If the atmosphere of the downstair regions discouraged appetite, the
air in the glazed bricked dining-room was enough to take it away; it
was heavy with the reek arising from cooked joints and vegetables.
Mavis took her place, when a plate heaped up with meat and vegetables
was passed to her. One look was enough: the meat was cag mag, and
scarcely warm at that; the potatoes looked uninvitingly soapy; the
cabbage was coarse and stringy; all this mess was seemingly frozen in
the white fat of what had once been gravy. Mavis sickened and turned
away her head; she noticed that the food affected many of the girls in
a like manner.

"No wonder," she thought, "that so many of them are pasty-faced and
unwholesome-looking."

She realised the necessity of providing the human machine with fuel;
she made an effort to disguise the scant flavour of the best-looking
bits she could pick out by eating plenty of bread. She had swallowed
one or two mouthfuls and already felt better for the nourishment, when
her eye fell on a girl seated nearly opposite to her, whom she had not
noticed before. This creature was of an abnormal stoutness; her face
was covered with pimples and the rims of her eyes were red; but it was
not these physical defects which compelled Mavis's attention. The girl
kept her lips open as she ate, displaying bloodless gums in which were
stuck irregular decayed teeth; she exhibited the varying processes of
mastication, the while her boiled eyes stared vacantly before her. She
compelled Mavis's attention, with the result that the latter had no
further use for the food on her plate. She even refused rice pudding,
which, although burned, might otherwise have attracted her.

The air of the shop upstairs was agreeably refreshing after the
vitiated atmosphere of the dining-room; it saved her from faintness.
Happily, she was sent down to tea at a quarter to four, to find that
this, by a lucky accident, was stronger and warmer than the tepid stuff
with which she had been served at breakfast. As the hours wore on,
Mavis noticed that most of the girls seemed to put some heart into
their work; she supposed that this elation was caused by the rapidly
approaching hour of liberty. When this at last arrived, there was a
rush to the bedrooms. Mavis, who was now suffering tortures from a
racking headache, went listlessly upstairs; she wondered if she would
be allowed to go straight to bed. When she got into the room, she found
everything in confusion. Miss Potter, Miss Allen, and Miss Impett were
frantically exchanging their working clothes for evening attire. Mavis
was surprised to see the three girls painting their cheeks and eyebrows
in complete indifference to her presence. They took small notice of
her; they were too busy discussing the expensive eating-houses at which
they were to dine and sup. Miss Potter, in struggling into her evening
bodice, tore it behind. Mavis, seeing that Miss Allen was all behind
with her dressing, offered to sew it.

"Thank you," remarked Miss Potter, in the manner of one bestowing a
favour. Mavis mended the rent quickly and skilfully. Perhaps her ready
needle softened the haughty Miss Potter's heart towards her, for the
beauty said:

"Where are you off to to-night?"

"Nowhere," answered Mavis.

"Nowhere!" echoed Miss Potter disdainfully, while the other occupants
of the room ejaculated "My!"

"Haven't you a 'boy'?" asked Miss Potter.

"A what?"

"A young man then," said Miss Potter, as she made a deft line beneath
her left eye with an eye pencil.

"I don't know any young men," remarked Mavis.

"Hadn't you better be quick and pick up one?" asked Miss Impett.

"I don't care to make chance acquaintances," answered Mavis.

To her surprise, her remark aroused the other girls' ire; they looked
at Mavis and then at one another in astonishment.

"I defy anyone to prove that I'm not a lady," cried Miss Impett, as she
bounced out of the room.

"I'm as good as you any day," declared Miss Potter, as she went to the
door.

"Yes, that we are," cried Miss Allen defiantly, as she joined her
friend.

Mavis sat wearily on her bed. Her head ached; her body seemed incapable
of further effort; worst of all, her soul was steeped in despair.

"What have I done, oh, what have I done to deserve this misery?" she
cried out.

This outburst strengthened her: needs cried for satisfaction in her
body, the chief of these being movement and air. She walked to the
window and looked out on the cloudless September night; there was a
chill in the air, imparting to its sweetness a touch of austerity.
Mavis wondered from what peaceful scenes it came, to what untroubled
places it was going. The thought that she was remote from the stillness
for which her heart hungered exasperated her; she closed the window in
order to spare herself being tortured by the longing which the night
air awoke in her being. The atmosphere of the room was foul when
compared with the air she had just breathed; it seemed to get her by
the throat, to be on the point of stifling her. The next moment she had
pinned on her hat, caught up her gloves, and scurried into the street.
Two minutes later she was in Oxford Street, where she was at once
merged into a stream of girls, a stream almost as wide as the pavement,
which was sluggishly moving in the direction of the Park. This flow was
composed of every variety of girl: tall, stumpy, medium, dark, fair,
auburn, with dispositions as varied as their appearances. Many were
aglow with hope and youthful ardour; others were well over their first
fine frenzy of young blood. There were wise virgins, foolish virgins,
vain girls, clever girls, elderly girls, dull girls, laughing girls,
amorous girls, spiteful girls, girls with the toothache, girls
radiantly happy in the possession of some new, cheap finery: all
wending their way towards the Marble Arch. Most walked in twos and
threes, a few singly; some of these latter were hurrying and darting
amongst the listless walk of the others in their eagerness to keep
appointments with men. Whatever their age, disposition, or condition,
they were all moved by a common desire--to enjoy a crowded hour of
liberty after the toil and fret of the day. As Mavis moved with the
flow of this current, she noticed how it was constantly swollen by the
addition of tributaries, which trickled from nearly every door in
Oxford Street, till at last the stream overflowed the broad pavement
and became so swollen that it seemed to carry everything before it.
Here were gathered girls from nearly every district in the United
Kingdom. The broken home, stepmothers, too many in family, the
fascination which London exercises for the country-grown girl--all and
each of these reasons were responsible for all this womanhood of a
certain type pouring down Oxford Street at eight o'clock in the
evening. Each of them was the centre of her little universe, and, on
the whole, they were mostly happy, their gladness being largely
ignorance of more fortunate conditions of life. Ill-fed, under-paid,
they were insignificant parts of the great industrial machine which had
got them in its grip, so that their function was to make rich men
richer, or to pay 10 per cent, dividends to shareholders who were
careless how these were earned. Nightly, this river of girls flows down
Oxford Street, to return in an hour or two, when the human tide can be
seen flowing in the contrary direction. Meantime, men of all ages and
conditions were skilfully tacking upon this river, itching to quench
the thirst from which they suffered. It needed all the efforts of the
guardian angels, in whose existence Mavis had been taught to believe,
to guide the component parts of this stream from the oozy marshland,
murky ways, and bottomless quicksands which beset its course.




CHAPTER SEVEN

WIDER HORIZONS


Seven weeks passed quickly for Mavis, during which her horizon sensibly
widened. She learned many things, the existence of which she would
never have thought possible till the knowledge stared her in the face.
To begin with, she believed that the shabby treatment, in the way of
food and accommodation, that the girls suffered at "Dawes'" would bind
them in bonds of sympathy: the contrary was the case. The young women
in other departments looked down on and would have nothing to do with
girls, such as she, who worked in the shop. These other departments had
their rivalries and emulation for social precedence, leading to feuds,
of which the course of action consisted of the two opposing parties
sulking and refusing to speak to each other, unless compelled in the
course of business. The young women in the showroom were selected for
their figures and general appearance; these, by common consent, were
the aristocracy of the establishment. After a time, Mavis found that
there was another broad divergence between her fellow-workers, which
was quite irrespective of the department in which they were. There was
a type of girl, nearly always the best-looking, which seemed to have an
understanding and freemasonry of its own, together with secrets,
confidences, and conversations, which were never for the ears of those
who were outsiders--in the sense of their not being members of this
sisterhood. Miss Potter, Miss Allen, and Miss Impett all belonged to
this set, which nearly always went out after shop hours in evening
dress, which never seemed to want for ready money or pretty clothes,
and which often went away for the weekend ("Dawes'" closed at two on
Saturdays). When Mavis had first been introduced to the three girls
with whom she shared her bedroom, she had intuitively felt that there
was a broad, invisible gulf which lay between her and them; as time
went on, this division widened, so far as Miss Impett and Miss Potter
were concerned, to whom Mavis rarely spoke. Miss Allen, who, in all
other respects, toadied to and imitated Miss Potter, was disposed to be
friendly to Mavis. Miss Impett, who on occasion swore like any street
loafer, Mavis despised as a common, ignorant girl. Miss Potter she knew
to be fast; but Miss Allen, when alone with Mavis, went out of her way
to be civil to her; the fact of the matter being that she was a weak,
easily led girl, whose character was dominated by any stronger nature
with which she came in contact.

Another thing which much surprised Mavis was the heartless cruelty the
girls displayed to any of their number who suffered from any physical
defect. Many times in the day would the afflicted one be reminded of
her infirmity; the consequent tears incited the tormentors to a further
display of malignity.

Bella, the servant, was an object of their attentions; her gait and
manner of breathing would be imitated when she was by. She was always
known by the name of "Pongo," till one of the "young ladies" had
witnessed The Tempest from the upper boxes of His Majesty's Theatre;
from this time, it was thought to be a mark of culture on the part of
many of the girls at "Dawes'" to call her "Caliban." Mavis sympathised
with the afflicted woman's loneliness; she made one or two efforts to
be friendly with her, but each time was repulsed.

One day, however, Mavis succeeded in penetrating the atmosphere of
ill-natured reserve with which "Pongo" surrounded herself. The servant
was staggering upstairs with two big canfuls of water; the task was
beyond her strength.

"Let me help you," said Mavis, who was coming up behind her.

"Shan't," snorted Bella.

"I shall do as I please," remarked Mavis, as she caught hold of one of
the cans.

"Leave 'old!" cried Bella; but Mavis only grasped the can tighter.

"Go on now; don't you try and get round me and then turn an' laugh at
me."

"I never laugh at you, and I only want to help you up with the water."

"Straight?"

"What else should I want?"

"Don't be kind to me," cried Bella, suddenly breaking down.

"Bella!" gasped Mavis in astonishment.

"Don't you start being kind to me. I ain't used to it," wept Bella.

"Don't be a fool, Bella!"

"I ain't a fool. I'm onny ugly and lopsided, and everyone laughs at me
'ceptin' you, and I've no one or--or nothin' to care for."

Mavis thought it advisable to take Bella into her room, which happened
to be empty; here, she thought, Bella would be free from eyes that
would only find food for mirth in her tears.

"I've never had a young man," sobbed Bella. "An' that's why I turned to
Gawd and looked down on the young ladies here, as 'as as many young men
as they want; too many sometimes. An' speaking of Gawd, it's nice to
'ave Someone yer know as cares for you, though you can't never see 'Im
or walk out with 'Im."

From this time, she tried to do Bella many little kindnesses, but,
saving this one instance, the servant was always on her guard and never
again opened her heart to Mavis.

Miss Striem did not carry out her threat of charging Mavis for the
extras she refused to eat. In time, Mavis got used to the food supplied
by "Dawes'"; she did not swallow everything that was put upon her
plate, indeed, she did not eat with good appetite at three consecutive
meals; but she could sit at the table in the feeding-room without
overwhelming feelings of repulsion, and, by shutting her eyes to the
unconcealed mastication of the girl opposite, could often pick enough
to satisfy her immediate needs. The evening was the time when she was
most hungry; after the walk which she made a point of taking in all
weathers, she would get quite famished, when the morsel of Canadian
cheese and sour bread supplied for supper was wholly insufficient. At
first, she was tempted to enter the cheaper restaurants with which the
streets about Oxford Street abound; but these extravagances made
serious inroads on her scanty capital and had to be given up,
especially as she was saving up to buy new boots, of which she was in
need.

She confided in Miss Meakin, who was now looking better and plumper,
since nearly every evening she had taken to supping with her "boy's"
mother, who owned a stationery business in the Holloway Road.

"I know, it's dreadful. I used to be like that before I met Sylvester,"
Miss Meakin answered to Mavis's complaint.

"But what am I to do?" asked Mavis.

"Have you ever tried brisket?"

"What's that?"

"Beef!"

"Beef?"

"You get it at the ham and beef shop. You get quite a lot for five
pence, and when they get to know you they give you good weight."

"But you must have something with it," remarked Mavis.

"Then you go to a baker's and buy a penn'orth of bread."

"But where am I to eat it?" asked Mavis.

"In some quiet street," replied Miss Meakin. "Why not?"

"With one's fingers?"

"There's no one to see you."

Mavis looked dubious.

"It's either that or picking up 'boys,'" remarked Miss Meakin.

"Picking up boys!" echoed Mavis, with a note of indignation in her
voice.

"It's what the girls do here if they don't want to go hungry."

"But I don't quite understand."

"Didn't you come here through old Orgles's influence?" asked Miss
Meakin guardedly.

"Nothing of the kind; one of the partners got me in."

"Sorry! I heard it was that beast Orgles. But most of the 'boys' who
try and speak to you in the street are only too glad to stand a girl a
feed."

"But why should they?"

"Don't you know?"

"It would put me under an obligation to the man," remarked Mavis.

"Of course; that's what the gentlemen want."

"But it might lead silly girls into all sorts of trouble."

"I think most of us know how to behave like ladies and drop the
gentleman when he wants to go too far."

"Good heavens!" cried Mavis, who was taken aback by the vulgarity of
Miss Meakin's point of view.

Perhaps the latter resented the moral superiority contained in her
friend's exclamation, for she said with aggrieved voice:

"There's Miss Searle and Miss Bone, who're taken everywhere by a REEL
swell; they even went to Paris with him at Easter; and no matter what
he wants, I'm sure no one can say they're not ladies."

Mavis thought for a moment before saying:

"Is that quite fair to the man?"

"That's his look-out," came the swift retort.

"I don't fancy the brisket and I don't fancy picking up men. Can't one
get on and get in the showroom and earn more money?" asked Mavis.

"One can," replied Miss Meakin, much emphasising the "can."

"How is it done?"

"You ask your friend Miss Allen; she'll tell you all about it."

"She's no friend of mine. Can't you tell me?"

"I could, but don't want to; you look at things so funny. But, then,
you don't like Browning," replied Miss Meakin.

Mavis was filled with blind rage at the indifference of "Dawes'" to the
necessities of those they engaged; as long as the firm's big dividend
was made, they were careless to what questionable shifts and expedients
their staff was reduced in order to have sufficient strength to bring
to the daily task of profit-earning. She pondered on the cruelty and
injustice of it all in odd moments; she could not give much thought to
the matter, as Christmas was approaching, which meant that "Dawes'"
would be hard at work to cope with the rush of custom every minute of
the working day, and for some time after the doors were closed to the
public. The class of customer had, also, changed. When Mavis first went
to "Dawes'," the people whom she served were mostly visitors to London
who were easily and quickly satisfied; then had followed the rough and
tumble of a remnant sale. But now, London was filling with those women
to whom shopping is at once an art, a fetish, and a burden. Mavis found
it a trying matter to satisfy the exigent demands of the experienced
shopper. She was now well accustomed to the rudeness of women to those
of their own sex who were less happily placed; but she was not a little
surprised at a type of customer whom she was now frequently called upon
to serve. This was of the male sex; sometimes young; usually, about
forty; often, quite old; it was a smart, well-dressed type, with
insinuating manners and a quiet, deferential air that did not seem to
know what it came to buy or cared what it purchased so long as it could
engage Mavis in a few moments' conversation. She soon got to know this
type at a glance, and gave it short shrift. Others at "Dawes'" were not
so coy. Many of the customers she got to know by sight, owing to their
repeated visits. One of these she disliked from the first; later
experience of her only intensified this impression. She was a tall,
fine woman, well, if a trifle over-dressed; her complexion was a little
more aggressive than most of the females who shopped at "Dawes'." Her
name was Mrs Stanley; she appeared well known to the girls for whom
Bella the servant declared she was in the habit of praying. From the
first, Mrs Stanley was attracted by Mavis, into whose past life she
made sympathetic and tactful inquiries. Directly she learned that Mavis
was an orphan, Mrs Stanley redoubled her efforts to win the girl's
confidence. But it was all of no use; Mavis turned a deaf ear to all
Mrs Stanley's insinuations that a girl of her striking appearance was
thrown away in a shop: it was as much as Mavis could do to be coldly
civil to her. Even when Mrs Stanley gave up the girl as a bad job, the
latter was always possessed by an uneasy sensation whenever she was
near, although Mavis might not have set eyes on her.

Another customer who attracted much attention was the Marquis de
Raffini; he was old, distinguished-looking, and the last survivor of an
illustrious French family.

Mavis saw him come into "Dawes'" soon after she had commenced work,
when he was accompanied by a showy, over-dressed girl, whom he referred
to as Madame the Marquise, and for whom he ordered a costly and
elaborate trousseau. He seemed well known to the girls, who told Mavis
that he appeared every few months with a different young woman; also,
that when, in the ordinary course of nature, the condition of the
temporary Madame the Marquise could no longer be concealed, the Marquis
was in the habit of providing a lump sum of some hundreds of pounds as
dowry in order to induce someone (usually a working man) to marry his
mistress. Mavis was shocked at what she heard; it seemed strange to her
that such things should exist and be discussed as if they were the most
everyday occurrences.

Often, while busily engaged in serving customers or in hearing and
seeing things which, before she came to "Dawes'," she would never have
believed to be possible, she had a strong suspicion that old Orgles was
watching her from the top of a flight of stairs or the tiny window in
his room; it seemed that he was a wary old spider, she a fly, and that
he was biding his time. This impression saddened her; it also made her
attend carefully to her duties, it being his place to deal with those
of the staff who were remiss in their work. It was only of an evening,
when she was free of the shop, that she could be said to be anything
like her old, light-hearted self. She would wash, change her clothes,
and scurry off to a ham and beef warehouse she had discovered in a
turning off Oxford Street, where she would get her supper. The shop was
kept by a man named Siggers. He was an affected little man, who wore
his hair long; he minced about his shop and sliced his ham and beef
with elaborate wavings of his carving knife and fork. Mavis proving a
regular customer, he let her eat her supper in the shop, providing her
with knife, fork, tablecloth, and mustard. Although married and
henpecked, he affected to admire Mavis; while she ate her humble meal,
he would forlornly look in her direction, sigh, and wearily support his
shaggy head with his forefinger; but she could not help noticing that,
when afflicted with this mood, he would often glance at himself in a
large looking glass which faced him as he sat. His demonstrations of
regard never became more pronounced. It was as much as Mavis could do
to stop herself from laughing outright when she paid him, it being a
signal mark of his confidence that he did not exact payment from her
"on delivery of goods in order to prevent regrettable mistakes," as
printed cards, conspicuously placed in the shop, informed customers--or
clients, as Mr Siggers preferred to call them.

One night, Mavis, by the merest chance, made a discovery that gladdened
her heart: she lighted upon Soho. She had read and loved her Fielding
and Smollett when at Brandenburg College; the sight of the stately old
houses at once awoke memories of Tom Jones, Parson Adams, Roderick
Random, and Lady Bellaston, She did not immediately remember that those
walls had sheltered the originals of these creations; when she realised
this fact she got from the nearest lending library her old favourites
and carefully re-read them. She, also, remembered her dear father
telling her that an ancestor of his, who had lived in Soho, had been
killed in the thirties of the eighteenth century when fighting a famous
duel; this, and the sorry dignity of the Soho houses, was enough to
stir her imagination. Night after night, she would elude the men who
mostly followed her and walk along the less frequented of the sombre
streets. These she would people with the reckless beaux, the headstrong
ladies of that bygone time; she would imagine the fierce loves, the
daring play, the burning jealousies of which the dark old rooms, of
which she sometimes caught a glimpse, could tell if they had a mind.
Sometimes she would close her eyes, when the street would be again
filled with a jostling crowd of sedan chairmen, footmen, and linkboys;
she could almost smell the torches and hear the cries of their bearers.
It gave her much of a shock to realise how beauties, lovers, linkboys,
and all had disappeared from the face of the earth, as if they had
never been. She wondered why Londoners were so indifferent to the
stones Soho had to tell. Then she fell to speculating upon which the
house might be where her blood-thirsty ancestor had lived; also, if it
had ever occurred to him that one of his descendants, a girl, would be
wandering about Soho with scarce enough for her daily needs. In time,
she grew to love the old houses, which seemed ever to mourn their
long-lost grandeur, which still seemed full of echoes of long-dead
voices, which were ill-reconciled to the base uses to which they were
now put. Perhaps she, also, loved them because she grew to compare
their fallen state with that of her own family; it seemed that she and
they had much in common; and shared misfortunes beget sympathy.

Thus Mavis worked and dreamed.




CHAPTER EIGHT

SPIDER AND FLY


One night, Mavis went back to "Dawes'" earlier than usual. She was
wearing the boots bought with her carefully saved pence; these pinched
her feet, making her weary and irritable. She wondered if she would
have the bedroom to herself while she undressed. Of late, the queenly
Miss Potter had given up going out for the evening and returning at all
hours in the morning. Her usual robust health had deserted her; she was
constantly swallowing drugs; she would go out for long walks after shop
hours, to return about eleven, completely exhausted, when she would
hold long, whispered conversations with her friend Miss Allen.

Mavis was delighted to find the room vacant. The odour of drugs mingled
with the other smells of the chamber, which she mitigated, in some
measure, by opening the window as far as she was able. She pulled off
her tight boots, enjoying for some moments a pleasurable sense of
relief; then she tumbled into bed, soon to fall asleep. She was
awakened by the noise of voices raised in altercation. Miss Potter and
Miss Impett were having words. The girls were in bed, although no one
had troubled to turn off the flaring jet. As they became more and more
possessed with the passion for effective retort, Mavis saw vile looks
appearing on their faces: these obliterated all traces of youth and
comeliness, substituting in their stead a livid commonness.

"We know all about you!" cried loud-voiced Miss Impett.

"Happily, that's not a privilege desired in your case," retorted Miss
Potter.

"And why not?" Miss Impett demanded to know.

"We might learn too much."

"What does anyone know of me that I'm ashamed of?" roared Miss Impett.

"That's just it."

"Just what?"

"Some people have no shame."

"Do try and remember you're ladies," put in Miss Allen, in an effort to
still the storm.

"Well, she shouldn't say I ought to wash my hands before getting into
bed," remarked Miss Impett.

"I didn't say you should," said Miss Potter.

"What did you say?"

"What I said was that anyone with any pretension to the name of lady
would wash her hands before getting into bed," corrected Miss Potter.

"I know you don't think me a lady," broke out Miss Impett. "But ma was
quite a lady till she started to let her lodgings in single rooms."

"Don't say any more and let's all go to sleep," urged pacific Miss
Allen, who was all the time keeping an anxious eye on her friend Miss
Potter.

Miss Impett, perhaps fired by her family reminiscence, was not so
easily mollified.

"Of course, if certain people, who're nobodies, try to be'ave as
somebodies, one naturally wants to know where they've learned their
classy manners," she remarked.

"Was you referring to me?" asked Miss Potter.

"I wasn't speaking to you," replied Miss Impett.

"But I was speaking to you. Was you referring to me?"

"Never mind who I was referring to."

"Whatever I've done," said Miss Potter pointedly, "whatever I've done,
I've never made myself cheap with a something in the City."

"No. 'E wouldn't be rich enough for you."

"You say that I take money from gentlemen," cried Miss Potter.

"If they're fools enough to give it to you."

"Ladies! ladies!" pleaded Miss Allen, but all in vain.

"I've never done the things you've done," screamed Miss Potter.

"I've done? I've done? I 'ave my faults same as others, but I can say,
I can that--that I've never let a gentleman make love to me unless I've
been properly introduced to him," remarked her opponent virtuously.

"For shame! For shame!" cried Miss Potter and Miss Allen together, as
if the proprieties that they held most sacred had been ruthlessly and
unnecessarily violated.

"No, that I h'ain't," continued irate Miss Impett. "I've watched you
when you didn't know I was by and seen the way you've made eyes at
gentlemen in evening dress."

Much as Mavis was shocked at all she had heard, she was little prepared
for what followed. The next moment Miss Potter had sprung out of bed;
with clenched fists, and features distorted by rage, she sprang to Miss
Impett's bedside.

"Say that again!" she screamed.

"I shan't."

"You daren't!"

"I daren't?"

"No, you daren't."

"What would you do if I did?"

"Say it and see."

"You dare me to?"

"Yes, you damn beast, to say I'm no better than a street-walker!"

"Don't you call me names."

"I shall call you what I please, you dirty upstart, to put yourself on
a level with ladies like us! We always said you was common."

"What--what's it you dared me to say?" asked Miss Impett breathlessly,
as her face went livid.

"Don't--don't say it," pleaded Miss Allen; but her interference was
ineffectual.

"That I picked up gentlemen in evening dress," bawled Miss Potter. "Say
it: say it: say it! I dare you!"

"I do say it. I'll tell everyone. I've watched you pick up gentlemen
in--"

She got no further. Miss Potter struck her in the mouth.

"You beast!" cried Miss Impett.

Miss Potter struck her again.

"You beast: you coward!" yelled Miss Impett.

"It's you who's the coward, 'cause you don't hit me. Take that and
that," screamed Miss Potter, as she hit the other again and again. "And
if you say any more, I'll pull your hair out."

"I'm not a coward; I'm not a coward!" wept Miss Impett. "And you know
it."

"I know it!"

"If anything, it's you who's the coward."

"Say it again," threatened Miss Potter, as she raised her fist, while
hate gleamed in her eyes.

"Yes, I do say it again. You are a coward; you hit me, and you know I
can't hit you back because you're going to have a baby."

There was a pause. Miss Potter's face went white; she raised her hand
as if to strike Miss Impett, but as the latter stared her in the eyes,
the other girl flinched. Then, tears came into Miss Potter's eyes as
she faltered:

"Oh! Oh, you story!"

"Story! story!" began Miss Impett, but was at once interrupted by
pacific Miss Allen.

"Ssh! ssh!" she cried fearfully.

"I shan't," answered Miss Impett.

"You must," commanded Miss Allen under her breath. "Keeves might hear."

"What if she does! As likely as not she herself's in the way," said
Miss Potter.

Mavis, who had been trying not to listen to the previous conversation,
felt both hot and cold at the same time. The blood rushed to her head.
The next moment she sprang out of bed.

"How dare you, how dare you say that?" she cried, her eyes all ablaze.

"Say what?" asked Miss Potter innocently.

"That. I won't foul my lips by repeating it. How dare you say it? How
dare you say that you didn't say it?"

"Well, you shouldn't listen," remarked Miss Potter sullenly.

Mavis advanced menacingly to the side of the girl's bed.

"If you think you can insult me like that, you're mistaken," said
Mavis, with icy calmness, the while she trembled in every limb.

"Haven't you been through Orgles's hands?" asked Miss Potter.

"No, I have not. I say again, how dare you accuse me of that?"

"She didn't mean it, dear," said Miss Allen appeasingly; "she's always
said you're the only pretty girl who's straight in 'Dawes'.'"

"Will you answer my question?" asked Mavis, with quiet persistence.
Then, as the girl made no reply, "Please yourself. I shall raise the
whole question to-morrow, and I'll ask to be moved from this room. Then
perhaps you'll learn not to class me with common, low girls like
yourself."

It might be thought that Mavis's aspersions might have provoked a
storm: it produced an altogether contrary effect.

"Don't be down on me. I don't know what's to become of me," whimpered
Miss Potter.

The next moment, the three girls, other than Mavis, were clinging
together, the while they wept tears of contrition and sympathy.

Mavis, although her pride had been cruelly wounded by Miss Potter's
careless but base accusation, was touched at the girl's distress; the
abasement of the once proud young beauty, the nature of its cause,
together with the realisation of the poor girl's desperate case, moved
her deeply: she stood irresolute in the middle of the room. The three
weeping girls were wondering when Mavis was going to recommence her
attack; they little knew that her keen imagination was already dwelling
with infinite compassion on the dismal conditions in which the promised
new life would come into the world. Her heart went out to the extremity
of mother and unborn little one; had not her pride forbade her, she
would have comforted Miss Potter with brave words. Presently, when Miss
Potter whimpered something about "some people being so straitlaced,"
Mavis found words to say:

"I'm not a bit straitlaced. I'm really very sorry for you, and I can't
see you're much to blame, as the life we lead here is enough to drive
girls to anything. If I'm any different, it's because I'm not built
that way."

Mavis was the only girl in the room who got next to no sleep. Long
after the other girls had found repose, she lay awake, wide-eyed; her
sudden gust of rage had exhausted her; all the same, her body quivered
with passion whenever she remembered Miss Potter's insult. But it was
the shock of the discovery of the girl's condition which mostly kept
her awake; hitherto, she had been dimly conscious that such things
were; now that they had been forced upon her attention, she was dazed
at their presence in the person of one with whom she was daily
associated. Then she fell to wondering what mysterious ends of
Providence Miss Potter's visitation would serve. The problem made her
head ache. She took refuge in the thought that Miss Potter was a
sparrow, such as she--a sparrow with gaudier and, at the same time,
more bedraggled plumage, but one who, for all this detriment, could not
utterly fall without the knowledge of One who cared. This thought
comforted Mavis and brought her what little sleep she got.

The next morning, Mavis was sent to a City warehouse in order to match
some material that "Dawes'" had not in stock. When she took her seat on
the 'bus, a familiar voice cried:

"There's 'B. C.'"

"Miss Allen."

"That's what we all call you, 'cos you're so innocent. If you're off to
the warehouse, it's where I'm bound."

"We can go together," remarked Mavis.

"I say, you were a brick last night," said Miss Allen, after the two
girls had each paid for their tickets.

"I'm only sorry for her."

"She'll be all right."

"Will he marry her, then?" asked Mavis.

"Good old 'B. C.'! Don't be a juggins; her boy's married already."

"Married!" gasped Mavis.

"Yes!" laughed Miss Allen. "And with a family."

When Mavis got over her astonishment at this last bit of information,
she remarked:

"But you said she would be all right."

"So she will be, with luck," declared Miss Allen.

"What--what on earth do you mean?"

"What I say. Why, if every girl who got into trouble didn't get out of
it, I don't know what would happen."

Mavis wondered what the other meant. Miss Allen continued:

"It's all a question of money and knowing where to go."

"Where to go?" echoed Mavis, who was more amazed than before.

"Of course, there's always a risk. That's how a young lady at 'Dawes''
died last year. But the nursing home she was in managed to hush it up."

Mavis showed her perplexity in her face.

Miss Allen, unaccustomed to such a fallow ear, could not resist giving
further information of a like nature.

"You are green, 'B. C.' I suppose you'll be saying next you don't know
what Mrs Stanley is."

"I don't."

"Go on!"

"What is she?"

"She's awfully well known; she gets hold of pretty young girls new to
London for rich men: that's why she was so keen on you."

As Mavis still did not understand, Miss Allen explained the nature of
the lucrative and time immemorial profession to which Mrs Stanley
belonged.

For the rest of the way, Mavis was so astonished at all she had heard,
that she did not say any more; she scarcely listened to Miss Allen, who
jabbered away at her side.

On the way back, she spoke to Miss Allen upon a more personal matter.

"What did your friend mean last night by saying I'd been through
Orgles's hands?"

"She thought he introduced you here?"

"What's that to do with it?"

"He sees all the young ladies who want rises and most of the young
ladies who want work at 'Dawes'.' If he doesn't fancy them, and they
want 'rises,' he tells them they have their latch-keys; if he fancies
them, he asks what they're prepared to pay for his influence."

"Money?" asked Mavis.

"Money, no," replied Miss Allen scornfully.

"You mean--?" asked Mavis, flushing.

"Of course. He's sent dozens of girls 'on the game.'"

"On the game?"

"On the streets, then."

Mavis's body glowed with the hot blood of righteous anger.

"It can't be," she urged.

"Can't be?"

"It isn't right."

"What's that to do with it?"

"It wouldn't be allowed."

"Who's to stop it?"

"But if it's wrong, it simply can't go on."

"Whose to stop it, I say?"

It was on the tip of Mavis's tongue to urge how He might interfere to
prevent His sparrows being devoured by hawks; but this was not a
subject which she cared to discuss with Miss Allen. This young person,
taking Mavis's silence for the acquiescence of defeat, went on:

"Of course, on the stage or in books something always happens just in
the nick of time to put things right; but that ain't life, or nothing
like it."

"What is life, then?" asked Mavis, curious to hear what the other would
say.

"Money: earning enough to live on and for a bit of a fling now and
then."

"What about love?"

"That's a luxury. If the stage and books was what life really is, we
shop-girls wouldn't like 'em so much."

Mavis relapsed into silence, at which Miss Allen said:

"Of course, in my heart, dear, I think just as you do and would like to
have no 'truck' with Ada Potter or Rose Impett; but one has to know
which side one's bread is buttered. See?"

Later, when talking over Mavis with the girls she had disparaged, Miss
Allen was equally emphatic in her condemnation of "that stuck-up 'B.
C.,'" as she called the one-time teacher of Brandenburg College.

Mavis's anger, once urged to boiling point by what she had learned of
old Orgles's practices, did not easily cool; it remained at a high
temperature, and called into being all the feeling of revolt, of which
she was capable, against the hideous injustice and the infamous wrongs
to which girls were exposed who sought employment at "Dawes'," or who,
having got this, wished for promotion. Luckily, or unluckily for her,
the course of this story will tell which, the Marquis de Raffini,
accompanied by a new "Madame the Marquise," came into the shop directly
she came up from dinner on the same day, and made for where she was
standing. Two or three of the "young ladies" pressed forward, but the
Marquis was attracted by Mavis; he showed in an unmistakable manner
that he preferred her services.

He wanted a trousseau for "Madame the Marquise." He--ahem!--she was
very particular, very, very particular about her lingerie; would Mavis
show "Madame" "Dawes'" most dainty and elaborate specimens?

Mavis was no prude; but this request, coming on top of all she had
learned from Miss Allen, fanned the embers of resentment against the
conditions under which girls, helpless as she, worked. The Marquis's
demand, the circumstances in which it was made, seemed part and parcel
of a system of oppression, of which old Orgles's sending dozens of
girls "on the game," who might otherwise have kept straight, was
another portion. The realisation of this fact awoke in Mavis a burning
sense of injustice; it only needed a spark to cause an explosion. This
was not long in coming. The Marquis examined the things that she set
before him with critical eye; his eagerness to handle them did not
prevent his often looking admiringly at Mavis, a proceeding that did
not please "Madame the Marquise," who felt resentful against Mavis for
marring her transient triumph. "Madame the Marquise" pouted and
fretted, but without effect; when her "husband" presently put his mouth
distressingly near Mavis's ear, "Madame's" feelings got the better of
her; she put her foot, with some violence, upon the Marquis's most
sensitive corn, at which it was as much as Mavis could do to stop
herself from laughing. All might then have been well, had not the
Marquis presently asked Mavis to put her bare arm into one of the open
worked garments in order that he might critically examine the effect.
In a moment, Mavis was ablaze with indignation; her lips tightened. The
man repeated his request, but he may as well have talked to the moon so
far as Mavis was concerned. The girl felt that, if only she resisted
this unreasonable demand, it would be an act of rebellion against the
conditions of the girls' lives at "Dawes'"; she was sure that only good
would come of her action, and that He, who would not see a sparrow fall
to the ground without caring, would aid her in her single-handed
struggle against infamous oppression.

"I am sorry, sir; but I cannot."

"Cannot?"

"No, sir."

"Anything wrong with your plump, pretty arm?"

"No, sir."

"Then why not do as I wish?"

"Because--because it isn't right, sir."

"Eh!"

The man stared at Mavis, who looked him steadfastly in the eyes. In his
heart of hearts, he respected her scruples; he also admired her spirit.
But for "Madame the Marquise," nothing more would have been said, but
this young person was destined to be an instrument of the fates that
ruled Mavis's life. This chit was already resentful against the
strangely beautiful, self-possessed shop-girl; Mavis's objection to the
Marquis's request was in the nature of a reflection on "Madame the
Marquise's" mode of life. She took her lover aside and urged him to
report to the management Mavis's obstinacy; he resisted, wavered,
surrendered. Mavis saw the Marquis speak to a shopman, of whom he
seemed to be asking her name; he was then conducted upstairs to Mr
Orgles's office, from which he issued, a few minutes later, to be bowed
obsequiously downstairs by the man he had been to see. The Marquis
joined "Madame the Marquise" (who, while waiting, had looked
consciously self-possessed), completed his purchases, and left the shop.

Mavis waited in suspense, expecting every minute to be summoned to
Orgles's presence. She did not regret what she had done, but, as the
hours passed and she was not sent for, she more and more feared the
consequences of her behaviour.

When she came upstairs from tea, she received a message saying that Mr
Orgles wished to see her. Nerving herself for the interview, she walked
up the circular stairs leading to his office, conscious that the eyes
of the "young ladies" in the downstair shop were fixed upon her. As she
went into the manager's room, she purposely left the door open. She
found Orgles writing at a table; at his side were teacups, a teapot,
some thinly cut bread and butter and a plate of iced cake. Mavis
watched him as he worked. As her eyes fell on his stooping shoulders,
camel-like face and protruding eyes, her heart was filled with loathing
of this bestial old man, who made the satisfaction of his lusts the
condition of needy girls' securing work, all the while careless that he
was conducting them along the first stage of a downward journey, which
might lead to unsuspected depths of degradation. She itched to pluck
him by the beard, to tell him what she thought of him.

"Miss Keeves!" said Mr Orgles presently.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't say 'sir.'"

Mavis started in surprise. Mr Orgles put down his pen.

"We're going to have a friendly little chat," said the man. "Let me
offer you some tea."

"No, thank you."

"Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!"

Mr Orgles poured out the tea; as he did so, he turned his head so that
his glance could fall on Mavis.

"Bread and butter, or cake?"

"Neither, thank you."

"Then drink this tea."

Mr Orgles brought a cup of tea to where Mavis was standing. On his way,
he closed the door that she had left open. He placed the tea on a table
beside her and took up a piece of bread and butter.

"No, thank you," said Mavis again.

"What?"

He had taken a large bite out of his piece of bread and butter. He
stared at the girl in open-mouthed surprise.

Mavis was fascinated by the bite of food in his mouth and the
tooth-marks in the piece of bread and butter from which it had been
torn.

"Now we'll have a cosy little chat about this most unfortunate
business."

Here Mr Orgles noisily sucked up a mouthful of tea. Mavis shivered with
disgust as she watched him churn the mixture of food and drink in his
mouth.

"Won't you sit down?" he asked presently.

"I prefer to stand."

"Now then!" Here he joyously rubbed his hands. "Two months ago, when we
had a little talk, you were a foolish, ignorant little girl. Perhaps
we've learned sense since then, eh?"

Mavis did not reply. The man went on:

"Although a proud little girl, I don't mind telling you I've had my eye
on you, that I've watched you often and that I've great hopes of
advancing you in life. Eh!"

Here he turned his head so that his eyes leered at her. Mavis repressed
an inclination to throw the teapot at his head. He went on:

"To-day, we made a mistake; we offended a rich and important customer.
That would be a serious matter for you if I reported it, but, as I
gather, you're now a sensible little girl, you may make it worth my
while to save you."

Mavis bit her lip.

"What if you're still a little fool? You will get the sack; and girls
from 'Dawes'' always find it hard to get another job. You will wear
yourself out trapesing about after a 'shop,' and by and by you will
starve and rot and die."

Mavis trembled with anger. The man went on talking. His words were no
longer coherent, but the phrases "make you manageress"--"four pounds a
week"--"share the expenses of a little flat together," fell on her ear.

"Say no more," Mavis was able to cry at last.

The next moment, Mavis felt the man's arms about her, his hot, gasping
breath on her cheek, his beard brushing against her mouth, in his
efforts to kiss her. The attack took her by surprise. Directly she was
able to recover herself, she clawed the fingers of her left hand into
his face and forced his head away from her till she held it at arm's
length. Orgles's head was now upon one side, so that one of his eyes
was able to glare hungrily at her; his big nostrils were dilating with
the violence of his passion. Mavis trembled with a fierce, resentful
rage.

"Your answer: your answer: your answer?" gasped the man huskily.

"This: this: this!" cried Mavis, punctuating each word with a blow from
her right hand upon Orgles's face. "This: this: this! It's men like you
who drag poor girls down. It's men like you who bring them to horrible
things, which they'd never have dreamed of, if it hadn't been for you.
It's men like you who make wickedness. You're the worst man I ever met,
and I'd rather die in the gutter than be fouled by the touch of a
horrible old beast like you."

Her anger blazed up into a final flame. This gave her strength to throw
the old man from her; he crashed into the grate; she heard his head
strike against the coal-box. Mavis cast one look upon the shapeless and
bleeding heap of humanity and left the room.




CHAPTER NINE

AWING


Mavis was again workless, this time with a capital of fifteen shillings
and sixpence halfpenny.

Immediately after her interview with Orgles, she had gone to her room
to change into her out-of-door clothes.

She disregarded the many questions that several of the girls came
upstairs to ask her. She packed up her things as a preliminary to
leaving "Dawes'" for good. For many hours she paced the streets,
heedless of where her steps led her, her heart seemingly breaking with
rage and shame at the insults to which she had been subjected.

About eight, she felt utterly exhausted, and turned into the first shop
where she could get refreshment.

This was a confectioner's. The tea and dry biscuits she ordered enabled
her to marshal her distracted thoughts into something approaching
coherence; she realised that, as she was not going back to "Dawes',"
she must find a roof for the night.

She had several times called on her old friend Mrs Ellis; she decided
to make for her house. She asked her way to the nearest station, which
was Notting Hill; here she took a ticket to Hammersmith and then walked
to Kiva Street, where she knocked at the familiar door. A
powerful-looking man in corduroy trousers and shirt sleeves opened it.

"Mrs Ellis?" asked Mavis.

"'Orspital."

"I'm very sorry. What's the matter with her?"

"Werry bad."

"I wanted rooms. I used to lodge here."

At this piece of information the man made as if he would close the door.

"Can you tell me where I can get a room for the night?" asked Mavis.

The man by way of reply muttered something about the lady at the end of
the row wanting a lodger.

"Which hospital is Mrs Ellis at?" asked Mavis.

By way of reply, the door was slammed in her face. Mavis dragged her
weary limbs to the end house in the row, where, in reply to her knock,
a tall, pasty-faced, crossed-eyed woman, who carried an empty jug,
answered the door.

"I thought you was Mrs Bonus," remarked the woman.

"I want a room for the night. I used to lodge with Mrs Ellis at number
20."

"Did yer? There! I do know yer face. Come inside."

Mavis followed the landlady into a faded and formal little
sitting-room, where the latter sat wearily in a chair, still clasping
her jug.

"Can I have a room?" asked Mavis.

"I think so. My name's Bilkins."

"Mine is Keeves."

"That's a funny name. I 'ope you ain't married."

"No."

"It's only fools who get married. You jest hear what Mrs Bonus says."

"I'm very tired," said Mavis. "Can you give me anything to eat?"

"I've nothing in the 'ouse, but I'll get you something when I go out.
And, if Mrs Bonus comes, ask her to wait, an' say I've jes gone out to
get a little Jacky."

Mavis waited in the dark room of the deserted house. Had she not been
tired and heartsick, she would have been amused at this strange
experience. A quarter of an hour passed without anyone calling, when
she heard the sound of a key in the latch, and Mrs Bilkins returned.

"No Mrs Bonus?"

"No one's been."

"It isn't her washing day neither, though it would be late for a lady
like 'er to be out all alone. Drink this."

"But it's stout," said Mavis, as Mrs Bilkins lit the gas.

"I call it jacky. A glass will do you good."

Mavis drank some of the liquor and certainly felt the better for it.

"I bought you a quarter of German," declared Mrs Bilkins, as she
enrolled a paper parcel.

"You mean German sausage," said Mavis, as she caught sight of the
mottled meat, a commodity which her old friend Mr Siggers sold.

"I always call it German," remarked Mrs Bilkins, a trifle huffily.

"But what am I to eat it on?"

"That is funny. I'm always forgetting," said Mrs Bilkins, as she faded
from the room.

After some time, she came back with a coarse cloth, a thick plate, a
wooden-handled knife, together with a fork made of some pliant
material; these she put before Mavis.

The coarse food and more of the stout put fresh heart into the girl.
She got a room from Mrs Bilkins for six shillings a week, on the
understanding that she did not give much trouble.

"There's only one thing. I suppose you have a bath of some sort?" said
Mavis.

"That is funny," said Mrs Bilkins. "I've never been asked such a thing
in my life."

"Don't you wash?"

"In penny pieces; a bit at a time."

"But never all over, properly?"

"You are funny. Why, three years ago, I had the rheumatics; then I was
covered all over with flannel. Now I don't know which is flannel and
which is skin."

It was arranged, however, that, if Mrs Bilkins could not borrow a bath
from a neighbour in the morning, she would bring Mavis her washing-tin,
which would answer the same purpose. Mavis slept soundly in a fairly
clean room, her wanderings after leaving "Dawes'" having tired her out.

The next morning she came down to a breakfast of which the tea was
smoked and her solitary egg was scarcely warm; when she opened this
latter, the yolk successfully eluded the efforts of her spoon to get it
out. It may be said at once that this meal was a piece with the entire
conduct of Mrs Bilkins's house, she being a unit in the vast army of
incapable, stupid women who, sooner or later, drift into the letting of
lodgings as a means of livelihood. After breakfast, Mavis wrote to
"Dawes'," requesting that her boxes might be sent to her present
address. Now that the sun of cold reason, which reaches its zenith in
the early morning, illumined the crowded events of yesterday, Mavis was
concerned for the consequences of the violence she had offered Orgles.
Her faith in human justice had been much disturbed; she feared that
Orgles, moved with a desire for vengeance, would represent her as the
aggressor, himself as the victim of an unprovoked assault: any moment
she feared to find herself in the clutches of the law. She was too
dispirited to look for work; to ease the tension in her mind, she tried
to discover what had become of Mrs Ellis, but without success.

About five, two letters came for her, one of these being, as the
envelope told her, from "Dawes'." She fearfully opened it. To her great
surprise, the letter regretted the firm's inability to continue her
temporary engagement; it enclosed a month's salary in place of the
usual notice, together with the money due to her for her present
month's services; it concluded by stating that her conduct had given
great satisfaction to the firm, and that it would gladly give her
further testimonials should she be in want of these to secure another
place.

Mavis could hardly believe her good fortune; she read and re-read the
letter; she gratefully scanned the writing on the cheque. The other
letter attracted her attention, which proved to be from Miss Meakin.
This told her that, if Mavis could play the piano and wanted temporary
work, she could get this by at once applying at "Poulter's" Dancing
Academy in Devonport Road, Shepherd's Bush, which Miss Meakin attended;
it also said that the writer would be at the academy soon after nine,
when she would tell Mavis how she had found her address. Mavis put on
her hat and cloak with a light heart. The fact of escaping from the
debasing drudgery of "Dawes'," of being the possessor of a cheque for
L2. 12S., the prospect of securing work, if only of a temporary nature,
made her forget her loneliness and her previous struggles to wrest a
pittance from a world indifferent to her needs. After all, there was
One who cared: the contents of the two letters which she had just
received proved that; the cheque and promise of employment were in the
nature of compensation for the hurt to her pride which she had suffered
yesterday at Orgles's hands. She thought her sudden good fortune
justified a trifling extravagance; she had no fancy for Mrs Bilkins's
smoked tea, so she turned into the first teashop she came to, where she
revelled in scrambled eggs, strong tea, bread, butter, and jam. She ate
these unaccustomed delicacies slowly, deliberately, hugely enjoying the
savour of each mouthful. She then walked in the direction of Shepherd's
Bush.

The garish vulgarity of the Goldhawk Road, along which a procession of
electric trams rushed and whizzed, took away her breath. Devonport
Road, in which she was to find the academy, was such a quiet, retiring
little turning that Mavis could hardly believe it joined a noisy
thoroughfare like the Goldhawk Road. "Poulter's" Dancing Academy took
some finding; she had no number to guide her, so she asked the two or
three people she met if they could direct her to this institution, but
not one of them appeared to know anything about it. She walked along
the road, keeping a sharp look-out on either side for door plate or
lamp, which she believed was commonly the out-ward and visible sign of
the establishment she sought. A semicircle of brightly illuminated
coloured glass, placed above an entrance gate, attracted her, but
nearer inspection proved this to be an advertisement of "painless
dentistry."

Further down the road, a gaily coloured lamp caught her eye, the
lettering on which read "Gellybrand's Select Dancing Academy. Terms to
suit all pockets. Inquire within." Mavis was certain that the name of
which she was in search was none other than Poulter: she looked about
her and wondered if it were possible for such a down-at-heel
neighbourhood to support more than one dancing academy. The glow of a
light in an open doorway on the other side of the way next attracted
her. She crossed, to find this light came from a lamp which was held
aloft by a draped female statue standing just inside the door: beyond
the statue was another door, the upper part of which was of glass, the
lower of wood. Written upon the glass in staring gilt letters was the
name "Poulter's."

Mavis walked up the steps to the front door. Her heart sank as she
noticed that the plaster had worn away and was broken from various
parts of the house, which had a shabby and dilapidated appearance.
Mavis set going a bell, which could be heard faint-heartedly tinkling
in the distance; she employed the time that she was kept waiting in
examining the statue. This was as depressing as the house: its smile
was cracked in the middle; a rude boy had reddened the lady's nose; its
dress cried aloud for some kindly disposed person to give it a fresh
coat of paint. Presently, a drab of a little servant opened the inner
door.

"'Pectus?" said the girl, directly she caught sight of Mavis.

"I want to see Mr Poulter."

"Not a 'pectus?"

Mavis repeated her request.

"Come insoide. 'E's 'avin' 'is tea."

Mavis followed the drab along a passage: at the end of this was a door,
above which was inscribed "Ladies' Cloak Room."

Opening this, the drab said mechanically:

"Walk insoide. What nime?"

"Miss Keeves. I've come from Miss Meakin."

Mavis walked inside, to find herself in a smallish room, the walls of
which were decorated with rows of hooks, beneath each of which was a
number printed in large type. There were a cracked toilette glass, a
few rickety chairs, a heavy smell of stale toilet powder, and little
else. A few moments later, a little, shrivelled-up, elderly woman
walked into the room with a slight hobble. Mavis noticed her narrow,
stooping shoulders, which, although the weather was warm, were covered
by a shawl; her long upper lip; her snub nose; also that she wore her
right arm in a sling.

"Was you waiting to see Mr Poulter particular?" she asked.

"I was rather."

"'E's 'avin' 'is tea, and--and you know what these artists are at
meal-time," said the little woman confidentially.

"I'm in no hurry. I can easily wait," said Mavis.

"Was you come about 'privates'?" asked the little woman wistfully.

"Privates?"

"I mean private lessons. 'Poulter's' always calls 'em 'privates.'"

"I heard you were in want of an accompanist. I came to offer my
services."

"It won't be for long; my fingers is nearly healed of the chilblains."

"Anything is better than nothing," remarked Mavis.

"Would you mind if I heard you play?"

"Not at all."

"My word might go some way with Mr Poulter. See?" said the little woman
confidentially.

"It's very good of you," remarked Mavis, who was beginning to like the
little, shrivelled-up old thing.

The woman with the chilblains led the way to a door in a corner of the
cloak-room, which Mavis had not noticed before. Mavis followed her down
an inclined, boarded-in gangway, decorated with coloured presentation
plates from long forgotten Christmas numbers of popular weeklies, to
the ballroom, which was a portable iron building erected in the back
garden of the academy. At the further end was a platform, which
supported a forlorn-looking piano.

"Be careful not to slip," said Mavis's conductor.

"Thank you, I won't," replied Mavis, who was not in the least danger of
losing her foothold.

"'E invented it."

"Invented what?"

"This floor wax. It's Poulter's patent," the little woman reverently
informed Mavis.

"He must be rather clever!"

"Rather clever! It's plain you've never met 'im."

Mavis sat down to the piano, but did not do herself justice over the
first waltz she played, owing to the faultiness of the instrument. As
with many other old pianos, the keys were small; also, the treble was
weak and three notes were broken in the bass.

"Try again!" said the little woman dubiously.

By this time, Mavis had mastered the piano's peculiarities; she played
her second waltz resonantly, rhythmically.

"I think you're up to 'Poulter's,'" said the little woman critically,
when Mavis had finished. "And what about terms?"

"What about them?" asked Mavis pleasantly.

"It's a great honour being connected with 'Poulter's,'" the little
woman hazarded.

"No doubt."

"And what with the undercutting and all, on the part of those who ought
to know better, it makes it 'ard to make both ends meet."

"I'm sure it does."

"But there! We'll leave it to Mr Poulter."

"That's the best thing to do."

"I'll see if Mr Poulter's finished 'is tea."

Mavis followed the woman across the ballroom, and back to the
cloak-room, where she was left alone for quite five minutes. Then the
little woman put her head into the room to say:

"Mr Poulter won't be many minutes now. 'E's come to the cake," at which
Mavis smiled as she said:

"I can wait any time."

Mavis already quite liked the odd little woman. She waited some minutes
longer, till at last her friend excitedly re-entered to say, in the
manner of one conveying information of much moment:

"Mr Poulter is reelly coming on purpose to see you."

Mavis nerved herself for the ordeal of meeting the dancing-master.




CHAPTER TEN

"POULTER'S"


When, a few moments later, Mr Poulter came into the room, his
appearance surprised Mavis. She expected and braced herself to
interview a person with greasy, flowing locks and theatrical manners;
instead, she saw a well-preserved old man with one of the finest faces
she had ever seen. He had a ruddy complexion, soft, kindly blue eyes,
and a noble head covered with snow-white hair. His presence seemed to
infect the coarsely scented air of the room with an atmosphere of
refinement and unaffected kindliness. He was shabbily dressed. Directly
Mavis saw him, she longed to throw her arms about his neck, to kiss him
on the forehead.

He bowed to Mavis before saying:

"Have you 'ad your tea?"

"Yes, thank you," she replied.

"Miss Nippett has told me of your errand."

"She has also heard me play."

"It is now only a question of terms," said Mr Poulter gently.

"Quite so."

"The last wish of 'Poulter's' is to appear ungenerous, but, with
remorseless competition in the Bush," here Mr Poulter's kindly face
hardened, "everyone suffers."

"The Bush?" queried Mavis.

"Shepherd's Bush," explained Poulter. "Many of 'Poulter's' clients, who
are behindhand with their cheques for family tuition, have made payment
with the commodities which they happen to retail," remarked Poulter.
"Assuming that you were willing, you might care to take whole or part
payment in some of these."

Mavis was sorry, but money was a necessity to her.

"I quite understand," said Poulter sympathetically. "On 'Ordinary
Days,' 'Poulter's' would require you from eleven in the morning till--"
Here he turned inquiringly to Miss Nippett.

"Carriages at ten thirty," put in Miss Nippett promptly.

"Yes, carriages at ten thirty," repeated Mr Poulter, who took a simple
enjoyment in the reference to the association of vehicles, however
imaginary, with the academy.

"And on 'Third Saturdays'?" said Poulter, as he again turned to Miss
Nippett, as if seeking information.

"Special and Select Assembly at the Athenaeum, including the Godolphin
String Band and light refreshments," declared Miss Nippett.

"Ah! carriages at twelve," said Mr Poulter with relish. "That means
your getting home very late."

"I don't mind. I don't live far from here. I can walk."

It was ultimately arranged that Mavis should be supplied with dinner,
tea, and supper, and receive a shilling a day for five days of the
week; on Saturdays, in consideration of her staying late, she was to
get an extra shilling.

Mention was made with some pride of infrequent "Long Nights," which
were also held at the Athenaeum, when dancing was kept up till three in
the morning; but, as Miss Nippett's chilblains would probably be cured
long before the date fixed for the next Terpsichorean Festival, as
these special dances were called, no arrangement was made in respect of
these.

"It is usual for 'Poulter's' to ask for references," declared Mr
Poulter. "But needless to say that one who has pioneered 'Poulter's'
into the forefront of such institutions can read character at a glance."

Mavis thanked him for his confidence, but said that she could supply
him with testimonials from her last two employers. Mr Poulter would not
dream of troubling her, and asked Mavis if she could commence her
duties on that evening. Upon Mavis saying that she could, Mr Poulter
looked at his watch and said:

"It still wants an hour till 'Poulter's' evening classes commence. As
you've joined 'Poulter's' staff, it might be as well if you shared one
of the privileges of your position."

This particular privilege consisted of Mavis's being taken downstairs
to Mr Poulter's private sitting-room. This was a homely apartment
furnished with much-worn horsehair furniture, together with many framed
and unframed flashlight photographs of various "Terpsichorean
Festivals," in all of which, conspicuous in the foreground, was Mr
Poulter, wearing a big white rosette on the lapel of his evening coat.

"Smoke if you want to, won't you?" said Mavis.

"Thank you," replied Mr Poulter, "but I only smoke after 'Poulter's' is
closed. It might give 'Poulter's' a bad reputation if the young lady
pupils went 'ome smelling of smoke."

"'E thinks of everything," declared Miss Nippett admiringly.

"'Poulter's' is not deficient in worldly wisdom," remarked the
dancing-master with subdued pride.

"I'm sure of that," said Mavis hypocritically, as she looked at the
simple face of the kindly old man.

"Suppose we have a game of cards," suggested Mr Poulter presently.

"Promise you won't cheat," said Mavis.

Mr Poulter laughed uneasily before saying:

"'Poulter's' would not occupy its present position if it were not for
its straightforward dealing. What shall we play?"

Mavis, feeling light-hearted, was on the point of saying "Snap," but
feared that the fact of her suggesting such a frivolous game might set
her down as an improper person in the eyes of "Poulter's."

"Do you know 'Casino'?" asked Mr Poulter.

"I'm afraid I don't," replied Mavis.

"A grand old game; we must teach you another time. What do you say to
'Old Maid'?"

They played "Old Maid" deliberately, solemnly. After a time, Mavis had
a strong suspicion that Miss Nippett was cheating in order that Mr
Poulter might win; also, that Mr Poulter was manoeuvring the cards so
that Mavis might not be declared "old maid."

This belief was strengthened when Mavis heard Miss Nippett say to Mr
Poulter, at the close of the game:

"She ought to 'ave been 'old maid.'"

"I know, I know," replied Mr Poulter. "But I want her first evening at
'Poulter's' to be quite 'appy and 'omelike."

"Did you easily find 'Poulter's'?" asked Mr Poulter presently of Mavis.

"I had no number, so I had to ask," she replied.

"Then, of course, you were directed at once," suggested Mr Poulter
eagerly.

Mavis's consideration for the old man's feelings was such that she
thought a fib was justified.

"Yes," she said.

Mr Poulter's eyes lit with happiness.

"That's the advantage of being connected with 'Poulter's,'" he said.
"You'll find it a great help to you as you make your way in the world."

"I'm sure of it," remarked Mavis, with all the conviction she could
muster. After a few moments' silence, she said:

"There's another dancing academy on the other side of the road."

Mavis was surprised to see Mr Poulter's gentle expression at once
change to a look of intense anger.

"Gellybrand's! Gellybrand's! The scoundrel!" cried Mr Poulter, as he
thumped his fist upon the table.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know," said Mavis.

"What? You haven't heard of the rivalry between mushroom Gellybrand's
and old-established 'Poulter's'?" exclaimed Mr Poulter.

Mavis did not know what to say.

"Some people is ignorant!" commented Miss Nippett at her silence.

"Gellybrand is the greatest scoundrel and blackleg in the history of
dancing," continued Poulter. Then, as if to clinch the matter, he
added, "Poulter's 'Special and Select' is two shillings, with carriages
at eleven. Gellybrand's is one and six, with c

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