Mavis scrambled out of the train, just in time to prevent herself from being carried on to the next stopping—place. She smoothed her ruffled plumage and looked about her. She found the station much smaller than she had believed it to be; she hardly remembered any of its features, till the scent of the stocks planted in the station-master's garden assisted her memory. She gave up her ticket, and looked about her, thinking that very likely she would be met, if not by a member of the Devitt family, by some conveyance; but, beyond the station 'bus and two or three farmers' gigs, there was nothing in the nature of cart or carriage. She asked the hobbledehoy, who took her ticket, where Mrs Devitt lived, at which the youth looked at her in a manner that evidently questioned her sanity at being ignorant of such an important person's whereabouts. Mavis repeated her question more sharply than before. The ticket-collector looked at her open—mouthed, glanced up the road and then again to Mavis, before saying:
"Here her be."
"Mrs Devitt?"
"Noa. Her."
"The housekeeper?"
"Noa. The trap. Mebbe your eyes hain't so 'peart' as mine."
The grating of wheels called her attention to the fact that a smart, yellow-wheeled dogcart had been driven into the station yard by a man in livery.
"Be you Miss Keeves, miss?" asked the servant.
"Yes."
"Then you're for Melkbridge House. Please get in, miss."
Mavis clambered into the cart and was driven quickly from the station. At the top of the hill, they turned sharp to the right, and rolled along the Bathminster road. Mavis first noticed how much the town had been added to since she had last set foot in it; then she became conscious that distances, which in her childhood had seemed to be considerable, were now trivial.
The man driving her had been a gentleman's servant; seeing that Mavis belonged to a class of life which he had been accustomed to serve, he treated her with becoming respect. Mavis incorrectly argued from the man's deference that it had been decided to secure her services: her heart leapt, her colour heightened at her good fortune.
If a few moments of pleasure are worth purchasing at a cost of many hours of crowded disappointment, it was as well that Mavis was ignorant of the way in which her prospects had been prejudiced by the trend of events at Melkbridge House since Mrs Devitt had replied to Miss Mee's letter. To begin with, Mavis's visit had been within an ace of being indefinitely postponed; it was owing to Harold's expressed wish that the original appointment had been allowed to stand. The reason for this indifference to Mavis's immediate future was that, the day after the schoolmistress had written, Harold had been seriously indisposed. His symptoms were so alarming that his doctor had insisted on having a further opinion; this was obtained from a Bathminster physician, who had confirmed the local medical man's diagnosis; he had also advised Harold a month's rest on his back, this to be followed by a nine months' residence abroad. As if this were not enough to interfere with Mavis's visit, Montague Devitt had met young Sir Archibald Windebank, the bachelor owner of Haycock. Abbey, when going to discharge his duties as borough magistrate, the performance of which he believed might ease his mind of the pain occasioned by his son's illness.
After he had told Windebank his bad news, and the latter had expressed his genuine concern, Devitt had said:
"Do you remember Keeves—Colonel Keeves?"
"Of Melkbridge Court? Of course. Why?"
"I heard something of his daughter the other day."
"Little Mavis!"
"She's big Mavis now," remarked Devitt.
"Have you seen her?" asked Windebank eagerly.
"Not yet, but I may very soon."
"She promised to be an awfully pretty girl. Is she?"
"I haven't seen her. But if she comes down you might care to call."
"Thanks," replied Windebank. "When you see her, you might mention I asked after her."
"I will."
"Although I don't suppose she'll remember me after all these years."
Devitt had left Windebank and gone about his business. When he came out of the court house, and was about to get into his motor, Windebank again approached him, but in such a manner that made Devitt wonder if he had been hanging about on purpose to speak to him.
Windebank made one or two remarks about nothing in particular. Devitt was about to start, when the other said:
"By the way, when you do see Miss Keeves, you might tell her that the mater and my sister will be down here next week and that they'll be awfully pleased to see her, if she'd care to come and stay."
"I won't forget," replied Devitt dryly.
"Tell her to come for as long as she cares to, as the mater and Celia were always fond of her. None of us could ever make out what became of her."
"I won't forget," said Devitt again.
"Thanks. Good-bye."
Montague told his wife of this; she had replied:
"We will decide nothing till we see her," which meant that, if Mavis had not fulfilled the promise of her childhood, and had grown up plain, there would be some prospect of her being engaged in some capacity in the Devitt family, as her acquaintance with the big people about Melkbridge might result in introducing Victoria within the charmed circle, without prejudicing the latter's chances of making a brilliant match. Mrs Devitt's words likewise meant that, if Mavis were charming or pretty, her prospects of securing an engagement would be of the slenderest.
Mavis, ignorant of these considerations, was driven to the door of Melkbridge House. On getting out of the cart, the front door was opened by Hayter, the fat butler, who showed her into the drawing-room. Left to herself, Mavis looked about the expensively furnished room. Noticing a mirror, she walked to it in order to see if hair or hat had been disarranged by her journey and drive; as she looked at her comely reflection, she could not help seeing with a thrill of satisfaction that already the change of air, together with the excitement of the occasion, had flushed her cheeks with colour; she was looking her best. She walked to the window and looked in the direction of her old home, which was on a slight eminence about a mile from where she stood: were the time of year other than summer, its familiar outlines would not have been obscured by foliage. Mavis sighed, turned her back on the window and walked towards the fireplace; something moving in the cool, carefully shaded room caught her eye. It was the propitiatory wagging of a black, cocker spaniel's tail, while its eyes were looking pleadingly up to her. Mavis loved all animals; in a moment the spaniel was in her lap, her arms were about its neck, and she was pressing her soft, red lips to its head. The dog received these demonstrations of affection with delight; although it pawed and clawed the only decent frock which Mavis possessed, she did not mind a bit.
"I shall be here a long time and we shall always be the best of friends," murmured Mavis, as she pressed the affectionate animal to her heart.
Mavis waited half an hour in the drawing-room before anyone came.
Victoria was the first to join her; she entered the room with a frank smile, together with an apology for having kept Mavis waiting. The latter took to Miss Devitt at once, congratulating herself on her good fortune at the prospect of living with such congenial companions as Miss Devitt and the dog. Victoria explained that her brother's illness was responsible for Mavis having been treated with apparent neglect.
"I am so sorry," replied Mavis. "Is it serious?"
"Not at present, but it may be."
"How dreadful it must be for you, who love him!"
"We are all of us used to seeing my brother more or less ill; he has been a cripple for the last eight years."
"How very sad! But if your brother is worse, why didn't you wire and put me off?"
"You would have been disappointed if we had."
"I should have understood."
Then, after making further sympathetic reference to Harold's condition, Mavis said:
"What a dear dog this is! Is he yours?"
"It's Harold's. She's no business to be in here. She'll dirty your dress."
"I don't mind in the least."
"Let me turn her out," said Victoria, as she rose from her seat.
"Please don't. I love to have her with me," pleaded Mavis, adding, as Victoria acceded to her request:
"Don't you like dogs?"
"In their proper place. Jill wouldn't be allowed in at all if Harold didn't sometimes wish it."
"If I had a house, it should be full of dogs," remarked Mavis.
"I understand that you were born near here."
"Yes, at Melkbridge Court."
"I don't know what time you go back, but, after luncheon—of course you'll stay—you might take the opportunity of your being down here to have a look at the old place."
"I—I might," faltered Mavis, who suddenly felt as if all the happiness had been taken out of her life; for Miss Devitt's words hinted that her family was not going to keep Mavis at Melkbridge House.
She looked regretfully at the dog, then inquiringly at Victoria, when Mrs Devitt came into the drawing-room.
Her eyes at once fell on Mavis's comeliness; looking at her step-daughter, she found herself comparing the appearance of the two girls. Before she had offered her hand to Mavis, she had decided that, beside her, Victoria appeared at a disadvantage.
Although Mavis's hair and colouring might only appeal to a certain order of taste, the girl's distinction, to which one of the Miss Mees had alluded earlier in the day, was glaringly patent to Mrs Devitt's sharp eyes; beside this indefinable personal quality, Mrs Devitt observed with a shudder, Victoria seemed middle-class. Mavis's fate, as far as the Devitts were concerned, was decided in the twinkling of an eye. For all this decision, so suddenly arrived at, Mrs Devitt greeted Mavis kindly; indeed, the friendliness that she displayed caused the girl's hopes to rise.
"Luncheon will be ready directly. We are only waiting for my husband," said Mrs Devitt.
"You must be hungry after your journey," added Victoria.
"I've always a healthy appetite, whatever I do," remarked Mavis, who was fondly regarding the black spaniel.
Then Montague Devitt, Lowther, and Miss Spraggs entered the drawing-room, to all of whom Mavis was introduced.
The men were quite cordial, too cordial to a girl who, after all, was seeking a dependant's place, thought Mrs Devitt.
Already she envied Mavis for her family, the while she despised her for her poverty.
The attentions that her husband and stepson were already paying her were a hint of what Mrs Devitt might expect where the eligible men of her acquaintance were concerned. She felt the necessity of striking a jarring note in the harmony of the proceedings. Jill, the spaniel, who, at that moment, sprang upon Mavis's lap, supplied the means.
"What is Jill doing here?"
"I really don't mind," exclaimed Mavis.
"She shouldn't be in the house. There's no reason for her being here at all, now Harold is ill."
"If you wish her to go," said Mavis ruefully.
Jill was ordered from the room, but refused to quit her new friend's side. Lowther approached the dog; to emphasise his wishes, he kicked her in the side.
Mavis looked up quickly.
"Come along, you brute!" cried Lowther, who seized the spaniel by the ear, and, despite its yell of agony, was carrying it by this means from the room.
Mavis felt the blood rush to her head.
"Stop!" she cried.
Lowther turned to look at her.
"Stop—, please don't," she pleaded, as she went quickly to Jill and caught her in her arms.
Lowther looked down, surprised, into Mavis's pleading, yet defiant face.
"It was all my fault: you're hurting her and she's such a dear," continued Mavis.
"Better let her stay," said Devitt, while Mrs Devitt, seeing the girl's flushed face, recalled the passage in Miss Mee's letter which referred to Mavis's sudden anger.
Mrs Devitt hated a display of emotion; she put down Mavis's interference with Lowther's design to bad form. She was surprised that Lowther and her husband were so assiduous in their attentions to Mavis; indeed, as Mrs Devitt afterwards remarked to Miss Spraggs:
"They hardly ever took their eyes off her face."
"Never trust a man further than you can see him," had remarked the agreeable rattle, who had never had reason to complain of want of respect on the part of any man with whom she may have been temporarily isolated.
"And did you notice how her eyes flashed when she seized Jill from Lowther? They're usually a sort of yellow. Then, as perhaps you saw, they seemed to burst into a fierce glare."
"My dear Hilda, is there anything I don't notice?" Miss Spraggs had replied, a remark which was untrue in its present application, as, at the moment when Mavis had taken Jill's part, Eva Spraggs had been looking out of the window, as she wondered if the peas, that were to accompany a roast duckling at luncheon, would be as hard and as unappetising as they had been when served two days previously.
This was later in the day. Just now, Mavis was about to be taken down to luncheon by Montague Devitt; she wondered if her defence of dear Jill had prejudiced her chance of an engagement.
"What's that picture covered with a shutter for?" asked Mavis, as her eye fell on the padlocked "Etty."
"Oh, well-it's an 'Etty': some people might think it's scarcely the thing for some young people, you know," replied Devitt, as they descended the stairs.
"Really! Is that why it's kept like that?" asked Mavis, who could scarcely conceal her amusement.
Mrs Devitt, who was immediately behind, had detected the note of merriment in Mavis's voice. "Scarcely a pure-minded girl," she said to herself, unconscious of the fact that there is nothing so improper as the thoughts implied by propriety.
It was not a very pleasant time for Mavis. Although the luncheon was a good meal, and served in a manner to which she had been unaccustomed for many years, she did not feel at home with the Devitts. Montague, the head of the house, she disliked least; no one could be long insensible to his goodness of heart. Already, she could not "stand" Lowther, for the reason that he hardly took his eyes from her face. As for the women, she was soon conscious of the social gulf that, in reality, lay between her and them; she was, also, aware that they were inclined to patronise her, particularly Mrs Devitt and Miss Spraggs: the high hopes with which she had commenced the day had already suffered diminution.
"And what are your aims in life?" Miss Spraggs asked presently; she had found the peas to be as succulent as she had wished.
"To earn my own living," replied Mavis, who had seen that it was she to whom the agreeable rattle had spoken.
"But, surely, that doesn't satisfy the young women of today!" continued Miss Spraggs.
"I fear it does me; but then I don't know any young women to be influenced by," answered Mavis.
"I thought every young woman, nowadays, was thirsting with ambition," said Miss Spraggs.
"I suppose everyone, who isn't an idiot, has her preferences," remarked Mavis.
"I don't mean that. I thought every girl was determined on living her own life to the exclusion of everything else," continued Miss Spraggs.
"Really!" asked Mavis in some surprise, as she believed that it was only the plain and unattractive women who were of that complexion of thought.
"Despise marriage and all that," put in Lowther, his eyes on Mavis as he tossed off a glass of wine.
"But I don't despise marriage," protested Mavis.
"Really!" said Mrs Devitt, whose sensibilities were a trifle shocked by this remark.
"If two people are in love with each other, and can afford to marry, it seems a particularly natural proceeding," said Mavis simply.
"One that you would welcome?" asked Miss Spraggs, as she raised her thin eyebrows.
"One that someone else would welcome," put in Devitt gallantly.
But Mavis took no notice of this interruption, as she said:
"Of course. Nothing I should wish for more."
Miss Spraggs made two or three further efforts to take a rise out of Mavis; in each case, such was the younger woman's naturalness and self-possession, that it was the would—be persecutor who appeared at a disadvantage.
After luncheon the womenfolk moved to the drawing room; when Victoria presently went to sit with her invalid brother, Mrs Devitt assumed a business-like manner as she requested Mavis to sit by her. The latter knew that her fate was about to be decided. They sat by the window where, but for the intervening foliage, Mavis would have been able to see her old home.
"This is our best chance of a quiet talk, so I'll come to the point at once," began Mrs Devitt.
"By all means," said Mavis, as Miss Spraggs took up a book and pretended to be interested in its contents.
"How soon do you require a situation?"
"At once."
"Has Miss Mee applied to anyone else in the neighbourhood on your account?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"And you yourself, have you written to anyone here?"
"There's no one I could write to. There's not one of my father's old friends I've kept up. They've all forgotten my very existence, years ago."
"Sure?"
"Who am I to remember?" asked Mavis simply.
It was on Mrs Devitt's lips to give the girl Sir Archibald's message, but the thought of her unmarried step—daughter restrained her. She addressed Mavis rather hurriedly (she tried hard to act conscientiously):
"I may as well say at once that the opportunity that presented itself, when I wrote to Miss Mee, has passed."
The room seemed to move round Mavis. Mrs Devitt continued, as she noticed the look of dismay on the girl's face:
"But I need hardly tell you that I will do all I can to do something for you."
"Thank you," said Mavis.
"Can't you get anything to do in London?"
"I might."
"Have you tried?"
"A little."
Mavis felt tears welling into her eyes; she would never have forgiven herself if she had displayed the extremity of weeping before these people, who, after all, were not of her social world. She resolved to change the subject and keep any expression of her disappointment till she was safe from unsympathetic eyes.
"Did you know my father?" she asked.
"I didn't live here, then. I married Mr—my husband six years ago."
"I suppose he knew him?"
"I gather so."
Very soon after, the two men came into the drawing-room, having considerably curtailed the time they usually devoted to their cigars.
"We were discussing getting something to do for Miss Keeves," said Mrs Devitt.
"You haven't thought of anything?" asked her husband.
"Not yet," replied his wife.
"I suppose you wouldn't care to go into an office?" he continued.
"A lot of girls do that kind of thing nowadays," said Mavis.
"Or a shop?" put in Miss Spraggs.
Mavis glanced up.
"I mean a—flower shop," corrected Miss Spraggs, misliking the look in Mavis's yellow eyes.
Mavis looked towards where she could have seen her old home but for the intervening trees.
"I think I'd better see about my train," she said as she rose.
"Must you, dear?" asked Mrs Devitt.
The men pressed her to stay, particularly Lowther.
"I think I'll go. I want to get back in good time," said Mavis.
"I'll drive you to the station, if I may," volunteered Lowther.
"Thank you; if it's giving you no trouble," she replied.
Lowther left the room. Mavis said good-bye to the others, including Victoria, who joined her for this purpose, from whom the girl learned that Harold was asleep.
As Devitt conducted Mavis to the door, which the fat butler held open, she heard the snorting of a motor; the next minute, a superb car, driven by Lowther, pulled up before the front door. Mavis had never before been in a petrol-propelled carriage (automobiles were then coming into use); she looked forward to her new experience.
She got in beside Lowther, waved her hand to Devitt and was gone. She was surprised at the swift, easy motion, but had an idea that, soon after they left the house, Lowther Devitt was not travelling so fast as when they set out.
"How delightful!" she cried.
"Eh!"
"I've never been in a motor before."
"What?"
"I really haven't. Don't talk: I want to enjoy it."
Seeing that the girl was disinclined for speech, he increased the pace. Mavis was quite disappointed at the short time it took to reach the station. They got out, when Mavis learned that she had twenty minutes to wait. She was sorry, as she disliked the ardent way in which Lowther looked at her. She answered his remarks in monosyllables.
"I'm afraid you're no end angry with me," he said presently.
"Why?" she said coldly.
"Because I punished Jill for disobedience."
"It was cruel of you."
"I made sure she was worrying you."
"Indeed!"
"But it was almost worth while to upset you, you looked so fine when you were angry."
"Did it frighten you?" she asked half scornfully.
"Almost. You looked just like a young tigress."
"I've been told that before."
"Then you often get angry?"
"If I'm annoyed. But it's soon over."
"I go up to town sometimes," he said presently.
"How clever of you!"
"I go up to my club—the Junior Constitutional. May I look you up when I run up next?"
"Here's the train coming in."
"Bother! It's so nice talking to you. I'm no end of sorry the mater isn't taking you on."
"I am too," replied Mavis, who, at once, saw the meaning that Lowther might misread into her words.
"Can I look you up when next I'm in town?" he asked eagerly.
"Oh yes, you can look me up," she replied diffidently.
"We ought to go out to supper one evening."
"I should be delighted."
"You would! Really you would?"
"If you brought your sister. I must find a seat."
"No hurry. It always waits some time here; milk-cans and all that. By Jove! I wish I were going up alone with you. And that's what I meant. I thought we'd go out to supper at the Savoy or Kettner's by ourselves, eh?"
She looked at him coldly, critically.
"Or say the Carlton," he added, thinking that such munificence might dazzle her.
"I'll get in here," she said.
Seeing Mavis select a third-class carriage, his appreciation of her immediately lessened.
"Tell you what," he said to her through the window, "we won't bother about going out to grub; we'll have a day in the country; we can enjoy ourselves just as much there. Eh, dear? Oh, I beg your pardon, but you're so pretty, you know, and all that."
Mavis noticed the way in which he leered at her while he said these words. She bit her lip in order to restrain the words that were on her tongue; it was of no avail.
"I'll tell you something," she cried.
"Yes—yes; quickly, the train is just off."
"If my father had been alive, and we'd been living here, you'd not have dared to speak to me like that; in fact, you wouldn't have had the chance."
It was a crestfallen, tired, and heartsick Mavis who opened the door of Brandenburg College with her latch-key in the evening. The only thing that sustained her was the memory of the white look of anger which appeared in Lowther Devitt's face when she had unmistakably resented his insult.
Mavis did not tell the whole truth to the two old ladies; they gathered from her subdued manner that she had not been successful in her quest.
The girl was too weary to give explanations, to talk, even to think; the contemplation of the wreck of the castles that she had been building in the air had tired her: she went to bed, resolving to put off further thought for the future until the morrow.
Several times in the night, she awoke with a start, when she was oppressed with a great fear of the days to come; but each time she put this concern from her, as if conscious that she required all the rest she could get, in order to make up her mind to the course of action which she should pursue on the morrow.
When she definitely awoke, she determined on one thing, that, unless pressed by circumstances, she would not ask the Devitts for help.
The old ladies were already down when she went in to breakfast. Miss Annie, directly she saw Mavis, took up a letter that she had laid beside her plate.
"I've heard from Mrs Devitt, dear," she said, after she had asked Mavis, according to custom, how she had slept.
"What does she say?" asked Mavis indifferently.
"That she regrets she is unable to offer you anything at present, but if, at any time, you would take a clerkship in one of the companies in which her husband is interested, they might be able to provide you with a berth," replied Annie.
"Oh!" said Mavis shortly.
"She has also sent me a postal order for your fare," continued Annie.
Mavis made no reply.
The two old maids glanced significantly at one another; presently, Annie Mee was emboldened to ask:
"Do you think you would like to earn your living in the manner indicated?"
"I have decided not to," replied Mavis shortly.
"Of course, if you would prefer to stay with us," began Miss Helen.
"If you have no objection, I will leave for good tomorrow morning," said Mavis.
"Leave for good!" cried the two old ladies together, who, now that they believed Mavis to be going, were dismayed at the prospect of living without her.
"It will be better for all of us," remarked Mavis.
"But have you anything in view, dear?" asked Miss Annie.
"Nothing very definite. But I've every hope of being settled in a day or two."
The two old ladies heaved a sigh of relief; for all their affection for the girl, they found that her healthy appetite made serious inroads into the meager profits of the college. After breakfast, Mavis went upstairs for her hat. She opened the drawers at the base of her old-fashioned looking-glass and counted up her possessions. These amounted to seven pounds, thirteen shillings and sevenpence halfpenny; in addition to which, there was a quarter's salary of four pounds ten shillings due to her; also, there was her fare which Mrs. Devitt had sent, a sum which she was undecided whether or not to accept. At any other time, Mavis would have thought that this money would have been ample provision with which to start life; but her one time ignorance on this matter had been rudely dissipated by her fruitless search after employment, when she had first decided to leave Brandenburg College. Beyond her little store of ready money, she owned a few trinkets which, at the worst, she could sell for a little; but this was a contingency on which she would not allow her mind to dwell just now. One or two things she was determined not to part with; these were her mother's wedding ring, a locket containing a piece of her father's hair, and a bracelet which he had given her. The two old ladies would be leaving for Worthing on the morrow; Amelia was going to Southend-on-Sea for a fortnight. As Mavis had resolved to sever her long connection with the college, it was necessary for her to seek lodging elsewhere.
A few minutes later, she set out upon this wearisome quest: she had never looked for London lodgings before. Although nearly every window in the less frequented streets displayed a card announcing that apartments were to let, she soon discovered how difficult it was to get anything remotely approaching her simple needs. She required a small bedroom in a house where there was a bathroom; also, if possible, she wanted the use of a sitting-room with a passable piano on which she sought permission to give lessons to any pupils whom she might be successful in getting.
Most of the doors she knocked at were answered by dirty children or by dirtier women; these, instinctively, told Mavis that she would get neither cleanliness nor comfort in a house frequented by such folk. When confronted with these, she would make some excuse for knocking at the door, and, after walking on a few yards, would attack the knocker of another house, when, more likely than not, the door would be opened by an even more slatternly person than before. Now and again she would light upon a likely place, but it soon appeared to Mavis that good landladies knew their value and made charges which were prohibitive to the girl's slender resources.
Tired with running up and down so many steps and stairs, Mavis turned into a milk-shop to buy a bun and a glass of milk. She asked the kindly-faced woman who served her if she happened to know of anyone who let clean rooms at moderate charges. The woman wrote down two addresses, said that she would be comfortable at either of these, and told her the quickest way of getting to them. The first name was a Mrs Ellis, who lived at 20 Kiva Gardens. This address proved to be a neat, two-storied house, by the side of which was a road leading to stables and a yard. Mrs Ellis opened the door. Mavis, with a sense of elation, saw that she was a trim, elderly, kindly-looking body.
The girl explained what she wanted. She learned that there was a small bedroom at the back to let; also, that she could have the use of the downstairs sitting-room, in which was a piano.
"Would you very much mind if I had one or two pupils?" asked Mavis.
"Not a bit, miss. I like young people myself, and look on music as company."
"I'd like to see the bedroom."
Mrs Ellis took Mavis upstairs, where the girl was delighted to find that the room was pleasant-looking and scrupulously clean.
"It's only a question of terms," said Mavis hesitatingly.
"You'd better see the sitting-room and try the piano, miss, before you decide," remarked Mrs Ellis.
They went downstairs to another room at the back of the house; this was adequate, although Mavis noticed that it was stuffy. Perhaps the landlady suspected the girl's thoughts on the matter, for she said:
"I have the window shut to keep out dust and smell from the yard, miss."
Mavis, satisfied with this explanation, looked through the window, and saw that the yard was much bigger than she had believed it to be. Three or four men in corduroys were lounging about and chaffing each other.
"You try the piano, miss; I shan't keep you a moment," said Mrs Ellis, who, also, had looked out of the window.
Mavis, left to herself, did as she was bid. She found the piano, although well past its prime, to be better than the generality of those that she had already tried. She got up and again looked out of the window, when she saw that the men, whom she had previously seen idling in the yard, were now hard at work.
The next moment, Mrs Ellis, looking rather hot, re-entered the room.
"I've had to talk to my men," she said.
"You employ them?" asked Mavis.
"Yes, the lazy rascals. It was my husband's business, but since he died I've kept it on."
"You must be very clever."
"It wants managing. You didn't open the window, miss?" This question was asked anxiously.
"No."
"How much did you wish to pay, miss?"
Mavis explained that she didn't wish to pay more than five shillings a week for a bedroom, but after some discussion it was agreed that she should pay six shillings a week, which would include the use of the sitting-room, together with a morning bath, bathrooms not having been supplied to Mrs Ellis's house.
"I'm letting it go reasonable to you, miss, because you're a real young lady and not like most who thinks they are."
"Here's my first week's rent in advance. I can't say how long I shall stay, because I may get a place where they may want me to live in the house," said Mavis.
"It isn't the money I want so much as the company. And if you'd like me to supply the meals, we shan't quarrel over L. s. d."
"I'm sure we shan't. I shall come in without fail tomorrow morning."
Mavis then took a bus to Kensington Church; here she got out and walked the few yards necessary to take her to the Kensington Free Library, where she put down the addresses of those advertising situations likely to suit her. This task completed, she walked to Brandenburg College. When dinner was over—the Misses Mee dined midday—Mavis wrote replies to the advertisements. After parting with the precious pennies, which bought the necessary stamps at the post-office, she came home to pack her things. This took her some time, there being so many odds and ends which had accumulated during her many years' association with the college. As it was getting dark, she slipped out to tell the nearest local agent for Carter Paterson to have her boxes removed the first thing in the morning.
Hurrying back, she ran into Bella Goss, a pupil at the college, and her father. Mr. Goss was the person who was behindhand with his account; he supplied Miss Annie Mee with the theatre and concert tickets which were the joy of her life.
"There's Miss Keeves!" cried Bella, at which her father raised his hat.
Bella, looking as if she wished to speak to Mavis, the latter stopped; she shook hands with the child and bowed to Mr. Goss.
"You're leaving the college, aren't you, Miss Keeves?" asked Bella.
"Yes, dear," replied Mavis.
"Going to be married?" asked Mr. Goss, who secretly admired Mavis.
"I'm going to earn my living; at least, I hope so," said Mavis.
"Haven't you anything to do, then?" he asked.
"Nothing settled," Mavis answered evasively.
"I suppose you wouldn't care for anything in the theatrical line?"
Mavis did not think that she would.
"Or, if you want anything very badly, I might get you into a house of business."
"Do you mean a shop?" asked Mavis.
"A big one where they employ hundreds," said Goss apologetically.
"It's awfully kind of you. I'll come to you if I really want anything badly."
"Thank you, Miss Keeves. Good night."
"Good night. Good night, Bella."
Mavis hurried home and to bed, to be kept awake for quite two hours by fears of the unknown perils which might menace the independent course which she was about to travel.
Breakfast the next morning was a dismal meal. Mavis was genuinely sorry to leave the old ladies, who had, in a large measure, taken the place of the parents she had lost.
They, on their part, were conscious of the break that Mavis's departure would make in their lives. All three women strove to conceal their distress by an affectation of cheerfulness and appetite. But little was eaten or drunk. Miss Annie Mee was so absent-minded that she forgot to spread any butter upon her toast. The old ladies were leaving for Worthing soon after eleven. Mavis purposed taking leave of them and Brandenburg College as soon after breakfast as she could get away. When she rose from the table, Miss Helen Mee said:
"I should like to see you in my study in five minutes from now."
The study was a small-sized room, which was reached by descending two steps at the end of the hall further from the front door. Mavis presented herself here at the expiration of the allotted time, where she found Miss Helen and Miss Annie solemnly seated behind the book-littered table, which stood in the middle of the room.
"Pray close the door," said Helen.
"Please take a seat," added Annie, when Mavis had obeyed the elder Miss Mee's behest.
The girl sat down and wondered what was coming. It was some moments before Helen spoke; she believed that delay would enhance the impressiveness of the occasion.
"Dear Mavis," she presently began, "before I say a few parting words, in which my sister most heartily joins, words which are not without a few hints of kindly admonishment, that may help you along the path you have—er—elected—yes, elected to pursue, I should like to press on you parting gifts from my sister and myself."
Here she handed Mavis her treasured copy of The Stones of Venice, which contained the great Mr Ruskin's autograph, together with a handsomely bound Bible; this latter was open at the fly-leaf.
"Read," said Helen, as she looked at Mavis over her spectacles.
Mavis read as follows:
"TO DEAR MAVIS, FROM HER FRIEND, HELEN ALLPRESS MEE.
"ARE NOT TWO SPARROWS SOLD FOR A FARTHING? AND ONE OF THEM SHALL NOT FALL ON THE GROUND WITHOUT YOUR FATHER.
"FEAR YE NOT THEREFORE, YE ARE OF MORE VALUE THAN MANY SPARROWS.—St Matthew x. 29, 31."
Mavis thanked Miss Mee and was about to press on her the trinket that she had previously purchased as a parting gift for her old friend; but Helen checked the girl with a gesture signifying that her sister was about to speak.
Mis Annie was less prosy than her sister.
"Take this, dear, and God bless you."
Here she handed Mavis her much-prized copy of Sesame and Lilies, likewise containing the autograph of the great Mr. Ruskin; at the same time, she presented Mavis with a box of gloves.
Mavis thanked the generous old ladies and gave them the little presents she had bought for this purpose. To Miss Helen she handed a quaint old workbox she had picked up in the shop of a dealer in antiquities; to Miss Annie she gave her A three-quarter-length photograph in a silver frame.
The two old ladies' hands shook a little when they took these offerings; they both thanked her, after which Miss Helen rose to take formal farewell of Mavis.
She spoke the words that she always made use of when taking final leave of a pupil; usually, they came trippingly to her tongue, without the least effort of memory; but this morning they halted; she found herself wondering if her dignity were being compromised in Mavis's eyes.
"Dear Mavis," she said, "in—in issuing from the doors—er—portals of Brandenburg College to the new er—er—world that awaits you beyond, you—you may rest assured that you carry—"
The old lady stopped; she did not say any more; she sat down and seemed to be carefully wiping her spectacles. Mavis rose to go, girl-like; she hated anything in the nature of a scene, especially when made over such an insignificant person as herself. At the same time, her farewell of the two old ladies, with whom she had lived for so long, affected her far more than she would ever have thought possible. Halfway to the door, she hesitated; the noise made by Miss Annie blowing her nose decided her. In a moment, she had placed her arms about Miss Helen and Miss Annie, and all three women were weeping to their hearts' content.
Some seventy minutes later, it was two very forlorn-looking old ladies who stumbled into the train that was to take them to Worthing. Meanwhile, Mavis had packed her few remaining things and had gone down to the kitchen to say good-bye to Amelia.
Directly Amelia caught sight of her and she burst into tears. Mavis, somewhat disconcerted by this evidence of esteem, gave Amelia five shillings, at which the servant wept the more.
"Oh, miss! what shall I do without you?"
"You'll get on all right. Besides, you're going for a holiday to Southend."
"Moind you let me come to you when you're married," sobbed Amelia.
"I shouldn't count on that if I were you."
"Do 'ave me, miss. I'll always troi and 'and things so no one sees my bad oye."
"It isn't that I don't want you; but it's so unlikely that I shall ever have a home."
Mavis offered her hand. Amelia wiped her wet hand (she had been washing up) upon her apron before taking it.
"Oh, miss, you are good to me, and you a reel lydy."
"Be a good girl and look after your mistresses."
"That I will, miss. Whatever should I sy to that there Mr. Fuskin, when I meet 'im in 'eaven, if I didn't?"
"Good-bye, Amelia."
"There! I forgot," cried Amelia. She went to the drawer of the dresser and brought out something wrapped in tissue paper.
Mavis undid this, to find Amelia's offering to consist of a silver brooch forming the word "May."
"It's the nearest I could get to your nime, miss," she explained.
"Thank you so much."
"It ain't good enough for you: nothin' ain't good enough for you. Wasn't you loved by the music master, 'im who was so lovely and dark?" wept Amelia.
It was with a heavy heart that Mavis left Brandenburg College, the walls of which had sheltered her for so long: she did her best to be self-possessed as she kissed the Misses Mee and walked to her new address, to which her two boxes had been taken the first thing by the carriers.
The rest of the morning, and after the simple meal which Mrs Ellis provided, Mavis unpacked her things and made her room as homelike as possible. While she was doing this, she would now and again stop to wonder if she had heard the postman's knock; although she could hear him banging at doors up and down the street, he neglected to call at No. 20, a fact which told Mavis that so far no one had troubled to seriously consider her applications for employment. A cup of tea with Mrs Ellis put a cheerful complexion upon matters; she spent the next few hours in finishing her little arrangements. These completed to her satisfaction, she leaned against the window and looked hungrily towards the heavens. It was a blue, summer evening; there was not a cloud in the sky.
Although the raucous voices of children playing in the streets assailed her ears, she was scarcely conscious of these, her thoughts being far away. She was always a lover of nature; wildflowers, especially cowslips, affected her more than she would care to own; the scent of hay brought a longing to her heart; the sight of a roadside stream fascinated her. Now, she was longing with a passionate desire for the peace of the country. Upon this July evening, the corn must now be all but ripe for the sickle, making the fields a glory of gold. She pictured herself wandering alone in a vast expanse of these; gold, gold, everywhere; a lark singing overhead. Then, in imagination, she found her way to a nook by the Avon at Melkbridge, a spot endeared to her heart by memories that she would never forget. As a child, she loved to steal there with her picture book; later, as a little girl, she would go there all alone, and, lying on her back, would dream, while her eyes followed the sun. Her fondness for this place was the only thing which she had kept from her father's knowledge. She wondered if this hiding place, where she had loved to take her thoughts, were the same. She could shut her eyes and recall it: the pollard willows, the brown river banks, the swift, running river in which the forget-me-nots (so it appeared to her) never seemed to tire in the effort to see their reflection.
Darkness came out of the east. Mavis's heart went out to the summer night. Then, she was aware of a feeling of physical discomfort. The effort of imagination had exhausted her. She became wearily conscious of the immediate present. The last post, this time, knocked at the door of Mrs Ellis', but it brought no letter for Mavis. It seemed that the world had no need of her; that no one cared what became of her. She was disinclined to go out, consequently, the limitations of her surroundings made her quickly surrender to the feeling of desolation which attacked her. She wondered how many girls in London were, at the present moment, isolated from all congenial human companionship as she was. She declined the landlady's kindly offer to partake of cold boiled beef and spring onions in the status of guest; the girl seemed to get satisfaction from her morbid indulgence in self-pity.
As she was about to undress, her eye fell on the Bible which Helen Mee had given her earlier in the day. Mavis remembered something had been written on the fly-leaf: more from idle curiosity than from any other motive, she opened the cover of the book, to read in the old lady's meager, pointed hand:
"Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.
"Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows."—St Matthew x. 29, 31.
Mavis's heart was filled with contrition. She was not forgotten; there was Someone who cared what became of her. Although she was now as one of the sparrows, which are never certain of their daily food, she could not fall without the knowledge of One who cared, and He—-
Mavis knelt: she implored forgiveness for having believed herself to be utterly forgotten: she thanked Him for caring that a poor, friendless girl, such as she, should not fall.