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.
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.