Mavis followed her new friend past the pay box, down the carpeted stairs, into the street. She could not help seeing how bedraggled a sparrow she appeared when contrasted with the brilliant plumage of the woman at her side. A superb motor drew up to the pavement, from which a man got down to open the door.
"Get inside, dear," said the woman.
Mavis did as she was bid, hardly realising the good fortune which had so unexpectedly overtaken her.
"Telegraph office, then home," said the woman, who had, also, got into the car.
The man touched his hat and they were off. The woman did not speak at first, being seemingly absorbed in anxious thought. Mavis became conscious of a vague feeling of discomfort like to when—when—she tried to remember when this uneasy feeling had before possessed her. She glanced at her companion; she noticed that the woman's eyes were hard and cold; it was difficult to reconcile their expression with the sentiments she had professed. Then the woman turned to her.
"What is your name?"
"Mavis Weston Keeves."
"My name's Hamilton; it's really West-Hamilton, but I'm known as Mrs Hamilton. How old are you?"
"Eighteen. I'm nineteen in three months."
"Tell me more of yourself."
Mavis briefly told her story; as she finished, the car drew up at a post-office. Mrs Hamilton scanned Mavis's face closely before getting out.
"I shan't be a moment; it's only to someone who's coming to dinner."
Mavis, left alone in the motor, wondered at the strangeness of the adventure. She knew that Mrs Hamilton was scarcely a gentlewoman—even in the broad interpretation nowadays given to the word. But it was not this so much as the fact of her having such hard eyes which perplexed the girl. She had little time to dwell on this matter, as, in a very few moments, Mrs Hamilton was again beside Mavis, and they were speeding up Oxford Street.
"The fact is I live alone," said Mrs Hamilton. "I am in need of a companion, young and nice-looking, like yourself. I wonder if you'd care for the job."
"I wonder if you'd care to have me."
"I entertain a good deal, mostly gentlemen; two gentlemen are coming to dinner to-night."
"But you don't expect me—?"
"Why not?"
"But my clothes."
"Is that all? I've some things that will suit you down to the ground."
"You're very kind," said Mavis, as the motor, having turned into Regent Street, whizzed past the Langham Hotel.
"You play and sing?" asked Mrs Hamilton.
"A little."
"That always helps. And as to terms, if we get along well together, you'll be grateful to me till the day of your death."
Although the words were spoken without a suspicion of feeling, Mavis replied:
"I'm sure I shall."
"Here we are!" said Mrs Hamilton.
Mavis was much surprised that no word had been said about references.
A man-servant opened the door. Mavis passed in with Mrs Hamilton, for whom a telegram was waiting.
"Dinner at eight to-night, Jarvis; an hour earlier than usual. Lay for four," said Jarvis's mistress, after opening the telegram.
"Yes, ma'am," replied Jarvis, as Mrs Hamilton walked upstairs to the drawing-room, followed by Mavis.
Accustomed as Mavis had been of late to bed-sitting rooms or shabby lodging-house parlours, her first glimpse of Mrs Hamilton's richly-furnished drawing-room almost took away her breath. It was not so much the richness of the furniture which astonished her, as the daring scheme of decoration and the profusion of expensive nicknacks scattered about the room; these last were eloquent of Mrs Hamilton's ability to satisfy any whim, however costly it might be. The walls were panelled in white; white curtains were drawn across the windows; black bearskins covered the floor; the furniture was dark, formal, much of it carved; here and there on the white panelling of the walls were black Wedgwood plaques; black Wedgwood china stood audaciously upon and inside cabinets. A large grand piano and the cheerful blaze of a wood fire mitigated the severity of the room.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed Mavis.
"You like it?"
"It's the loveliest room I've ever been in."
"It's your home if we hit it off."
"Do you think we shall?"
"Up to now I don't see any reason why we shouldn't."
Mavis again breathed thanks to Heaven for having so generously answered her prayer. She felt how she would like to tell of her experience to any who denied the efficacy of personal supplication to God.
"Shall I play to you?" asked Mavis, after they had talked for some minutes.
"I don't like music," replied Mrs Hamilton.
"Not?"
"I don't understand it. Let's go upstairs to my room."
If she did not care for music, Mavis wondered why she had made a point of asking if she (Mavis) could play.
Mrs Hamilton's bedroom was a further revelation to the girl; she looked wide-eyed at the Louis Seize gilt furniture, the tapestry, the gilt-edged screens, the plated bath in a corner of the room, the superb dressing-table bestrewed with gold toilet nicknacks.
"Do you like my bed?" asked Mrs Hamilton, who was watching the girl's undisguised wonder.
"I haven't had time to take in the other things."
Mavis looked at the bed; it stood in an alcove on the side of the room furthest from where she was. It was long, low, and gilded; plum-coloured curtains rose in voluptuous folds till they were joined near the ceiling by a pair of big silver doves.
"Do you like it?" asked Mrs Hamilton.
"Like is scarcely the word. I've never imagined anything like it in my life."
"It belonged to Madame du Barri, the mistress of a French king."
"I've read something about her."
"He always wished to give her a toilette set of pure gold, but could never quite afford it. I hope to get one next year if things go well."
Mavis stared at Mrs Hamilton in wide-eyed amazement. The rich woman appeared to take no notice of the girl's surprise, and said:
"Sit by the fire with me a moment. It will soon be time for you to dress."
"Dress! I've only what I've got on with me. My one poor evening dress would look absurd in this house."
"I told you I'd see to that," replied Mrs Hamilton. "I've had a young friend staying with me who was just about your build. She left one or two of her evening dresses behind her. If they don't quite fit, my maid will take them in."
"You are good to me," said Mavis.
"If you like it, I'll give you one."
"How can I ever thank you?"
"You can to-night."
"To-night?"
"Listen. I've two old friends coming to dinner. One is a Mr—Mr Ellis, but he won't interest you a bit."
"Why not?"
"He's old and is already infatuated."
"Isn't the other, then?" asked Mavis lightly.
"Mr—Mr Williams! No. I wonder if you'd interest him."
"I don't suppose so for one moment," remarked Mavis.
"You're too modest. Mr Williams is young, good-looking, rich."
"Money doesn't interest me."
"Nonsense!"
"Really, it doesn't."
"Not after your wanting work for so long?"
"Not a bit."
"Not when you see it can buy things like mine?"
"Of course money is wonderful, but it isn't everything."
"You say that because you don't know. Money is power, happiness, contentment, life. And you know it in your heart of hearts. Every woman, who is anything at all, knows it. Surely, after all you've gone through, it appeals to you?"
Mrs Hamilton anxiously watched Mavis's face.
"Not a bit like it seems to—to some people," replied Mavis.
Mrs Hamilton's face fell. She was lost in anxious thought for some moments.
"Do you mind?" asked Mavis.
"Of course not. But we'll talk it over after you've seen Mr Williams."
"But is it so necessary for his happiness that he should be infatuated with anyone?"
"It might keep him from worse things. He's very impulsive and romantic. I've quite a motherly interest in the boy. You might assist me to reclaim him."
[Footnote: ]Although Mrs Hamilton spoke such maternal sentiments, Mavis looked in vain for the motherly expression upon her face, which she felt should inevitably accompany such words. Mrs Hamilton's face was hard, expressionless, cold. Presently she said:
"If you would care to go to your room, it's on the next floor, and the second door you come to on the right. If it isn't good enough, let me know."
"It's sure to be," remarked Mavis.
"Parkins, my maid, will come to you in ten minutes. Rest till then, as to-night I want you to look your best."
Mavis thanked and left Mrs Hamilton. She then found her way to her chamber. She was as surprised and delighted with this as she had been with the other two rooms, perhaps more so, because she reflected, with an immense satisfaction, that it might be her very own. The room was furnished throughout with satinwood; blue china bowls decorated the tops of cabinets; a painted satinwood spinet stood in a corner; the hearth was open and tiled throughout with blue Dutch tiles; the fire burned in a brass brazier which was suspended from the chimney.
Thought Mavis, as she looked rapturously about her:
"Just the room I should love to have had for always, if—if things had been different."
A door on the right of the fireplace attracted her. She turned the handle of this, to find it opened on to a luxuriously fitted bathroom, in a corner of which a fire was burning. Mavis returned to the bedroom, still wondering at the sudden change in her fortunes; even now, with all these tangible evidences of the alteration in her condition, she could scarcely believe it to be true: it all seemed like something out of a book or on the stage, two forms of distraction which, according to Miss Allen, did anything but represent life as it really was. She was still mentally agape at her novel surroundings when Parkins, Mrs Hamilton's maid, entered the room to dress Mavis.
Parkins's appearance surprised her; she was wholly unlike her conception of what a lady's-maid should be. Instead of being unassumingly dressed, quiet, self-effacing, Parkins was a bold, buxom wench, with large blue eyes and a profusion of fair hair. She wore white lace underskirts, openwork silk stockings, and showy shoes. Her manner was that of scarcely veiled familiarity. She carried upon her arm a gorgeous evening gown.
Mavis made an elaborate toilette. She bathed, presently to clothe herself in the many delicate garments which Mrs Hamilton had provided. Her hair was dressed by Parkins; later, when she put on the evening frock, she hardly knew herself. The gown was of grey chiffon, embroidered upon the bodice and skirt with silver roses; grey silk stockings, grey silver embroidered shoes completed the toilette.
"Madam sent you these," said Parkins, returning to the room after a short absence.
"Those!" cried Mavis, as her eyes were attracted by the pearl necklaces and other costly jewels which the maid had brought.
"Madam entertains very rich gentlemen; she likes everyone about her to look their best."
Mavis, with faint reluctance, let Parkins do as she would with her. The pearl necklaces were roped about her neck; gold bracelets were put upon her arms; a thin platinum circlet, which supported a large emerald, was clasped about her head.
Mavis stood to look at herself in the glass. She could scarcely believe that the tall, queenly, ardent-looking girl was the same tired, dispirited creature who had listlessly pinned on her hat of a morning before tramping out, in all weathers, to search for work. She gazed at herself for quite two minutes; whatever happened, the memory of how she looked in all this rich finery was something to remember.
"Will I do?" she asked of Mrs Hamilton, when that person, very richly garbed, came into the room.
Mrs Hamilton looked her all over before replying:
"Yes, you'll do."
"I'm glad."
"I never make a mistake. You can go, Parkins."
When the maid had left the room, Mrs Hamilton said:
"I'm going to introduce you to my friends as Miss Devereux."
"But—"
"I wish it."
"But—"
Mavis did not at all like this resolve.
"It was the name of my last companion, and I've got used to it. Besides, I wish it."
Mavis resented Mrs Hamilton's sudden assumption of authority; it quickened the vague feelings of dislike which she had felt in her presence, the vague feelings of dislike which reminded her of—of—ah! She remembered now. It was the same uncomfortable sensation which she had always experienced when Mrs Stanley stood by her in "Dawes'."
This discovery of the identity of the two emotions set Mavis wondering if either had anything to do with the character of the two women who had inspired them, and, if so, whether Mrs Hamilton followed the same loathsome calling as Mrs Stanley. Mavis comforted her mind's disquiet by reflecting how Miss Allen had, most likely, not told the truth about Mrs Stanley's occupation; also, by remembering how her present situation was the result of a direct, personal appeal to the Almighty, which precluded the remotest possibility of her being exposed to risk of insult or harm. She had little time for thinking on the matter, for Mrs Hamilton said:
"Mr Ellis has already come. Mr Williams will be here any moment. We'd better go down."
Mavis followed Mrs Hamilton to the drawing-room, where a man rose at their entrance, to whom Mavis was introduced as Miss Devereux.
He scarcely glanced at Mavis, gave her the most formal of bows, and, as the few remarks he made were directed to Mrs Hamilton, the girl had plenty of time in which to observe him. He was elderly, tall, distinguished-looking. He had the indefinable air of being, not only a man of wealth, but a "somebody." She was chiefly attracted by his grey eyes, which seemed dead and lifeless. The underlids of these were pencilled with countless small lines, which, with the weary, dull eyes, seemed quite out of keeping with the otherwise keenly intellectual face.
Mavis secretly resented the man's indifference to her comeliness. A few minutes later, the servant opened the door to announce Mr Williams, whereupon a tall, sun-bronzed, smart-looking man sauntered into the room. Something in his carriage and face suggested soldier to Mavis's mind. He was by no means handsome, but what might have been a somewhat plain face was made pleasant-looking by the deep sunburn and the kindliness of his expression.
Williams shook hands with Mrs Hamilton, nodded to Ellis, and then turned to Mavis. Directly he saw her, a look of surprise came into his face; the girl could not help seeing how greatly he was struck by her appearance. Mrs Hamilton introduced them, when he at once came to her side.
"Just think of it," he said, "I was in no hurry to get here. If I had only known!"
"Known what?" asked Mavis.
"That's asking something. In return I'm going to ask you a question."
"Well?"
"What is it like to be so charming?"
The same question asked by another man might have offended her. There was such a note of sincere, boyish admiration in the man's voice, that she had said, almost before she was aware of it:
"Rather nice."
He said more in the same strain. Mavis found herself greatly enjoying the thinly veiled compliments which he paid her. It was the first time since she had grown up that she had spoken to a smart man, who was obviously a gentleman. If this were not enough to thaw her habitual reserve, there was something strangely familiar in the young man's face and manner; it almost seemed to Mavis as if she were talking with a very old friend or acquaintance, which was enough to justify the unusual levity of her behaviour.
Once or twice, she caught Mrs Hamilton's eye, when she could not help seeing how her friend was much pleased at the way in which she attracted Mr Williams.
When he was taking the girl down to dinner, he murmured:
"May I call here often?"
"There's no charge for admission," replied Mavis.
"It wouldn't make any difference to me if there were."
"How nice to be so reckless!"
"I'm a lot in town for the next three months. I want to get as much out of life as I can."
"From school?"
"Aldershot."
"Are you in the service?"
"Eh!"
"If you are, haven't you any rank at your age?" asked Mavis.
"How do you know I'm not a Tommy?" he asked.
"That's what I thought you were," she retorted.
Mavis and Mrs Hamilton faced each other at table; Williams sat on her right, Ellis on her left. The conversation at the dinner-table was, almost exclusively, between the soldier and Mavis. Ellis scarcely spoke to his hostess, and then only when compelled.
"What will you drink?" asked Mrs Hamilton of Mavis.
"Water, please."
"Water?" echoed Mrs Hamilton.
Mr Ellis looked keenly at Mavis.
"Have some champagne," continued Mrs Hamilton.
"I'd fall under the table if I did. I'll have water. I never drink anything else," said Mavis.
"I never drink anything else except champagne," retorted Mrs Hamilton. "Look here, if Miss Devereux drinks water I shall," declared Williams.
"Do. The change will do you good," replied Mavis.
"See what I've let myself in for," said Williams, as he kept his word.
As the servant was about to pour out champagne for Mr Ellis, Mrs Hamilton said:
"Stop! I've something special for you."
She then whispered to the servant, who left the room to bring back a curious, old bottle. When this was opened, a golden wine poured into Mr Ellis's glass, where it bubbled joyously, as if rejoicing at being set free from its long imprisonment.
As the wine was poured out, Mavis noticed how Mr Ellis's eye caught Mrs Hamilton's.
The meal was long, elaborate, sumptuous. Mavis wondered when the procession of toothsome delicacies would stop. She enjoyed herself immensely; her unaccustomed personal adornment, the cosy room, the shaded lights, the lace table-cloth, the manner in which the food was served, above all, the manly, admiring personality of Mr Williams, all irresistibly appealed to her, largely because the many joyous instincts of her being had been starved for so long.
She surrendered herself body and soul to the exhilaration of the moment, as if conscious that it was all too good to be true; that her surroundings might any moment fade; that her gay clothes would disappear, and that she would again find herself, heartsick and weary, in her comfortless little combined room at Mrs Bilkins's. At the same time, her natural alertness took in everything going on about her.
As the dinner progressed, she could not help seeing how Mr Ellis's eyes seemed to awaken from their torpor; but the life that came into them was such that Mavis much preferred them as they originally were. They sparkled hungrily; it seemed to the girl as if they had a fearful, hunted, and, at the same time, eager, unholy look, as if they sought refuge in some deadly sin in order to escape a far worse fate. Mavis's and Williams's gaiety was infectious. Ellis frequently joined in the raillery proceeding between the pair; it was as if Mavis's youth, comeliness, and charm compelled homage from the pleasure-worn man of the world. Mrs Hamilton, all this while, said little; she left the entertaining to Mavis, who was more than equal to the effort; it seemed to the joy-intoxicated girl as if she were the bountiful hostess, Mrs Hamilton a chance guest at her table. The appearance of strawberries at dessert (it was January) made a lull in Mavis's enjoyment: the out-of-season fruit reminded her of the misery which could be alleviated with the expenditure of its cost. She was silent for a few moments, which caused Ellis to ask:
"I say, Windebank, what have you said to our friend?"
Mavis looked up quickly, to see a look of annoyance on Mrs Hamilton's face.
"Williams, I should have said," corrected Ellis. "I muddled the two names. What have you said to our friend that she should be so quiet all at once?"
"Give it up," replied Williams. "Perhaps she's offended at our childishness."
The men talked. Mrs Hamilton, with something of an effort, joined in the conversation. Mavis was silent; she wondered how Mr Ellis came to address Mr Williams as "Windebank," which was also the name of the friend of the far-away days when her father was alive. She reflected how Archie Windebank would be now twenty-eight, an age that might well apply to Mr Williams. Associated with these thoughts was an uneasy feeling, which had been once or twice in her mind, that the two men at table were far too distinguished-looking to bear such commonplace names as Ellis and Williams. The others rallied her on her depression. Striving to believe that she must be mistaken in her suspicions, she made an effort to end the perplexities that were beginning to confront her.
"Are you at Aldershot for long?" asked Mavis of Mr Williams.
"I scarcely know: one never does know these things."
"Do you come up often?"
"I shall now."
"To see your people?"
"They live in the west of England."
"Wiltshire?"
"How did you know?"
"I didn't; I guessed."
"Wherever they are, I don't see so much of them as I should."
"How considerate of you!"
"Isn't it? But they're a bit too formidable even for one of my sober tastes."
"I see. They're interesting and clever."
"If Low Church and frumpy clothes are cleverness, they're geniuses," he remarked.
"Of course, you prefer High Church and low bodices," retorted Mavis.
Soon after, Mrs Hamilton and Mavis left the men and went upstairs to the drawing-room. The girl was uneasy in her mind as to how Mrs Hamilton would take the fact of her having considerably eclipsed her employer at table; now that they were alone together, she feared some token of Mrs Hamilton's displeasure.
To her surprise and delight, this person said:
"You're an absolute treasure."
"You think so?"
"I don't think; I know. But then, I never make a mistake."
"I'm glad you're pleased."
"I'm not pleased; delighted is more the word. You're worth your weight in gold."
"I wish I were."
"But you will be, if you follow my advice. At first, I thought you a bit of a mug. I don't mind telling you, now I see how smart you are."
Mavis looked puzzled; the extravagant eulogy of her conduct seemed scarcely to be justified.
"You can see Williams is head over ears in love with you. So far, he's been beastly stand-offish to anyone I put him on to," continued Mrs Hamilton.
"Indeed!" said Mavis coldly. She disliked Mrs Hamilton's coarse manner of expressing herself.
Mrs Hamilton did not notice the frown on the girl's forehead, but went on:
"As for that idea of drinking water, it was a stroke of genius."
"What?"
"My heart went out to you when you insisted on having it, although I pretended to mind."
Mavis was about to protest her absolute sincerity in the matter, when Parkins, the maid who had dressed her, came into the room. She whispered to her mistress, at which Mrs Hamilton rose hurriedly and said:
"I must leave you for a little time on important business."
"What would you like me to do?" asked Mavis.
"Particularly one thing: don't leave this room."
"Why should I?"
"Quite so. But I want someone here when Mr Williams comes upstairs."
"I'll stick at my post," laughed Mavis, at which Mrs Hamilton and the comely-looking maid left the room.
Left alone, Mavis surrendered herself to the feeling of uneasiness which had been called into being, not only by her employer's strange words, but, also, by the fact of Mr Williams having been addressed by the other man as Windebank. The more she thought of it, the more convinced was she that Mr Ellis had not made a mistake in calling the other man by a different name to the one by which she had been introduced to him. The fact of his having admitted that his home was in Wiltshire, together with the sense of familiarity in his company, seemingly begotten of old acquaintance, tended to strengthen this conviction. On the other hand, if he were indeed the old friend of her childhood, there seemed a purposed coincidence in the fact of their having met again. She did not forget how her presence in Mrs Hamilton's house was the result of an appeal to her Heavenly Father, who, she firmly believed, would not let a human sparrow such as she fall to the ground. She was curious to discover the result of this seemingly preordained meeting. The sentimental speculation engendered a dreamy languor which was suddenly interrupted by a sense of acute disquiet. She was always a girl of abnormal susceptibility to what was going on about her; to such an extent was this sensibility developed, that she had learned to put implicit faith in the intuitions that possessed her. Now, she was certain that something was going on in the house, something that was hideous, unnatural, unholy, the conviction of which seemed to freeze her soul. She had not the slightest doubt on the matter: she felt it in the marrow of her bones.
She placed her hand on her eyes, as if to shut out the horrid certainty; the temporary deprivation of sight but increased the acuteness of her impression, consequently, her uneasiness. She felt the need of space, of good, clean air. The fine drawing-room seemed to confine her being; she hurried to the door in order to escape. Directly she opened it, she found Parkins, the over-dressed maid, outside, who, directly she saw Mavis, barred her further progress.
"What is it, miss?" she asked.
"Mrs Hamilton! I must see her."
"You can't, miss."
"I must. I must. There's something going on. I must see her."
A fearsome expression came over the maid's face as she said:
"I was coming to remind you from madam of your promise to her not to leave the drawing-room."
"I must. I must."
"If I may say so, miss, it will be as much as your place is worth to disobey madam."
These words brought a cold shock of reason to Mavis's fevered excitement.
She looked blankly at the servant for a moment or two, before saying:
"Thank you, Parkins; I will wait inside."
If her many weeks of looking for employment had taught her nothing else, they now told her how worse than foolish it would be to shatter at one blow Mrs Hamilton's good opinion of her. In compliance with her employer's request, she returned to the drawing-room, her nerves all on edge.
Although more convinced than before of the presence of some abomination, she made a supreme effort to divert her thoughts into channels promising relief from her present tension of mind.
She caught up and eagerly examined the first thing that came to hand. It was a large, morocco-bound, gold-edged photograph album; almost before she was aware of it, she was engrossed in its contents. It was full from cover to cover of coloured photographs of women. There were dark girls, fair girls, auburn girls, every type of womanhood to be met with under Northern skies; they ranged from slim girls in their teens to over-ripe beauties, whose principal attraction was the redundance of their figures. For all the immense profusion of varied beauty which the women displayed, they had certainly two qualities in common—they all wore elaborate evening dress; they were all photographed to display to the utmost advantage their physical attractions. Otherwise, thought Mavis, there was surely nothing to differentiate them from the usual run of comely womanhood. Always a lover of beauty, Mavis eagerly scanned the photographs in the book. To her tense imagination, it was like wandering in a highly cultivated garden, where there were flowers of every hue, from the timid shrinking violet and the rosebud, to the over-blown peony, to greet the senses. It was as if she wandered from one to the next, admiring and drinking in the distinctive beauty of each. There were supple, fair-petalled daffodils, white-robed daisies, scarlet-lipped poppies, and black pansies, instinct with passion, all waiting to be culled. It seemed as if a paradise of glad loveliness had been gathered for her delight. They were all dew-bespangled, sun-worshipping, wind-free, as if their only purpose was to languish for some thirsty bee to come and sip greedily of their sweetness. As Mavis looked, another quality, which had previously eluded her, seemed to attach itself to each and all of the flowers, a quality that their calculated shyness now made only the more apparent. It was as if at some time in their lives their petals had been one and all ravaged by some relentless wind; as if, in consequence, they had all dedicated themselves to decorate the altars raised to the honour and glory of love.
Mavis, also, noticed that beneath each photograph was written a number in big figures. Then the book repelled her. She put it down, not before she noticed that, scattered about the room, were other albums filled presumably in the same way as was the other. She had no mind to look at these, being already surfeited with beauty; also, she was more than ever aware of the sense of disquiet which had troubled her before. To escape once more from this, she walked to the piano, opened it, and let her fingers stray over the keys. She had not touched a piano for many weeks, consequently her fingers were stiff and awkward; but in a few minutes they got back something of their old proficiency: almost unconsciously, she strayed into an Andante of Chopin's.
The strange, appealing, almost unearthly beauty of the movement soothed her jangled nerves; before she was aware of it, she was enrapt with the morbid majesty of the music. Although she was dimly conscious that someone had come into the room, she went on playing.
The next definite thing that she knew was that two strong arms were placed about her body, that she was being kissed hotly and passionately upon eyes and lips.
"You darling; you darling; you perfect darling!" cried a voice.
Mavis was too overcome by the suddenness of the assault to know what to be at; her first instinct was to deliver herself from the defiling touch of her assailant. She freed herself with an effort, to see that it was Mr Williams who had so grossly insulted her. Blind rage, shame, outraged pride all struggled for expression; blind rage predominated.
"Oh, you beast!" she cried.
"Eh!"
"You beast! You beast! To do a thing like that!" Then, as she became on better terms with the nature of the vulgar insult to which she had been subjected, her anger blazed out.
"How dare you insult a defenceless girl?"
"But—" the man stammered.
"What have I ever done but try and work to keep away from such things, and now you come and—Oh, you beast—you cruel beast! You'll never know what you have done."
A sense of shame possessed her. She turned away to drop scalding tears. Anger quickly succeeded this brief fit of dejection. It caused her inexpressible pain to think that she, a daughter of a proud family, the girl with the aloof soul, should have been treated in the same way as any fast London shop-girl. She was consumed with passion; she feared what form her rage might take. At least she was determined to have the man turned out of the house. She moved towards the bell.
"If I've made a mistake," began the man, who all this time had been fearfully watching her.
"If you've made a mistake!" she echoed scornfully.
"The best of us do sometimes, you know," he continued.
"Why to me—to me? What have I said or done to encourage you? Why to me?" she cried.
"If I've made a mistake, I'm more sorry than I can say, more sorry than you can guess."
"What's the use of that to me? You touched my lips. Oh, I could tear them!" she cried desperately.
"Will you hear my excuse?"
"There's no excuse. Nothing—nothing will ever make me forget it. Oh, the shame of it!"
Here bitter tears again welled to her eyes.
The man was moved by her extremity.
"I am so very sorry. I wouldn't have had it happen for anything. I didn't know you were in the least like this."
"Why not? If you had met me as I was before I came here there might have been the shadow of an excuse. Do you usually behave to girls you meet at friends' houses like you did to me?"
"In friends' houses?" he asked, emphasising the word "friends."
"You heard what I said?"
"This is scarcely a friend's house."
"Why not?"
"Eh?"
"Why not? Why not? Can't you tell me?"
"But—"
"Why not? Why not? Answer!"
"Is it possible?"
"Is what possible?"
"You don't know the house you're in?"
"What house?" she asked wildly.
The look of terror, of fear, which accompanied this question was enough to dissipate any doubts of the girl's honesty which may have lingered in the man's mind.
"How long have you been here?"
"Three hours."
"And you don't know what Mrs Hamilton is?"
"No."
"What?" he cried excitedly.
"Tell me! Tell me!"
"Just tell me how you met her."
She told him in short words; she was reluctant to make a confidant of the man who had ravished her lips; she was dimly conscious that he may have had a remote excuse for his behaviour. When she had done, he said:
"Mrs Hamilton is one of the worst women in London. She'd have been 'run in' long ago if she weren't so rich and if her clients weren't so influential."
Mavis looked at him wide-eyed.
"That chap at dinner, didn't, you know he was Lord Kegworth? If you don't, you must have heard of the rotten life he's led."
"But—" stammered Mavis.
"Have you seen any photographs since you've been here?"
"Just now—these."
"She's their agent, go between. Here! What am I telling you? You can thank your stars you've met me."
Mavis's frightened eyes looked into his.
"I'm going to get you out of it."
"You?"
"There's not a moment to lose. Get on your things and clear out."
"But Mrs Hamilton—"
"She's busy for a moment. Slip on something over your dress and join me outside the drawing-room. If anyone interferes with you, shout."
"But—"
"Do as I tell you. Hang it! I must do something to try and make up for my blackguard behaviour."
Mavis went from the room, her heart beating with fear of discovery. For the time being, she had forgotten the insult offered her by the man she had left: her one thought was to put as great a space as possible between this accursed house and herself in the least imaginable time. She scarcely knew what she did. She tore off the pearls, the head circlet with its shining emerald, bracelets and other costly gee-gaws, and threw them on the table; she was glad to be rid of them; their touch meant defilement. She kicked off the grey slippers, tore off the silk stockings, and substituted for these her worn, down-at-heel shoes and stockings. There was no time to change her frock, so she pulled the cloak over her evening clothes; she meant to return these latter to their owner the first thing in the morning. She turned her back on the room, that such a short while back she had looked upon as her own, ran down the stairs and joined the man, who was impatiently waiting for her on the landing. Without exchanging a word, they descended to the ground floor. The front door was in sight and Mavis's heart was beating high with hope, when Mrs Hamilton, who looked tired and heated, stood in the passage.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Out for the evening," replied Williams.
"What time shall I expect you back?" she asked of Mavis.
"I'm not coming back," replied Mavis. "I wish I'd never come."
"Then—?"
"Yes," interrupted Williams, anticipating Mrs Hamilton's question.
"You believe and trust a notorious seducer like this man?" asked Mrs Hamilton of Mavis.
"Whatever I am, I ain't that," cried Williams.
"To a man who has ruined more girls than anyone else in London?" continued Mrs Hamilton. "I solemnly warn you that if you go with that man it means your ruin—ruin body and soul."
Mrs Hamilton spoke in such a low, earnest voice, that Mavis, who now recollected Mr Williams's previous behaviour to her, was inclined to waver.
Mrs Hamilton saw her advantage and said:
"Since you disbelieve in me, the least you can do is to go upstairs and take off my clothes."
"She'll do nothing of the kind," cried out the man.
"He doesn't want to lose his prey," Mrs Hamilton remarked to Mavis, who was inclined to falter a little more.
Perhaps Williams saw the weakening of the girl's resolution, for he made a last desperate effort on her behalf.
"Look here," he said, "I'm not a sneak, but, if you don't own up and let Miss Devereux go, I'll fetch in the police."
"You'll what?" cried Mrs Hamilton.
"Fetch in the police. Not to Mrs Hamilton, but to Mrs Bridgeman, Mrs Knight, or Mrs Davis."
Mrs Hamilton's face went white; she looked intently at the man to see if he were in earnest. His resolute eyes convinced her that he was.
The next moment, a torrent of foul words fell from her lips. She abused Mavis; she reviled the man; she accused the two of sin, the while she made use of obscene, filthy phrases, which caused Mavis to put her hands to her ears.
Mavis no longer wavered. She put her hand on the man's arm; the next minute they were out in the street.
"Where now?" asked the man, as the two stood outside in the street.
"Good night," replied Mavis.
"Good night?"
"Good-bye, then."
"Oh no."
"I'm grateful to you for getting me out of that place, but I can never see you or speak to you again."
"But—"
"We needn't go into it. I want to try to forget it, although I never shall. Good-bye."
"I can't let you go like this. Let me drive you home."
"Home!" laughed Mavis scornfully. "I've no home."
"Really no home?"
"I haven't a soul in the world who cares what becomes of me: not a friend in the world. And all I valued you've soiled. It made me hate you, and nothing will ever alter it. Good-bye."
She turned away. The man followed.
"Look here, I'll tell you all about myself, which shows my intentions are straight."
"It wouldn't interest me."
"Why not? You liked me before—before that happened, and, when you've forgiven me, there's no reason why you shouldn't like me again."
"There's every reason."
"My name's Windebank—Archibald Windebank. I'm in the service, and my home is Haycock Abbey, near Melkbridge—"
"You gave me your wrong name!" cried Mavis, who, now that she knew that the man was the friend of her early days, seized on any excuse to get away from him.
"But—"
"Don't follow me. Good-bye."
She crossed the road. He came after her and seized her arm.
"Don't be a fool!" he cried.
"You've hurt me. You're capable of anything," she cried.
"Rot!"
"Oh, you brute, to hurt a girl!"
"I've done nothing of the kind. It would almost have served you right if I had, for being such a little fool. Listen to me—you shall listen," he added, as Mavis strove to leave him.
His voice compelled submission. She looked at him, to see that his face was tense with anger. She found that she did not hate him so much, although she said, as if to satisfy her conscience for listening to him:
"Do you want to insult me again?"
"I want to tell you what a fool you are, in chucking away a chance of lifelong happiness, because you're upset at what I did, when, finding you in that house, I'd every excuse for doing."
"Lifelong happiness?" cried Mavis scornfully.
"You're a woman I could devote my life to. I want to know all about you. Oh, don't be a damn little fool!"
"You're somebody: I'm a nobody. Much better let me go."
"Of course if you want to—"
"Of course I do."
"Then let me see you into a cab."
"A cab! I always go by 'bus, when I can afford it."
"Good heavens! Here, let me drive you home."
"I shouldn't have said that. I'm overwrought to-night. When I'm in work, I'm ever so rich. I know you mean kindly. Let me go."
"I'll do nothing of the kind. It's all very important to me. I'm going to drive you home."
He caught hold of her arm, the while he hailed a passing hansom. When this drew up to the pavement, he said:
"Get in, please."
"But—"
"Get in," he commanded.
The girl obeyed him: something in the man's voice compelled obedience.
He sat beside her.
"Now, tell me your address."
Mavis shook her head.
"Tell me your address."
"Nothing on earth will make me."
"The man's waiting."
"Let him."
"Drive anywhere. I'll tell you where to go later," Windebank called to the cabman.
The cab started. The man and the girl sat silent. Mavis was not reproaching herself for having got into the cab with Windebank; her mind was full of the strange trick which fate had played her in throwing herself and her old-time playmate together. There seemed design in the action. Perhaps, after all, their meeting was the reply to her prayer in the tea-shop.
The cab drove along the almost deserted thoroughfare. It was now between ten and eleven, a time when the flame of the day seems to die down before bursting out into a last brilliance, when the houses of entertainment are emptied into the streets.
Mavis stole a glance at the man beside her. Her eye fell on his opera hat, the rich fur lining of his overcoat; lastly, on his face. His whole atmosphere suggested ample means, self-confidence, easy content with life. Then she looked at her cloak, the condition of which was now little removed from shabbiness. The pressure of her feet on the floor of the cab reminded her how sadly her shoes were down at heel. The contrast between their two states irked Mavis: she was resentful at the fact of his possessing all the advantages in life of which she had been deprived. If he had been visited with the misfortune that had assailed her, and if she had been left scathless, it would not have been so bad: he was a man, who could have fought for his own hand, without being hindered by the obstacles which weigh so heavily on those of her own sex, who seek to win for themselves a foothold on the slippery inclines of life. She found herself hating him more for his prosperity than for the way in which he had insulted her.
"Have you changed your mind?" asked Windebank presently.
"No."
"Likely to?"
"No."
"We can't talk here, and a fog's coming up. Wouldn't you like something to eat?"
"I'm not hungry—now."
"Where do you usually feed?"
"At an Express Dairy."
"Eh!"
"You get a large cup of tea for tuppence there."
"A tea-shop! But it wouldn't be open so late."
"Lockhart's is."
"Lockhart's?"
"The Cocoa Rooms. In the 'First Class' you find quite a collection of shabby gentility. And you'd never believe what a lot you can get there for tuppence."
"Eh!"
"I'll tell you, you might find it useful some day; one never knows. You can get a huge cup of tea or coffee—a bit stewed—but, at least, it's warm; also, four huge pieces of bread and butter, and a good, long, lovely rest."
"Good God!"
"For tuppence more you can get sausages; sixpence provides a meal; a shilling a banquet. Can't we find a 'Lockhart'?"
The man said nothing. The cab drove onward. Mavis, now that her resentment against Windebank's prosperity had found relief in words, was sorry that she had spoken as she had. After all, the man's well-being was entirely his own affair; it was not remotely associated with the decline in the fortunes of her family. She would like to say or do something to atone for her bitter words.
"Poor little girl! Poor little girl!"
This was said by Windebank feelingly, pityingly; he seemed unconscious that they had been overheard by Mavis. She was firmly, yes, quite firmly, resolved to hate him, whatever he might do to efface her animosity.
Meanwhile, the cab had fetched something of a compass, and had now turned into Regent Street.
"Here we are: this'll do," suddenly cried Windebank.
"What for?"
"Grub. Hi, stop!"
Obedient to his summons, the cabman stopped. Mavis got out on the pavement, where she stood irresolute.
"You'll come in?"
Mavis did not reply.
"We must have a talk. Please, please don't refuse me this."
"I shan't eat anything."
"If you don't, I shan't."
"I won't—I swear I won't accept the least favour from you."
She looked at him resentfully: she would go any lengths to conceal her lessening dislike for him.
"You'd better wait," he called to the cabman, as he led the way to a restaurant.
Two attendants, in gold-laced coats, opened double folding doors at the approach of the man and the girl.
Mavis found herself in a large hall, elaborately decorated with red and gold, upon the floor of which were many tables, that just now were sparsely occupied.
Windebank looked from table to table, as if in search of something. His eye, presently, rested on one, at which an elderly matron was supping with a parson, presumably her husband.
"Good luck!" Windebank murmured, adding to the girl, "This way."
Mavis followed him up the hall to the table next the one where the elderly couple were sitting.
"This is about our mark," he said.
"Why specially here?" she asked.
"Those elderly geesers are a sort of chaperone for unprotected innocence; a parson and all that," he remarked.
She could hardly forbear smiling at his conception of protection.
A waiter assisted her with her cloak. When she took a seat opposite to Windebank, he said:
"I like this place; there's no confounded music to interfere with what one's got to say."
"I like music," Mavis remarked.
"Then let's go where they have it," he suggested, half rising.
"I want to go straight home, if you'll let me."
"Then we'll stay here. What are you going to eat?"
"Nothing."
"Rot! Here's the waiter chaps. Tell 'em what you want."
Two waiters approached the table, one with a list of food, the other with like information concerning wines, which, at a nod from Windebank, they put before Mavis.
She glanced over these; beyond noticing the high prices charged, she gave no attention to the lists' contents.
"Well?" said Windebank.
"I'm not hungry and I'm not thirsty," remarked Mavis.
"You heard what I said, and I'm awfully hungry!"
"That's your affair."
"If you won't decide, I'll decide for you."
The waiters handed him the menus, from which, after much thought, he ordered an elaborate meal. When the waiters hastened to execute his orders, he found Mavis staring at him wide-eyed.
"Are you entertaining your regiment?" she asked.
"You," he replied.
"But—"
"It isn't much, but it's the best they've got. Whatever it is, it's in honour of our first meeting."
"I shan't eat a thing," urged Mavis.
"You won't sit there and see me starve?"
"There won't be time. I have to get back."
"But, however much you hate me, you surely haven't the heart to send me supperless to bed?"
"You shouldn't make silly resolutions."
As Windebank did not speak for some moments, Mavis looked at her surroundings. Men and women in evening dress were beginning to trickle in from theatres, concerts, and music hall. She noticed how they all wore a bored expression, as if it were with much of an effort that they had gone out to supper.
"Don't move! Keep looking like that," cried Windebank suddenly.
"Why?" she asked, quickly turning to him.
"Now you've spoiled it," he complained.
"Spoiled what?"
"Your expression. Good heavens!"
The exclamation was a signal for retrospection on Windebank's part. When he next spoke, he said:
"Is your name, by any wonderful chance, Mavis Keeves?"
"What?"
"Answer my question. Is your name Mavis Keeves: Mavis Weston Keeves in full?"
"You know it isn't. That woman told you what it was."
"She didn't tell you my name, and I thought she might have done the same by you. And when I saw that expression in your face—"
"Who is Mavis Keeves?"
"A little girl I knew when I was a kid. She'd hair and eyes like yours, and when I saw you then—but you haven't answered my question. Is your name Mavis Weston Keeves?"
Mavis had decided what to reply if further directly questioned.
"No, it isn't," she answered.
"Confound! I might have known. It's much too good to be true."
While Mavis was tortured with self-reproach at having told a lie, soup, in gilt cups, was set before Windebank and Mavis, the latter of whom was more than ever resolved to accept no hospitality from the man who appeared sincerely anxious to befriend her. The fact of her having told him a lie seemed, in the eyes of her morbidly active conscience, to put her under an obligation to him, an indebtedness that she was in no mind to increase. She folded her hands on the napkin, and again looked about her.
"Don't you want that stuff?" Windebank asked.
"No, thank you."
"Neither do I. Take it away!"
The waiters removed the soup, to substitute, almost immediately, an appetising preparation of fish. At the same time an elderly, important-mannered man poured out wine with every conceivable elaboration of his office.
"Don't refuse this. The place is famous for it," urged Windebank.
"You know what I said. I mean it more than ever."
"Don't you know that obstinacy is one of the seven deadly sins?"
"Is it?"
"If it isn't, it ought to be. Do change your mind."
"Nothing will make me," she replied icily.
He signalled to the waiters to remove the food.
"What a jolly night we're having!" he genially remarked, when the men were well out of hearing.
"I'm afraid I've spoiled your evening."
"Not at all. I like a good feed. It does one good."
Mavis would have been hard put to it to repress a smile at this remark, had she not suddenly remembered how she had left her purse in the pocket of the frock that she had left behind her at Mrs Hamilton's; she realised that she would have to walk to Mrs Bilkins's. The fact of having no money to pay a 'bus fare reminded her how the cab was waiting outside.
"You've forgotten your cab," she remarked.
"What cab?"
"The one you told to wait outside."
"What of it?"
"Won't he charge?"
"Of course. What of it?"
"What an extravagance!" she commented.
She could say no more; a procession of dishes commenced: meats, ices, sweetmeats, fruit, wines, coffee, liqueurs; all of which were refused, first by Mavis, then by Windebank.
Mavis, who had been accustomed to consider carefully the spending of a penny, was appalled at the waste. She had hoped that Windebank, after seeing how she was resolved to keep her word, would have countermanded the expensive supper he had ordered; failing this, that the management of the restaurant would not charge for the unconsumed meats and wine. Windebank would have been flattered could he have known of Mavis's consideration for his pocket.
He and the girl talked when the attendants were out of the way, to stop conversing when they were immediately about them; the two would resume where they had left off, directly they were sure of not being overheard.
"Just imagine, if you were little Mavis Keeves grown up," began Windebank.
"Never mind about her," replied Mavis uneasily.
"But I do. I loved her, the cheeky little wretch."
"Was she?"
"A little flirt, too."
"Oh no."
"Fact. I think it made me love her all the more."
"Are you trying to make me jealous?" she asked, making a sad little effort to be light-hearted.
"I wish I could. There was a chap named Perigal, whom the little flirt preferred to me."
"Perigal?"
"Charlie Perigal. We were laughing about it only the week before last."
"He loved her too?"
"Rather. I remember we both subscribed to buy her a birthday present. Anyway, the week before last, we both asked each other what had become of her, and promised to let each other know if we heard anything of her."
"If I were Mavis Keeves, would you let him know?"
"No fear."
Mavis smiled at the reply.
"Then we come to to-day," continued Windebank.
"The least said of to-day the better."
"I'm not so sure; it may have the happiest results."
"Don't talk nonsense."
"Do let me go on. Assuming you were little Mavis, where do I find her—eh?"
Here Windebank's face hardened.
"That woman ought to be shot," he cried. "As it is, I've a jolly good mind to show her up. And to think she got you there!"
"Ssh!"
"You've no idea what a house it is. It's quite the worst thing of its kind in London."
"Then what were you doing there?"
"Eh!"
"What were you doing there?"
"I'm not a plaster saint," he replied.
"Who said you were?"
"And I'm interested in life: curious to see all sides of it. She's often asked me, but to-night, when she wired to say she'd a paragon coming to dinner, I went."
"She wired?"
"To-night. It all but missed me. I'm no end of glad it didn't."
"I suppose I ought to be glad too," remarked Mavis.
"I know you think me a bad egg, but I'm not; I'm not really," he went on, to add, after a moment's pause, "I believe at heart I'm a sentimentalist."
"What's that?"
"A bit of a bally fool where the heart is concerned. What?"
"I think all nice people are that," she murmured.
"Thanks."
"I wasn't including you," she remarked.
"Eat that ice."
"Wild horses wouldn't make me."
"You'd eat it if you knew what pleasure it would give me."
"You want me to break my word?" she said, with a note of defiance in her voice.
"Have your own way."
"I mean to,"
The ices were taken away. Windebank went on talking.
"You've no idea how careful a chap with domestic instincts, who isn't altogether a pauper, has to be. Women make a dead set at him."
"Poor dear!" commented Mavis.
"Fact. You mayn't believe it, but every woman—nearly every woman he meets—goes out of her way to have a go at him."
"Nonsense!"
Windebank did not heed the interruption; he went on:
"Old Perigal, Charlie Perigal's father, is a rum old chap; lives alone and never sees anyone and all that. One day he asked me to call, and what d'ye think he said?"
"Give it up."
"Boy! you're commencing life, and you should know this: always bear in mind the value of money and the worthlessness of most women. Good-bye."
"What a horrid old man!"
"Yes, that's what he said."
"And do you bear it in mind?"
"Money I don't worry about. I've more than I know what to do with. As to women, I'm jolly well on my guard."
"You're as bad as old Perigal, every bit."
"But one has to be. Have some of these strawberries?"
"No, thank you."
"You ate 'em fast enough at Mrs What's-her-name's."
"It was different then."
"Yes, wasn't it? Take 'em away."
These last words were spoken to the waiters, who were now accustomed to removing the untasted dishes almost as soon as they were put upon the table.
"Have the coffee when it comes. It'll warm you for the fog outside."
"Thanks, I'm not used to coddling."
"Then you ought to be. But about what we were saying: then, I quite thought old Perigal a pig for saying that about women; now, I know he's absolutely right."
"Absolutely wrong."
"Eh!"
"Absolutely wrong. It's the other way about. It's men who're worthless, not poor women; and they don't care what they drag us down to so long as they get their own ends," cried Mavis.
"Nonsense!" he commented.
"I've been out in the world and have seen what goes on," retorted Mavis.
"It isn't my experience."
"Men are always in the right. No coffee, thank you."
"Sure?"
"Quite."
"No; it is not my experience," he went on. "Take the case of all the chaps I know who've married women who played up to them. Without exception they curse in their hearts the day they met them."
"If anything's wrong, it's owing to the husband's selfishness."
"Little Mavis—I'm going to call you that—you don't know what rot you're talking."
"Rot is often the inconvenient common sense of other people," commented Mavis.
"It isn't as if marriage were for a day," he went on, "or for a week, or two years. Then, it wouldn't matter very much whom one married. But it's for a lifetime, whether it turns out all right or whether it don't. What?"
"I see; you'd have men choose wives as you would a house or an umbrella," she suggested.
"People would be a jolly sight happier if they did," he replied, to add, after looking intently at Mavis: "Though, after all, I believe I'm talking rot. When one's love time comes, nothing else in the world matters; every other consideration goes phut, as it should."