"Goes what?"
"Goes to blazes, then, as it should."
"As it should," echoed Mavis.
"Dear little Mavis!" smiled Windebank, "But it's big Mavis now."
He called the waiter, to give him a note with which to pay the bill.
"What wicked waste!" remarked Mavis in an undertone.
"When it's been time spent with you?"
When the bill and the change were brought, Windebank would not look at either.
"How can you be so extravagant?" she murmured.
"When one's with you, it's a crime to think of anything else."
"What a good thing I'm leaving you!" she laughed.
He insisted on getting and helping her into her coat. As she put her arms into the sleeves, he murmured:
"Where did you get your hair?"
"Do try and talk sense," she pleaded, not insensible to the man's ardent admiration.
Then, with something like a sigh, she left the warmth and comfort of the restaurant for the bleakness of the street, on which a thick fog had descended.
This enveloped the man and the woman. As they stood on the pavement, it seemed to cut them off from the rest of the world.
"Will you let me drive you home?"
"No, thank you."
"Then you must let me walk with you."
"There's no necessity."
"I insist. London, at this time of night, isn't the place for a plain little girl like Mavis."
"Now you're talking sense."
"I wish I thought it," he remarked bitterly.
He paid the cabman and piloted Mavis through the fog to the other side of Regent Street; they then made for Piccadilly.
"Am I going right?" he asked.
"At present," she replied, to ask, after a moment or two, "Why are you so extravagant?"
"I'm not."
"That supper and keeping that cab waiting! It must have run into pounds."
"Eh! What if it did?"
"It's wicked. Just think of the good you could have done with it."
"Good? Who to?" he asked blankly.
"You've only to look about you. Don't you know of all the misery there is in the world?"
"To tell you the truth, I've never thought very much about it."
"Then you ought to."
"You think so?"
"Most certainly."
"Then I'll have to."
They were now in Piccadilly. The pavement on which they walked was crowded with women of all ages; some walked in pairs, others, singly. Whatever their age and appearance, all these women had two qualities in common—artificial complexions and bold, inviting eyes. It was the nightly market of the women of the town. This mart has much in common with any other market existing for the buying or selling of staple commodities. Amongst this assembly of women of all ages and conditions (many of whom were married), there were regular frequenters, who had been there almost from time immemorial; occasional dabblers; chance hucksterers: most were there compelled by the supreme necessity of earning a living; others displayed their wares in order to provide luxuries; whilst a few were present merely for the fun of an infrequent bargain. As at other marts, there were those who represented the interests of sellers, and extracted a commission for their pains on all sales effected by their principals. Also, most of the chaffering was negotiated over drink, to obtain which adjournment was made to the handiest bar.
This exchange was as subject to economic laws as ruthlessly as are all other markets. There were fat times, when money was plentiful; lean nights, when buyers were scarce or sellers suffered from over-supply. To complete the resemblance, this mart was sensibly affected by world events, political happenings, the robustness or weakness of other markets of industry.
Men of all ages swarmed on the pavement; some were buyers, others were attracted by the fun of the fair. The family parties which were occasionally to be met with, as they scurried home to remote suburbs, seemed sadly out of place in this seething collection of vicious men and women.
An over-dressed black woman was there, as if to prove, if proof were needed, the universality of sin.
As the procession of painted faces loomed out of the fog, it seemed to Mavis as if they were lost souls in the spume of the pit.
She drew closer to the man at her side. London, life itself, seemed to the girl's jangled nerves to be a concentrated horror, from which, so it now appeared, the man beside her was her only safeguard. He had certainly insulted her, she reflected; but his conduct was, perhaps, excusable under the circumstances in which he had found her. Directly he had learned his mistake, he had rescued her from further contact with infamy, and had been gentle with her. In return, she had been scarcely civil to him, and had told him a lie when he had asked her if she were his old playmate.
As she walked with him, she bitterly reproached herself for her falsehood; she also tried to hide from herself that her rudeness had been largely assumed in order to conceal her growing regard for him. It would seem another world when he was not at her side to protect her from possible harm.
As they passed Burlington House, a beggar whined his tale of woe in their ears. Mavis saw Windebank give the man something, the handsomeness of which made the recipient open his eyes. A flower-seller, who had witnessed the generous act, immediately pestered Windebank to buy of her wares, an example at once followed by others of her calling. He gave them all money, at which some of them forced their wired flowers upon him, whilst others overwhelmed him with thanks.
"Don't thank me," he protested, as he glanced towards Mavis, who was the recipient of countless blessings, mechanically uttered.
Beggars and loafers, with their keen scent for prey, were about him in less time than it takes to tell. He gave largely, generously; he was soon the centre of a struggling, unsavoury crowd, which was growing larger every minute.
"Whatever are you doing?" protested Mavis.
"Wasn't it your wish?" he asked.
"Not this. Please, please get me out and away."
The next moment, Windebank, dragging Mavis after him, was vigorously making a passage through those who surrounded them. Once he saw his way clear, he ran forward, still keeping hold of her, and dragged her up Bond Street. They were still followed by the more persistent of the loafers, but a friendly policeman came to their aid, enabling them to pursue their unmolested way down Piccadilly.
"It is good of you to let me stay with you all this time," he said presently.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"I'll see. Why, I've lost my watch!"
"Not really?"
"I suppose it was stolen just now."
"Stolen?"
"Yes, you can see where the chain is snapped."
"Can't we do something?"
"What's the use?"
"But it must be got back. If it isn't, I shall feel it's all my doing."
"How can that be? Don't talk rot."
"I talked you into giving money away, and—"
"If you say any more, I'll be very angry," he interrupted. "What's a watch!"
Although she made no further reference to the matter, she thought the more of the loss he had sustained, which was owing to the representations she had made upon his duty to the needy. His indifference to the theft of his property the more inclined her in his favour.
As they walked, he was full of kindly anxiety for her present and future welfare. His ardent sincerity filled her with self-reproaches, the while he continued to express concern for her well-being. Presently, when they were passing St George's Hospital, she said:
"I wish you wouldn't talk so much about myself."
"It's so interesting," he pleaded.
"Why not talk more about yourself?"
"Never mind me."
"But I do. What on earth time will you get to bed?"
"Any time. It doesn't matter."
"Won't you be tired in the morning?"
"I shouldn't notice. I should be thinking of you."
"Nonsense; you'll be thinking about breakfast. Where do you sleep?"
"When I'm up like this, at a hotel in Jermyn Street."
"Are you comfortable there?"
"I only sleep there. I breakfast at the club."
"Where's that?"
"We passed it on the way down."
"How you must have wanted to get away! Your coat's undone."
"What of it?"
"Do it up."
"But—"
"You'll take cold. Do it up or I'll leave you at once."
"Don't be so considerate," he said, as he obeyed her behest. "It isn't kind."
"Why not?"
"It makes me fonder—I mean like you ever so much."
When they reached Sloane Street, he remarked:
"Do let me drive you. It's a shame to make you walk. You must be quite tired out."
"I'll leave you and get a 'bus," she replied.
"And you won't give me your address?"
"No."
Although heavily laden 'buses were constantly passing, she made no pretence of stopping one; not because she had no money: she had forgotten for the time being that she was penniless. Her mind was a welter of emotion. She regretted her sudden tenderness in the matter of his unbuttoned overcoat; she reproached herself for not leaving him directly she had got away from Mrs Hamilton's; she knew she would never forgive him for having insulted her; the fact of his having kissed her lips seemed in some mysterious way to bind them together; she hated herself for having denied that she was Mavis Keeves. The many leanings of her mind struggled for precedence; very soon, concern for the lie that she had told the man, who it was now evident wished her well, possessed her to the exclusion of all else. She suffered tortures of self-reproach, which became all but unendurable.
Windebank, who had been walking between her and the curb, suddenly moved so that she was on the outside.
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"The wind. Little Mavis might take cold."
She could bear it no longer.
"Stop!" she cried.
He looked at her in surprise.
"I've something to tell you. I can't go on like this."
"What is it?" he asked, all concern.
"When you know, you'll never forgive me. I lied to you."
"Lied?"
"Yes, lied, lied, lied. But I can't let it go on. I hate myself for doing it. Why was I so wicked?"
"Give it up."
"My name. I told you a lie about it."
"Is that all?"
"Isn't that enough? I am Mavis Keeves. I am—"
"What?" he interrupted.
"I didn't like to confess it before. Don't, please don't think very badly of me."
"YOU—little Mavis after all?"
"Yes," she answered softly.
"What wonderful, wonderful luck! I can't believe it even now. You little Mavis! How did it all come about?"
"It's simple enough."
"Simple!" He laughed excitedly. "You call it simple?"
"Let me tell you. I was very miserable to-day and I prayed and—and—"
She could say no more; her overcharged feelings were such that they got the better of her self-control. Careless of what he might think, she leaned against him, as if for protection—leaned against him to weep bitter-sweet, unrestrained tears upon his shoulder.
"Poor little girl! Poor little Mavis!" he murmured.
The remark reinforced her tears.
The fog again enveloped them and seemed to cut them off from the observation of passers-by. It was as if their tenderness for each other had found an oasis in the wilderness of London's heartlessness.
Mavis wept unrestrainedly, contentedly, as if secure or sympathetic understanding. Although he spoke, she gave small heed to his words. She revelled in the unaccustomed luxury of friendship expressed by a man for whom she, already, had something in the nature of an affectionate regard.
Presently, when she became calmer, she gave more attention to what he was saying.
"You must give me your address and I'll write to my people at once," he said. "The mater will be no end of glad to see you again, and you must come down. I'll be down often and—and—Oh, little Mavis, won't it be wonderful, if all our lives we were to bless the day we met again?"
Although her sobs had ceased, she did not reply.
Two obsessions occupied her thoughts: one was an instinct of abasement before the man who had such a tender concern for her future; the other, a fierce pride, which revolted at the thought of her being under a possibly lifelong obligation to the man with whom, in the far-off days of her childhood, she had been on terms of economic equality. He produced his handkerchief and gently wiped her eyes. She did not know whether to be grateful for, or enraged at, this attention. The two conflicting emotions surged within her; their impulsion was a cause which threatened to exert a common effect, inasmuch as they urged her to leave Windebank.
This sentiment was strengthened by the reflection that she was unworthy of his regard. She had, of set purpose, lied to him, denied that she was the friend of his early youth. True, he had previously insulted her, but, considering the circumstances, he had every excuse for his behaviour. He certainly led a fast life, but, if anything, Mavis the more admired him for this symptom of virility; she also dimly believed that such conduct qualified him to win a wife who, in every respect, was above reproach. She was poor and friendless, she again reflected. Above all, she had lied to him. She was hopelessly unworthy of one who, in obedience to the sentimental whim she had inspired, seemed contemptuous of his future. She would be worse than she already was, if she countenanced a course of action full of such baleful possibilities for himself. Almost before she knew what she was doing, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, and snatched the violets he was wearing in his coat, before slipping away, to lose herself in the fog.
Mavis heard him calling her name, first one way, then another; once, he approached and came quite near her, but he changed his direction, to pass immediately out of her ken.
She then hurried in the direction of what she believed to be Hammersmith; she could not know for certain, as the fog increased in intensity every minute. Her mind was too confused to ask anyone if she were going the right way, even if she had cared to know, which, at present, she did not. She was seized with a passion for movement, anything to distract her mind from the emotions possessing it. One moment, she blamed herself for having left Windebank as she had done; the next, she told herself and tried hard to believe that she had done the best conceivable thing under the circumstances.
She walked quickly, careless to where her footsteps led her, as if hurrying from, or to Windebank's side; she was not certain which she desired. She had walked for quite twenty minutes when she was brought up short by a blow on the forehead. Light flashed in her eyes; she put out her arms to save herself from a fall. She had walked into a tree, contact with which had bruised her face and torn skin from her forehead. Pain and dizziness brought her to the realisation of the fact that it was late, and that she was penniless; also, that she was unaware of her whereabouts. She resolved to get back to her lodging with as little delay as possible. She groped about, hoping to find someone who would tell her where she was and direct her to Kiva Street. After some minutes, she all but walked into a policeman, who told her how she was near the King's Road, Chelsea, also how to get to her destination. She hastened on, doing her utmost to follow his directions. This was not easy, the fog and the pain in her head both confusing her steps. Once or twice, she was almost overcome by faintness; then, she was compelled to cling to railings for support until she had strength to continue her way.
There came a time when her legs refused to carry her further; her head throbbed violently; a dark veil seemed to gradually blot out things as she knew them. She remembered no more.
When next she became dimly conscious, she seemed to be in a recumbent position in a strange room, where she was watching the doings of a woman who was unknown to her.
When Mavis first set eyes on this person, she appeared to be a decent, comely, fair-haired, youngish woman, who was dressed in the becoming black of one who had recently emerged from the mourning of widowhood. But as Mavis watched the woman, a startling transformation took place before her eyes. The woman began by removing her gloves and bonnet before a dressing glass, which was kept in position by a mangy hair brush thrust between the frame and its supports. Then, to the girl's wondering astonishment, the woman unpinned and took off her fair curls, revealing a mop of tangled, frowsy, colourless hair, which the wig had concealed. Next, she removed her sober, well-cut costume, also, her silk underskirt, to put on a much worn, greasy dressing-gown. Then, she pulled off her pretty shoes and silk stockings, to thrust her feet into worn slippers, through which her naked toes showed in more than one place.
Mavis rubbed her eyes; she expected every moment to find herself again in the street, clinging to the railings for support, at which moment of returning sense she would know that what she was now witnessing would prove to be an effect of her disordered imagination.
If what she saw were the result of a sick brain, it was a convincing, consistent picture which fascinated her attention.
The woman had taken up a not over-clean towel, to dip a corner of it in a jug upon the washstand before applying it to one side of her face. Mavis suffered her eyes to leave the woman in order to wander round the room. She was lying on a sofa at the foot of an iron bed. That part of the wall nearest to her was filled by the fireplace, in which a cheerful fire was burning; it looked as if it had recently been made up. Upon the mantelshelf were faded photographs of common, self-conscious people, the tops of which all but touched a framed print of the late Mr Gladstone. In the complementary recess to the one in which the washstand stood, was a table littered with odds and ends of food, some of which were still wrapped in the paper in which they had come from the shop. A smoking oil lamp, of which the glass shade had disappeared, and which was now shaded with the lid of a cardboard shoe box, cast elongated shadows of the occupier of the room on walls and ceiling as she moved. The atmosphere of the room was heavy with the mingled smell of paraffin oil and fugginess.
"Where—where am I?" asked Mavis.
"You've come round, then?" said the woman, who had just cleansed one side of her face of artificial complexion.
"How did I get here?"
"I found you outside as I came 'ome. I couldn't very well leave you like that."
"You're very kind."
"'Elp that you may be 'elped is my motto. An' then you didn't smell of drink. I wouldn't 'ave took you in if you had. Girls who're 'on the game' who drink ought to know better, and don't deserve sympathy."
Mavis stared at her wide-eyed, striving to recalled where she had heard that expression before, also what it meant.
"You sit quiet, dear; you'll be better directly," said the woman. "I've got to wash this stuff off. Beastly nuisance, but, if you don't, it stains the sheets and pillers, as I daresay you know."
Had Mavis possessed sufficient strength she would have combated this suggestion; it was as much as she could do to concentrate her wandering attention on the doings of the woman who had played good Samaritan in her extremity.
Mavis saw her cleanse the other side of her face and remove two false teeth from her mouth, actions which completed the transformation from that of a comely, interesting-looking, youngish woman to that of an elderly, extremely commonplace person with foxy, shifty eyes.
"Now I'm 'done.' I never feel reely at home till I get into my shirt sleeves, as you might say," remarked the woman.
Mavis sat up.
"'Ave a drink?" asked her benefactor.
"No, thank you."
"I don't mind a drop out of business hours, when I feel I've earned it, as you might say. I've got a quartern in a bottle. If I'd expected visitors, I'd have got more, but I'll go 'alves."
"No, thank you," repeated Mavis.
"Ah! Don't mind if I do?" said the woman, in the manner of one relieved of the possibility of parting with something that she would prefer to keep.
"Not at all."
The woman heated some water in a tin kettle, before mixing herself hot gin and water in a tooth glass, the edge of which was smudged with tooth powder.
"Smoke?"
"I do, sometimes," replied Mavis.
"Have a fag? A gentleman brought me these to-night."
Mavis somewhat reluctantly took and lit a cigarette. The woman did likewise, sipped her grog, and then brought a chair in order that she might sit by Mavis.
"What might your name be?"
"Keeves," answered Mavis shortly.
"Mine's Ewer—'Tilda Ewer. Miss, thank Gawd."
"You wear a wedding ring."
"Eh! That's business. And 'ow did you come to be overtook outside this 'ouse?"
"I walked far and was very tired."
"Rats!"
"I beg your pardon."
"Don't tell me. 'Ad a row with your boy, an' 'e biffed you on the 'ead. That's nearer the truth. And that's the worst of gentlemen in drink; but then, at other times, they're generous enough when they're in liquor, and don't mind if you help yourself to any spare cash they may 'appen to 'ave about them. It's as long as it's broad."
"You're quite wrong in thinking—" began Mavis.
"Don't come the toff with me," interrupted the woman. "If you was a reel young lady, you wouldn't be out on such a night, and alone. So don't tell me. I ain't lived forty—twenty-six years for nothink."
Mavis did not think it worth while to argue the point.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"'Alf-past two. I suppose I shall 'ave to keep you till the morning."
"I'll go directly. I can knock my landlady up."
"She's one of the right sort, eh? Ask no questions, but stick it on the rent!"
"If my head wasn't so bad, I'd go at once," remarked Mavis, who liked Miss Ewer less and less.
The woman took no notice of Mavis' ungracious speech: she was staring hard at Mavis' shoes.
"Fancy wearin' that lovely dress with them tuppenny shoes!" cried Miss Ewer suddenly.
"They are rather worn."
"Oh, you young fool! Beginner, I s'pose."
"I beg your pardon."
"Must be. No one else could be such a fool. Don't you know the gentlemen is most particular about underclothes, stockings and shoes?"
"It's a matter of utter indifference to me what the 'gentlemen' think," said Mavis with conviction.
"Go on!"
"Very well, if you don't believe me, you needn't."
"Here, I say, what are you?" asked Miss Ewer. "Tell me, and then we'll know where we stand."
"Tell you what?"
"Are you a naughty girl or a straight girl?"
"What do you mean?"
"Straight girls is them as only takes presents like silk stockings an' gloves from the gentlemen, like them girls in 'Dawes'."
"Girls in 'Dawes'!" echoed Mavis.
"They do a lot of 'arm; but yet you can't blame 'em: gentlemen will pay for anything rather than plank money down to them naughty girls as live by it."
"While I'm here, do you mind talking about something else?" asked Mavis angrily.
"I 'ave it. I 'ave it," cried Miss Ewer triumphantly. "You're one of the lucky ones. You're kep'."
"I beg your pardon."
"And good luck to you. Don't drink, keep him loving and generous, and put by for a rainy day, my dear: an' good luck to you."
"I'm well enough to go now," said Mavis, as she rose with something of an effort.
"Eh!"
"Thank you very much. Would you kindly show me the way out?"
"You've forgotten something, ain't yer?"
"What?"
"A little present for me."
"I've no money on me: really I haven't."
"Go on!"
"See!" cried Mavis, as she turned out the pockets of her cloak.
To her great surprise, many gold coins rolled on to the floor.
"Gawd in 'Eaven!" cried Miss Ewer, as she stooped to pick them up.
Mavis wondered how they had got there, till it occurred to her how Windebank, pitying her poverty, must have taken the opportunity of putting the money in her pocket when he insisted upon getting and helping her into her coat at the restaurant.
She at once told herself that she could not touch a penny piece of it, indeed the touch of it would seem as if it burnt her fingers. Her present concern was to get away as far from the money as possible.
"'Ow much can I 'ave?" cried Miss Ewer, who was on her knees greedily picking up the coins.
"All."
"All? Gawd's trewth!"
"Every bit. Only let me go; at once."
"'Ere, if you're so generous, ain't you got no more?" said Miss Ewer, the while her eyes shone greedily.
"I'll see," said Mavis, as she thoroughly turned out her pockets.
Another gold piece fell out; also, a bunch of violets.
"Vilets!" laughed Miss Ewer.
"Don't touch those. No one else shall have them," cried Mavis, as she wildly snatched them.
"You're welcome to that rubbage, and as you've given me all this, in return I'll give you a tip as is worth a king's money box."
"You needn't bother."
"You shall 'ave it. I've never told a soul. It's 'ow you can earn a living on the streets like me, and keep, like me, as good a maid as any lady married at St George's, 'Anover Square."
"Thank you, but—".
"Listen; listen; listen! It's dress quiet, pick up soft-looking gents, refuse drink, and pitch 'em a Sunday school yarn," said Miss Ewer impressively.
"But—".
"It's four pound a week I'm giving away. Tell 'em it's the first time you're going wrong; talk about your dead 'usband in 'is grave, an' the innocent little lovely baby girl in 'er cot (the gentlemen like baby girls better'n boys), as prayed for 'er mummy before she went to sleep. Then, squeeze a tear an' see if that don't touch their 'earts an' their pockets."
"Let me go! Let me go!" cried Mavis, horrified at the woman's communication.
"I thought I'd astonish you," said Miss Ewer complacently.
"Let me go. This way?"
"Too grateful to thenk me! Never mind; leave it till nex' time we meet. You can thenk me then. I thought I'd take your breath away."
"Let me out! Let me out!" cried Mavis, as she fumbled at the chain of the front door.
"Lemme. Good night, and Gawd bless yer," said Miss Ewer, furtively counting the gold pieces in her pocket.
Mavis did not reply.
"Thought I'd astonish yer. Fer Gawd's sake, don't whisper what I told you to a livin' soul. An' work 'ard and keep virtuous like me. Before Gawd, I'm as good a maid—"
These were the last words Mavis heard as she hurried away from Miss Ewer.
Four weeks later, Mavis got out of the train at Melkbridge. She breathed a sigh of relief when her feet touched the platform; her one regret was that she was not leaving London further away than the hundred miles which separated Melkbridge from the metropolis. It seemed to her as if the great city were exclusively peopled with Mr. Orgles', Mrs Hamiltons, Miss Ewers, and their like. Ignorant of London's kindness, she had only thought for its wickedness. With the exception of one incident, she had resolved to forget as much as possible of her existence since she had left Brandenburg College; also, to see what happiness she could wrest from life in the capacity of clerk in the Melkbridge boot manufactory, a position she owed to her long delayed appeal to Mr Devitt for employment. The one incident that she cared to dwell upon was her meeting with Windebank and the kindly concern he had exhibited in her welfare. The morning following upon her encounter with him, she had long debated, without arriving at any conclusion, whether she had done well, or otherwise, in leaving him as she had done. As the days passed, if things seemed inclined to go happily with her, she was glad that she had put an end to their budding friendship, to regret her behaviour when vexed by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Her few hours' acquaintance with Windebank had ruffled the surface of the deep, unexplored waters of the girl's passion, which, rightly or wrongly, caused her to surrender her personal preferences and to regard the matter entirely from the man's point of view. This self-abasement was, largely, the result of the girl's natural instincts where her affections were concerned; these had been reinforced by the sentimental pabulum which enters so much into the fiction that is devoured by girls of Mavis' age and habit of thought. She argued how it would be criminally selfish of her to presume on his boyish attachment of the old days, which might lead him to believe that it was a duty for him to extend to his old-time playmate the lifelong protection of marriage.
Her lack of personal vanity was such that it never once occurred to her that she was eminently desirable in his eyes; that he wished for nothing better than for her to bestow herself, together with her affections, upon him for lifelong appreciation. She resolved to stifle her inclinations in order that the man's career should not suffer from legal companionship with a portionless, friendless girl.
Her unselfish resolutions faltered somewhat when, in resuming the weary search for chances of employment in the advertising columns of the newspapers, she came across the following, which was every day repeated for the remainder of the week:—
"To M...s, who foolishly lost herself in the fog on the night of last Thursday. She is earnestly urged to write to me, care of Taylor & Wintle, 43 Lincoln's Inn Fields. Do not let foolish scruples delay you from letting me hear from you."
She had got as far as writing a reply, but could never quite bring herself to post it.
A miserable Sunday had urged her to send it to its destination; the chance purchase of a Sunday paper decided the letter's, and, incidentally, her own fate. In it she read how, owing to threatened disturbance on the Indian frontier, Sir Archibald Windebank, D.S.O., would shortly leave Aldershot by S.S. Arabia with a reinforcing draft of the Rifle Brigade.
Mavis tore up her letter, to write another, which she addressed to the steamer which was to carry him the greater part of his long journey. She did not give her address; she told him how she believed it would be for his advantage not to encumber his noble career with concern for her. She had added that, if it were destined for them to meet, nothing would give her greater pleasure than to see him again. She ended by wishing him God-speed, a safe return, a successful and happy life. As the days passed, with all the indignities and anxieties attending the quest for employment, the girl's thoughts more and more inclined to Melkbridge. She longed to breathe its air, tread its familiar ways, steep herself in the scarcely awakened spirit of the place. She constantly debated in her mind whether or not she should write to Mr. Devitt to ask for employment. She told herself how, in doing what she had resolved upon doing only in the last extremity, she was giving no more hurt to her pride than it received, several times daily, in her hopeless search for work. A startling occurrence had put the fear of London into her heart and decided her to write to Melkbridge. She had been walking down Victoria Street, raging with anger at the insult that a rich photographer had offered her, to whom, in reply to an advertisement, she had applied for work, when her attention was attracted by a knot of people gathered about a hospital nurse, a girl, and a policeman.
The nurse, a harsh, forbidding-looking woman, was endeavouring to coax the girl into a waiting cab. The girl was excitedly appealing for release to the policeman, to the knot of spectators, to passers-by. When anyone displayed a sign of active interest in the matter, the nurse had put her finger to her forehead to signify that her charge was insane.
Mavis was about to avoid the gathering by crossing the road, when she caught a glimpse of the girl's face, to recognise it as belonging to Miss Meakin. Wondering what it could mean, she hastened to her old acquaintance, who, despite her protests, was being urged towards the cab.
"It's all a mistake. Let me go! Oh! won't anyone help?" Miss Meakin had cried as Mavis reached her side.
"What is it? What has happened?" asked Mavis.
"It's you: it's you! Thank Heaven!" cried Miss Meakin.
"What has happened? I insist on knowing," Mavis had asked, as she glanced defiantly at the forbidding-looking nurse.
"It's not a nurse. It's a man. I know he is. He's followed me, and now he's trying to get me away," sobbed the girl.
Mavis turned to the nurse, who put her finger to her forehead, as if to insist that Miss Meakin's mind was unhinged.
Mavis had appealed to the policeman, to declare there must be some mistake, as she knew Miss Meakin to be of sound mind; but this man had replied that it was not his place to interfere. Mavis, feeling anxious for her friend, was debating in her mind whether she should get into the cab with the girl and the nurse, when a keen-faced-looking man, who had listened to all that had been said, came forward to tell the policeman that if he did not interfere, his remissness, together with his number, would be reported to Scotland Yard.
The policeman, stirred to action, stepped forward, at which the nurse had sprung into the cab, to be driven away, when Miss Meakin had gone into hysterics upon Mavis' shoulder.
Later, after she had come to herself in a chemist's shop, she had told Mavis that she had left "Dawes'," and was now keeping house for an aunt who was reduced to taking in paying guests somewhere in North Kensington. She had been to Vincent Square to look up a late paying guest of her aunt's, who had taken with her some of the household linen by mistake. Upon her setting out for home, she had met with the uncanny adventure from which Mavis' timely arrival had released her.
Directly Mavis reached home, she had written to Mr Devitt. Four days passed, during which she heard nothing in reply. The suspense filled her soul with a sickening dread. Work at Melkbridge now promised alluring possibilities, qualities that had never presented themselves to her mind in the days when she believed that a letter from her would secure from Mr Devitt what she desired. To her surprised delight, the fifth morning's post had brought her a letter from Mr Devitt, which told her that, if she would start at once for Melkbridge, she could earn a pound a week in the office of a boot manufactory, of which he was managing director; the letter had also contained postal orders for three pounds to pay the expenses of her moving from London to Wiltshire. Mavis could hardly believe her eyes. She had already pawned most of her trinkets, till now there alone remained her father's gifts, from which she was exceedingly loath to part. The three pounds, in relieving her of this necessity, was in the nature of a godsend.
Now she stood on the platform at Melkbridge. Her luggage had been put out of the train, which had steamed away. Mavis thought that she would ask the station-master if he knew of a suitable lodging. The man whom she judged to be this person was, at present, engaged with the porters. While she waited till he should be at liberty, her mind went back to the time when she had last stood on the same platform. It had been on the day when she had come down to Melkbridge fully confident of securing work with the Devitt family. This had only been a few months ago, but to Mavis it seemed long years: she had experienced so much in the time. Then it occurred to her how often Archie Windebank had walked on the same platform—Archie Windebank, who was now on the sea so many hundreds of miles from where she stood. She wondered if he ever found time to think of her. She sighed.
Seeing that the station-master was disengaged, she approached the spectacled, dapper little man and told him of her wants.
"Would it be for long?" he asked.
"Possibly for years. I'm coming to work here."
"Work!"
"In the office of one of Mr Devitt's companies."
The man assumed an air of some deference.
"Mr Devitt! Our leading inhabitant—sings baritone," remarked the station-master.
"Indeed!"
"A fair voice, but a little undisciplined in the lower register. This is quite between ourselves."
"Of course. Do you think you can help me to find rooms?"
"I wish I could. Let me think."
Mr Medlicott, as he was called, put the tips of his fingers together, while he reflected. Mavis watched his face for something in the nature of encouragement.
"Dear! dear! dear! dear!" he complained.
"Don't bother. It's good of you to think of it at all," said Mavis.
"Stay! I have it. Why didn't I think of it before? Mrs Farthing: the very thing."
"Where does she live?"
"The Pennington side of Melkbridge—over a mile from here; but I know you'd find there everything that you desire."
"Thanks. I'll leave my boxes here and walk there."
"I can save you the trouble. Her husband is guard on the 4.52. If you can fill up the time till then, it will save you walking all that way, perhaps, for no purpose."
Mavis thanked the station-master, left her luggage in his care and walked to the town, where the unmistakable London cut of her well-worn clothes attracted the attention of the female portion of the population. She had a cup of tea in a confectioner's, and felt better for it. She then set out to walk to her old favourite nook on the banks of the river, a spot rich with associations of her childhood. Her nearest way was to walk across the churchyard to the meadows, the third of which bordered the Avon. It only needed a quarter of an hour's walk along its banks to find the place she wanted. Unconsciously, her steps led her in a contrary direction from that in which she had purposed going. Almost before she knew what she had done, she had taken the road to Haycock Abbey, which was Windebank's Wiltshire home. It required something of an effort to enable her to retrace her steps. She reached and crossed the churchyard, where long forgotten memories crowded upon her; it was with heavy heart that she struck across the meadows.
When she reached the Avon, she found the river to be swollen with the winter's rain. The water, seamed with dark streaks, flowed turbulently, menacingly, past her feet. She walked along the river's deserted bank to the place that she had learned to look upon as her own. Its discovery gave her much of a shock. She had always pictured it in her mind as when she had last seen it. Then, it had been in early July. The river had lazily flowed past banks gaily decorated with timid forget-me-nots and purple veitch; the ragged robin had looked roguishly from the hedge. Such was the heat, that the trees of her nook had looked longingly towards the cool of the water, while the scent of lately mown hay seemed to pervade the world. That was then.
Now, a desolation had invaded the spot. In place of summer gaiety there was only dreariness. The flowers had gone; a raw wind soughed along the river's banks; instead of the scent of the hay there was only the smell of damp earth, as if to proclaim to the girl that such desolation was the certain heritage of all living things.
Mavis could not get rid of the impression that the contrast between the place as she remembered it and as it was now resembled her own life. She made her way, with all dispatch, to the station. Here she learned that Mrs Farthing could not take her in until the following day, as her present "visitors" were not leaving till then. Mavis pricked up her ears at the mention of visitors; she did not think such polite euphemisms had penetrated so far afield.
She had little thought to give the matter, as she was concerned to know where she was going to spend the night. Mr Medlicott solved her perplexity; he insisted upon Mavis seeing Mrs Medlicott, who proved to be a simple, kindly countrywoman, who dropped an old-fashioned curtsey directly she set eyes on the girl. The station-master's wife showed Mavis a little room and told her that she was welcome to the use of it for the night, if she were not afraid of being kept awake by the passing and shunting of trains. Mavis jumped at the offer, whereat Mrs Medlicott insisted on her sitting down to a solid, homely tea, a meal which was often interrupted by Mr Medlicott getting up to attend to his duties upon the platform. When tea was over, there was yet another hour's daylight. Mrs Medlicott suggested to Mavis that it might be as well for her to call on Mrs Farthing, to see if she liked her; she mentioned that Mr Farthing was a very nice man, but that his wife was not a person everyone could get on with.
Mavis set out for the Pennington end of Melkbridge, where, after some inquiry, she found that Mrs Farthing lived in an old-world cottage, which was situated next door to a farm.
The girl's knock brought Mrs. Farthing, first to the window, then to the door, whereupon Mavis explained her errand, not forgetting to mention who had recommended her to come.
"Please to come inside," said Mrs. Farthing.
Mavis followed the woman, who was little and sharp-eyed, into a clean, orderly living room, where she was asked to take a seat. She was surprised to see her prospective landlady also sit, for all the world as if she were entertaining a guest.
"Did you say you were taking up church work?" asked Mrs Farthing.
"No, I did not."
"I thought you did," said Mrs Farthing, as her face fell.
"You see, my father was a sea captain, so I have to be so careful to whom I let my rooms."
"If I thought they weren't respectable, I shouldn't have come here," retorted Mavis.
Mrs Farthing winced, but recovered herself.
"Since I have been resident at Pennington Cottage, one colonel, three doctors, two lawyers, seven reverends, and one banker have visited here."
"I'm glad to see others appreciate you," remarked Mavis.
"Professional gentlemen and their ladies take to me at once. Did you tell me your uncle was a reverend?"
"No, I did not," replied Mavis, who was beginning to lose patience.
"You see, my father being a sea captain—"
"I can't see how that's anything to do with letting lodgings," said Mavis.
"Pardon me, it raises the question of references."
"Of course, I must have yours. I have only your word for the sort of people you've had here."
Mrs Farthing looked at Mavis in astonishment; she was unaccustomed to being tackled in this fashion.
"Perhaps, perhaps you'd like to see the sitting-room?" she faltered.
"I should," said Mavis.
Mrs Farthing led the way to a quaint little room, the window of which overlooked the neighbouring farmyard.
Mavis, although she took a fancy to it at once, was sufficiently diplomatic to say:
"It might, perhaps, suit me."
Mrs. Farthing pointed out the beauty of the view, a recommendation to which Mavis subscribed.
The girl's acquiescence emboldened Mrs Farthing to say:
"Did you say that your mother would sometimes visit you?"
Mavis trembled with indignation.
"I did nothing of the kind, and you know it," she cried. "If you wish to know, I'm employed by Mr Devitt, and should probably have stayed here for years. If you can't see at a glance what I am, all I can say is that you've been used to a tenth-rate lot of lodgers."
Mrs. Farthing capitulated.
"Wouldn't you like to see the bedroom?"
"If you don't ask any more silly questions."
"It's hard to forget my father was a sea captain," explained Mrs Farthing.
A door in the passage opened on to winding stairs, up which vanquished and victor walked.
From the first floor, a sort of gangway led to the door of a room that was raised some three feet from the level of where the two women stood.
"Now we ascend the Kyber Pass," cried Mrs Farthing gaily, as she set foot on the gangway.
As Mavis followed, it occurred to her how this remark might be invariably retailed to prospective lodgers by Mrs Farthing.
The bedroom's neat appointments made it even more attractive in Mavis' eyes than the sitting-room.
Mrs. Farthing wanted eight shillings a week for a permanency, but Mavis stuck out for seven. The issue was presently compromised by the landlady's agreeing to accept seven and sixpence.
"There's only one thing," said Mrs Farthing, as she sat on the bed; "and that's my husband."
"What about him?" asked Mavis, who had believed that everything was settled.
"He simply can't abide my letting rooms; he's on to me about it morning, noon, and night."
"I'm sorry."
"To think," as he says, "the daughter of a sea captain—" Here Mrs Farthing caught Mavis' eye, to substitute for what she was about to say: "But there," he says, "work your fingers to the bone; go and commit suicide by overdoing it; kill yourself outright with making other people comfortable, so long as you get your own way."
"Really!"
"That's what he says every minute of the time that he's at home."
When Mavis left Mrs Farthing to walk to the station, she could not help noticing how the rough and tumble of her experiences had had a hardening effect upon her once soft heart. It was not so long ago that, although presumption on a landlady's part would have goaded Mavis into making an apposite retort, she would have bitterly regretted the pain that her words may have inflicted. Now, she was indifferent to any annoyance that she may have caused Mrs Farthing. If anything, she was rather pleased with herself for having shown the woman her place.
It was something of an experience for Mavis to spend the evening in the sitting-room of a country railway station. Stillness violently alternated with the roar and rush of the trains. Mr Medlicott spent his spare time in the sitting-room, where his eyes never deserted the faded, uncanny-looking cabinet piano, which spread its expanse of faded green silk at one end of the room.
Mavis noticed his preoccupation.
"I wonder if you would do me a favour?" she asked.
"And what might that be?"
"If you would sing?"
"Delighted!" he cried, as he excitedly sprang to his feet.
"How nice of you!"
"Stay! What about the accompaniment?"
"I can manage that."
"At sight?"
"I think so."
"You're an acquisition to Melkbridge. There's one other thing."
"I knew you'd disappoint me. What is it?"
"The 7.53," replied the station-master, looking at his watch. "It's almost due."
"We can make a start," suggested Mavis.
Mr Medlicott quickly produced a collection of old-fashioned ballads, the covers of many of which were decorated with strange, pictorial devices.
"Stay! What say to 'Primrose Farm'?"
"Anything, so long as you sing," replied Mavis.
Mr Medlicott delightedly cleared his throat. It did not take Mavis long to discover that the station-master had little ear for music; he sang flat, although Mavis did her best to assist him by including in her accompaniment the notes of the vocal score. The song was no sooner concluded than the station-master caught up his braided cap and ran downstairs to meet the 7.53. Upon his return, he sang many songs. No sooner was one ended than he commenced another; they were only interrupted by the arrival of trains.
The room became insupportably hot. During one of Mr Medlicott's absences, Mavis asked his wife if she might open the window that overlooked the platform. Where Mavis sat by it, she could see Mr Medlicott performing his duties below. Once or twice, she fancied her ear caught strange sounds, which could be heard above the shouts of the porters and the noises of escaping steam; they proceeded from where Mr Medlicott stood. The noises became more insistent, when it occurred to Mavis that the station-master was taking advantage of the din to practise the more uncertain of his notes.
The next morning, when Mavis wanted to pay Mrs Medlicott, the station-master's wife would not hear of it. She declared that she was amply repaid by Mavis' accompanying her husband's songs, which was enough to make him happy for many weeks to come. Mrs Medlicott also observed that her husband would like to take singing lessons from Mavis, if the latter cared to teach him.
Mavis walked the good mile necessary to take her to the Melkbridge boot manufactory with a light heart. She reached it at nine, to find a square, unlovely building, enclosed by a high stone wall of the usual Wiltshire type, broken slabs of oolitic formation loosely thrown together. She explained her errand to the first person she met inside the gate, and was told to await the arrival of Mr Gaby, the manager, who was due in half an hour, the time, she afterwards learned, at which the lady clerks were expected. When Mr Gaby came, she found him to be a nervous, sandy-haired man, who blushed like any school-girl when he addressed Mavis. A few minutes later, two colleagues arrived, to whom she was formally introduced. The elder of these was Miss Toombs, a snub-nosed, short, flat-chested, unhealthy-looking woman, who was well into the thirties. She took Mavis' proffered hand limply, to drop it quickly and set about commencing her work. Her conduct was in some contrast to the other girl's, who was introduced to Mavis as Miss Hunter. She was tallish, dark, good-looking, with a self-possessed manner. The first two things Mavis noticed about her were that she was neatly and becomingly dressed, also that her eyebrows met above her nose. She looked at Mavis critically for a few moments, and gave the latter the impression that she had taken a dislike to her. Then Miss Hunter advanced to Mavis with outstretched hand to say:
"I hope we shall all be great friends and work together comfortably."
"Thank you," replied Mavis, at which Miss Hunter proceeded to instruct her in her duties. These were of the kind usually allotted to clerical beginners, and consisted of the registering, indexing, and sorting of all letters received in the course of the day.
Mavis worked with a will; her bold, unaffected handwriting emphasised the niggling scrawliness of Miss Hunter's previous entries in the book.
"Don't work so fast," said Miss Hunter presently, at which Mavis looked up in surprise.
"If you do, you won't have anything to go on with," continued Miss Hunter.
About eleven, Mavis learned from Mr Gaby that Mr. Devitt would like to see her. The manager conducted Mavis to the board room, where she found Mr Devitt standing before the fire. Directly he saw her, he came forward with outstretched hand.
"Good morning, Miss Keeves. Why—" He paused, to look at her with some concern.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"You're different. If I may say so, you look so much more grown up."
"I've had rather a rough time since I last saw you."
"I can well believe it to look at you. Why didn't you write?"
"I didn't like to. It's good of you to do what you've done."
Mr Devitt appeared to think for a few moments before saying:
"I'm sorry I can't do more; but one isn't always in a position to do exactly what one would like."
"Quite so," assented the girl.
More was said to the same effect, although Mavis could not rid herself of the impression that he was patronising her. A further thing that prejudiced her against Devitt was his absence of self-possession. While speaking, he gesticulated, moved his limbs, and seemed incapable of keeping still.
"I'll pay you back the three pounds you so kindly sent me, gradually," said Mavis presently.
"Wouldn't hear of it; nothin' to me; only too happy to oblige you," declared Devitt, showing by his manner that he considered the interview at an end.
As she walked towards the door, he said:
"By the way, where are you stayin'?"
"At Mrs Farthing's; it's quite near here."
"Quite two miles from us," remarked Devitt, as if more pleased than otherwise at the information.
"Quite," answered Mavis.
"Well, good-bye! Let me know if I can ever do any-thin' for you," he cried from the fireplace.
Mavis went back to her work. She had an hour's liberty at one, which she spent at Mrs Farthing's, who provided an appetising meal of stewed steak and jam roly-poly pudding.
About three, Miss Toombs made tea on the office fire; she asked Mavis if she would like to join the tea club.
"What's that?" asked Mavis.
"You pay fourpence a week for tea and biscuits. We take it in turn to make the tea and wash up: profits equally divided at Christmas."
"I shall be delighted," said Mavis, as she produced her purse.
"Not till tomorrow. Today you're a guest," remarked Miss Toombs listlessly.
About four, there was so little to do that Miss Toombs produced a book, whilst Miss Hunter rather ostentatiously opened the Church Times. Mavis scribbled on her blotting paper till Miss Toombs brought out a brown-paper-covered book from her desk, which she handed to Mavis.
"It's 'Richard Feverel'; if you haven't read it, you can take it home."
"Thanks. I'll take great care of it. I haven't read it."
"Not read Richard Feverel?" asked Miss Toombs, as she raised her eyebrows, but did not look at Mavis.
"Is it always easy like this?" Mavis asked of Miss Hunter, as they were putting on their things at half-past four.
"You call it easy?"
"Very. Is it always like this?"
"Always, except just before Christmas, when there's a bit of a rush, worse luck," replied Miss Hunter, to add after a moment: "It interferes with one's social engagements."
Mavis walked to her rooms with a light heart. It was good to tread the hard, firm roads, with their foundation of rock, to meet and be greeted by the ruddy-faced, solidly built Wiltshire men and women, many of whom stopped to stare after the comely, graceful girl with the lithe stride.
When Mavis had had tea and had settled herself comfortably by the fire with her book, she felt wholly contented and happy. Now and again, she put down Richard Feverel to look about her, and, with an immense satisfaction, to contrast the homely cleanliness of her surroundings with the dingy squalor of Mrs Bilkins's second floor back. It was one of the happiest evenings she ever spent. She often looked back to it with longing in her later stressful days.
About seven, she heard a knock at her door. She called out "Come in," at which, after much fumbling at the door handle, a big fair man, with wide-open blue eyes, stood in the doorway. He looked like a huge, even-tempered child; he carried two paper-covered books in his hand.
"I'm Farthing, miss," the man informed her.
"Good evening," said Mavis, who would scarcely have been surprised if Farthing had brought out a handful of marbles and started playing with them.
"The driver's out, miss, so—"
"The driver?" interrupted Mavis.
"Mrs Farthing, miss. I be only fireman when her be about," he humbly informed her.
"Won't you sit down?"
"I? No, thankee, miss. I thought you might want summat to read, so I brought you these."
Here Mr Farthing handed Mavis a Great Western Railway time table, together with "Places of Interest on the Great Western Railway."
"How kind of you! I shall be delighted to read them," declared Mavis untruthfully.
Then, as Mr Farthing was about to leave the room, she said:
"I'm afraid I'm in your bad books."
"Bad what, Miss?" he asked, perplexed.
"Books—that you're offended with me."
"I, miss?"
"For coming here as your lodger?"
Mr Farthing stared at her in round-eyed amazement.
"I understood from Mrs Farthing that you object to her taking lodgers," explained Mavis.
Mr Farthing's jaw dropped; he seemed dumbfounded.
"That you're complaining about Mrs Farthing overworking herself every minute you're at home," continued Mavis.
Mr Farthing backed to the door.
"And you tell her she's only killing herself by doing it."
Hopelessly bewildered, Mr Farthing clumped downstairs.
Mavis laughed long and softly at this refutation of Mrs Farthing's pretensions. Before she again settled down to the enjoyment of her book, she looked once more about the cleanly, comfortable room, which had an indefinable atmosphere of home.
"Yes, yes," thought Mavis, "it is—it is good to be alive."