The next morning, Mavis was awakened by Mrs Bilkins bringing her a cup
of tea.
"Bless my soul!" cried Mrs Bilkins, almost spilling the tea in her
agitation.
"What's the matter?"
"You've got your window open. It's a wonder you're alive."
"I always sleep with it open."
"Well, you are funny. What will you do next?"
Mrs Bilkins sat on the bed, seemingly inclined to gossip. Mavis did not
discourage her; for some reason, the landlady was looking different
from when she had seen her the day before. Curious to discover the
cause, she let the woman ramble on unchecked about the way in which
"her son, a Bilkins," had "demeaned himself" by marrying a servant.
Then it occurred to Mavis that the way in which Mrs Bilkins had done
her hair was the reason for her changed appearance: she had arranged it
in imitation of the manner in which Mavis wore hers.
Presently, Mavis told the woman how she had got temporary employment,
and added:
"But it's work I'm quite unaccustomed to."
To her surprise, Mrs Bilkins bridled up.
"Just like me. I ain't used to letting lodgin's; far from it."
"Indeed!" remarked Mavis.
"Oh, well, if you don't believe me, ask Mrs Bonus."
When Mavis came downstairs, she found Mrs Bilkins busy trimming a hat.
The next day, the landlady wore it about the house, when Mavis was
surprised and amused to see that it was a shabby imitation of her own.
At first, she could scarcely believe such emulation to be possible, but
when, after buying a necessary pair of gloves, she found that her
landlady had got a new pair for herself, she saw that Mrs Bilkins was
possessed by jealousy of her lodger. This belief was strengthened by
the fact of Mrs Bilkins making copious reference to past prosperity
directly Mavis made innocent mention of former events in her life which
pointed to her having been better off than she was at present. It was
fourteen days before Miss Nippett's chilblains were sufficiently healed
to allow her to take her place at "Poulter's" piano. During this time,
Mavis became on friendly terms with the dancing-master; the more she
saw of him, the more he became endeared to the lonely girl. Apart from
his vanity where the academy was concerned (a harmless enough foible,
which saddened quite as much as it amused Mavis), he was the simplest,
the kindliest of men. He was very poor; although his poverty largely
arose from the advantage which pupils and parents took of his boundless
good nature, Mavis did not hear him utter a complaining word of a
living soul, always excepting Gellybrand.
She learned how Mr Poulter had been happily married, although
childless; also, that his wife had died of a chill caught by walking
home, insufficiently clad, from an "All Night" in bleak weather. For
all the pain that her absence caused in his life, he looked bravely,
confidently forward (sometimes with tears in his eyes) to when they
should meet again, this time never to part. When the evenings were
fine, Mr Poulter would take Miss Nippett and Mavis for a ride on a tram
car, returning in time for the night classes. Upon one of these
excursions, someone in the tram car pointed out Mr Poulter to a friend
in the hearing of the dancing-master; this was enough to make Mr
Poulter radiantly happy for the best part of two days, much to Mavis's
delight.
Another human trait in the proprietor of "Poulter's" was that he was
insensible to Miss Nippett's loyalty to the academy, he taking her
devotion as a matter of course.
Miss Nippett and Mavis, also, became friends; the latter was moved by
the touching faith which the shrivelled-up little accompanist had in
the academy, its future, and, above all, its proprietor. If the rivalry
between "Poulter's" and "Gellybrand's" could have been decided by an
appeal to force, Miss Nippett would have been found in the van of
"Poulter's" adherents, firmly imbued with the righteousness of her
cause. She lived in Blomfield Road, Shepherd's Bush, a depressing,
blind little street, at the end of which was a hoarding; this latter
shut off a view of a seemingly boundless brickfield. Miss Nippett
rented a top back room at number 19, where, on one Sunday afternoon,
Mavis, being previously invited, went to tea. The little room was neat
and clean; tea, a substantial meal, was served on the big black box
which stood at the foot of Miss Nippett's bed. After tea, Miss Nippett
showed, with much pride, her little treasures, which were chiefly
pitiful odds and ends picked up upon infrequent excursions to Isle of
Thanet watering-places. Her devotion to these brought a lump to Mavis's
throat. After the girl had inspected and admired these household gods,
she was taken to the window, in order to see the view, now lit by a
brilliant full moon. Mavis looked over a desert of waste land and
brickfield to a hideous, forbidding-looking structure in the distance.
"Ain't it beautiful?" asked Miss Nippett.
"Y--yes," assented Mavis.
"Almost as good as reel country."
"Almost."
"Why, I declare, you can see the 'Scrubbs': you are in luck to-day."
"What's the 'Scrubbs'?"
"The 'Scrubbs' prison. Oh, I say, you are ignorant!"
"I'm afraid I am," sighed Mavis.
"It ain't often you can see the 'Scrubbs' at this time of year 'cause
of the fog," remarked Miss Nippett, whose eyes were still glued to the
window.
Presently, when she drew the curtains, she looked contentedly round the
little room before saying:
"I often think that, after all, there's no place like a good 'ome."
"If you're lucky enough to have one," assented Mavis heartfully.
"Sometimes I like it even better than 'Poulter's'; you know, when
you've got a waltz in your 'ead, and 'ate it, and 'ave to play it over
and over again. But every bit of this here furniture is mine and paid
for."
"Really?" asked Mavis, feigning surprise to please her friend.
"I can show you the receipts if you don't b'lieve me."
"But I do."
"Being at the academy makes me business-like. But there! if I haven't
forgotten something; reelly I 'ave."
"What?"
"One moment: let me bring the light."
Miss Nippett led the way to the landing immediately outside her door,
where she unlocked a roomy cupboard, crammed to its utmost capacity
with odds and ends of cheap feminine adornment. Mangy evening boas,
flimsy wraps, down-at-heel dancing shoes, handkerchiefs, gloves, powder
puffs, and odd bits of ribbon were jumbled together in heaped disorder.
"D'ye know what they is?" asked Miss Nippett.
"Give it up," replied Mavis.
"They're the 'overs.'"
"What on earth's that?"
"Oh, I say, you are ignorant; reelly you are. 'Overs' is what's left
and unclaimed at 'Poulter's.'"
"Really?"
"They're my 'perk,'" which last word Mavis took to be an abbreviation
of perquisite.
Mavis looked curiously at the heap of forgotten finery: had she lately
lived among more prosperous surroundings, she might have glanced
contemptuously at this collection of tawdry flummery; but, if her
sordid struggles to make both ends meet had taught her nothing else,
they had given her a keen sympathy for all forms of endeavour, however
humble, to escape, if only for a crowded hour, from the debasing round
of uncongenial toil. Consequently, she looked with soft eyes at the
pile of unclaimed "overs." None knew better than she of the sacrifices
that the purchase of the cheapest of these entailed; her observation
had told her with what pride they were worn, the infinite pleasure
which their possession bestowed on their owner. The cupboard's contents
seemed to Mavis to be eloquent of pinched meals, walks in bad weather
to save 'bus fares, mean economies bravely borne; to cry aloud of
pitiful efforts made by young hearts to secure a brief taste of their
rightful heritage of joy, of which they had been dispossessed.
Mavis turned away with a sigh.
Presently, in the cosiness of the bed-sitting room, Miss Nippett became
confidential.
"Are you ambitious?" she asked.
"I don't know," replied Mavis.
"I mean REELLY ambitious."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, like I am. I'm reelly ambitious."
"Indeed!"
"I want to be a partner in 'Poulter's.' Not for the money, you
understand, but for the honour. If I was made a partner, I'd die 'appy.
See?"
"I don't see why you shouldn't be some day. Mr Poulter might reward you
that way for your years of faithful service."
As Mavis walked back to Kiva Street, she asked herself the question
that Miss Nippett had asked her, "Was she ambitious?"
Now, her chief concern was to earn her daily bread. It was not so very
long ago that her ambition was in some way bound up with the romantic
fancies which she was then so fond of weaving. Now, the prospect of
again having to fight for the privilege of bread-winning drove all
thought from her mind beyond this one desire--to keep afloat without
exhibiting signals of distress to the Devitts.
Three days before Mavis left "Poulter's," she assisted at a Third
Saturday Night which was held, as usual, on that Saturday of the month
at the Athenaeum, Shepherd's Bush.
Mavis, dressed in her one evening frock and wearing her few trinkets,
went to the Athenaeum an hour before the public was expected, in order
to rehearse with the "Godolphin Band," which was always engaged for
these occasions. She was in some trepidation at having to accompany
professional musicians on the piano; she hoped that they would not find
fault with her playing. When she got to the hall, she found Mr Poulter
already there in evening dress, vainly striving to conceal his
excitement.
"Aren't you nervous?" he asked.
"I am rather," she replied, as she took off her coat.
"Oh, my dear, may an old man say how beautiful you look?"
"Why not?" asked Mavis, whose eyes were shining at the unexpectedness
of the compliment.
Mr Poulter looked at her intently for a few moments before saying:
"Haven't you a father or mother?"
Mavis shook her head.
"Neither kith nor kin?"
"I'm all alone in the world," she replied sadly.
A sorrowful expression came over the old man's face as he said with
much fervour:
"God bless you, my dear. May He keep you from pain and all harm."
Mavis was seized with a sudden impulse. She took the white head in her
warm arms and kissed him fondly on the forehead.
Mr Poulter turned away and pretended to have trouble with one of his
dancing pumps.
A minute or two later, three grimy, uncouth-looking men came into the
hall, whom Mavis took to be gasmen.
"Here's the 'Godolphin Band,'" said Mr Poulter, as he caught sight of
them.
"All except Baffy: 'e's always late," remarked one of the men.
Mavis was introduced to the three members of the band, all of whom
seemed to be somewhat abashed by her striking appearance.
"What about evening dress?" asked Mr Poulter of the trio.
Two of the men coughed and hesitated before saying:
"Very sorry, Mr Poulter, but Christmas coming and all that, sir--"
"I understand," sighed the dancing-master sympathetically; he then
turned to the tallest of the three to ask:
"And you, Mr Cheadle?"
"What a question to ask a cornet-player!" replied Mr Cheadle, as he
undid his overcoat to reveal a much worn evening suit, together with a
frayed, soiled shirt.
"Excellent! excellent!" cried Mr Poulter on seeing the cornet-player's
garb.
"One 'ud think I played outside pubs," grumbled Mr Cheadle.
"Now, if only Mr Baffy would come, you artistes could get to work,"
remarked Mr Poulter pleasantly.
"Let's start without him," suggested Cheadle, who seemed pleased at
being referred to as an artiste.
A move was made to the platform at the further end of the hall; when
this was reached, a little old man staggered into the hall, bearing on
his shoulders a bass viol.
"Here's Baffy!" cried the three musicians together.
When the man disentangled himself from his burden, Mavis saw that the
bass viol player was short, unkempt, greyhaired and bearded; he stared
straight before him with vacant, watery eyes; his mouth was always
agape; he neither greeted nor spoke to anyone present.
In obedience to Mr Poulter's instructions, two of the band brought a
big screen from a side-room; this was set up by the piano, at which
instrument Mavis took her seat. The screen was arranged so that she and
Cheadle, the cornet-player, would be in full sight of the dancers; the
three musicians not in evening dress were hidden behind the screen.
They commenced a waltz. Mr Baffy did not start with the others; he was
set going by a kick from Mr Cheadle. He played without music, seemingly
at random, vilely, unconcernedly. Mr Baffy seemed to be ignorant of
when a figure was ended, as he went on scraping after the others had
ceased, and only stopped after receiving a further kick from Cheadle;
he then stared feebly before him, till again set going by a forcible
hint from the cornet-player.
Mavis acquitted herself to the grudging satisfaction of Cheadle. A few
minutes before the doors were open, Miss Nippett approached her,
wearing, besides her usual shawl, a coquettish cap and apron.
"Have you come to the dance?" asked Mavis.
"I'm 'ladies cloak-room' to-night? What do you think of Baffy?"
"I don't know what to think."
"No class, is 'e?"
"Do you know anything about him?"
"I don't 'old with the feller. 'Is presence is a disgrace to the
academy," replied the "ladies' cloak-room."
A few minutes later, the first of Mr Poulter's patrons self-consciously
entered the room; soon after, dancing commenced.
As if to give Mavis heart for her unaccustomed task, Mr Poulter kept an
eye upon her; he encouraged her with smiles whenever she looked in his
direction. Mavis's playing was much jeopardised by the conduct of the
other musicians; they did not give the least attention to what they
were at, but performed as if their efforts were second nature. Soon
after the dancing started, Mr Cheadle brought from a pocket a greasy
pack of cards, at which he and the two musicians who had arrived with
him began to play at farthing "Nap," a game which the most difficult
passages of their performance did not interrupt, each card-player
somehow contriving to play almost directly it came to his turn. Mr
Cheadle, playing the cornet, had one hand always free; he shuffled the
cards, dealt them, and put down the winnings. When Mavis became more
used to the vagaries of their instrumental playing, she was amused at
the way in which they combined business with diversion. Mr Baffy, also,
interested her; he still continued to stare before him, as he played
with watery, purposeless eyes, and with mouth agape.
Halfway through the programme, there was an interval for refreshments.
Mavis was conducted by Mr Poulter to a table set apart for the artistes
in the room in which the lightest of light refreshments were served to
his patrons.
Mavis sat down to a plateful of what looked uncommonly like her old
friend, brisket of beef; she was now so hungry that she was glad to get
anything so substantial.
"'Ow are you gettin' on?" asked a familiar voice over her shoulder.
Mavis looked up, to see Miss Nippett, who had discarded her cap and
apron; she was now in her usual rusty frock, with her shawl upon her
narrow, stooping shoulders.
"All right, thank you. Why don't you have some?"
"No, thank you. I can't spare the time. I'm 'light refreshments.'"
"But they're all eaten!" remarked Mavis, as her eye ranged along a
length of table-cloth innocent of food or decoration.
"'Poulter's' ain't such a fool as to stick nothink out; it would all be
'wolfed' in a second. Let 'em ask."
"Some people mightn't like to."
"That's their look-out," snapped Miss Nippett, who had a heart of stone
where the interests of anything antagonistic to "Poulter's" were
concerned.
At the conclusion of the evening, the band was paid.
Mr Baffy got a shilling for his services, which he held in his hand and
looked stupidly before him, till he got a cut with a bow from the
second violinist, at which he put the money in his pocket. He then
shouldered his bass viol and plunged out into the darkness.
Mavis's heart went out to Mr Baffy. She wondered where and how he
lived; how he passed his time; what had reduced him to his present
condition.
She spoke of him to Mr Poulter, who looked perplexed before replying:
"Ah, my dear young lady, it's as well for such as you not to inquire
too closely into the lives of we who are artistes."
When Mavis had put on her hat and cloak, and was leaving the Athenaeum,
Miss Nippett called out:
"It's all right; you can sleep sound; 'e's pleased with you."
"Who?" asked Mavis.
"Mr Poulter. Who else d'ye think I meant?"
Three days later, Mavis severed her connection with "Poulter's." Upon
her going, Mr Poulter presented her with a signed photograph of himself
in full war-paint, an eulogistically worded testimonial, also, an
honorarium (this was his word) of five shillings. Mavis was loth to
take it; but seeing the dancing-master's distress at her hesitation,
she reluctantly pocketed the money.
Miss Nippett also gave her a specially taken photograph of herself.
"Where's your shawl?" asked Mavis, who missed this familiar adjunct
from the photograph.
"I took it off to show off me figure. See?" replied Miss Nippett
confidentially.
Mr Poulter asked Mavis if she had further employment in view. She knew
how poor he was; also, that if she told him she was workless, he would
probably insist on retaining her services, although he could not afford
to do so. Mavis fibbed to Mr Poulter; she hoped that her consideration
for his poverty would atone for the lie.
For five weeks Mavis vainly tried to get work. She soon discovered how,
when possible employers considered her application, the mere mention of
her being at "Dawes'" was enough to spoil her chances of securing an
engagement.
She had spent all her money; she was now living on the sum she had
received from a pawnbroker in exchange for two of her least prized
trinkets. Going out in all weathers to look for employment had not
improved her clothes; her best pair of boots let in water; she was
jaded, heartsick, dispirited. As with others in a like plight, she
dared not look into the immediate future, this holding only terrifying
probabilities of disaster; the present moment was all sufficient;
little else mattered, and, although to-morrow promised actual want,
there was yet hope that a sudden turn of fortune's wheel would remove
the dread menace of impending ruin. One evening, Mavis, dazed with
disappointment at failing to secure an all but promised berth, wandered
aimlessly from the city in a westerly direction. She scarcely knew
where she was going or what quarter of London she had reached. She was
only aware that she was surrounded by every evidence of well-being and
riches. The pallid, worried faces of the frequenters of the city were
now succeeded by the well-fed, contented looks of those who appeared as
if they did not know the meaning of the word care. Splendid carriages,
costly motor cars passed in never-ending procession. As Mavis glanced
at the expensive dresses of the women, the wind-tanned faces of the
men, she thought how, but for a wholly unlooked-for reverse of fortune,
these would be the people with whom she would be associating on equal
terms. The thought embittered her; she quickened her steps in order to
leave behind her the opulent surroundings so different from her own, A
little crowd, consisting of those entering and waiting about the door
of a tea-shop, obstructed her. An idea suddenly possessed her.
Confronted with want, she wondered if she had enough money to snatch a
brief half-hour's respite from her troubles. She looked in her purse,
to find it contained three shillings. The next moment, she was moving
in the direction of the tea-room, her habitual husbandry making a poor
fight against the over-mastering desire possessing her.
She walked up a steep, narrow flight of carpeted stairs; this
terminated in a long, low room, the walls of which were of black oak,
and which was nearly filled with a gaily dressed crowd of men and
women. The sensuous music of a string band fell on her ear; the smell
of tea and the indefinable odour of women were borne to her nostrils. A
card was put in her hand, telling her that a palmist could be consulted
on the next floor. In and out among the tables, attendants, clad in the
garb of sixteenth century Flemish peasant women, moved noiselessly.
Mavis got a table to herself in a corner by a window which overlooked
the street. She ordered tea and toast. When it was brought, she did her
best to put her extremity out of sight; she tried hard to believe that
she, too, led a happy, butterfly existence, without anxious thought for
the morrow, without a care in the world. The effort was scarcely a
success, but was, perhaps, worth the making. As she sat, she noticed a
kindly-looking old gentlewoman who was pointing her out to a companion;
for all the old woman's somewhat dowdy garb, she had rich woman stamped
all over her. The old lady kept on looking at Mavis; once or twice,
when the latter caught her eye, the elder woman smiled. When she rose
to go, she came over to Mavis and said:
"Forgive me, my dear, but your hair looks wonderful against that
imitation oak."
"Does it? But it isn't imitation too," replied Mavis.
"Forgive me, won't you?"
"Of course."
"May I ask your name?"
"Keeves. Mavis Keeves."
"A good name," muttered the old lady. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
Mavis saw her move towards the door; when she reached it, she turned to
smile again to Mavis before going out.
"What a fool I am!" thought Mavis. "If I'd only told her I wanted work,
she'd have helped me to something. What a fool I am!"
Mavis rose as if to follow the kindly old soul; but she was too late.
As she got up, she saw her step into a fine carriage, which, after the
footman had closed the door and mounted the box, had driven away. Mavis
sat helplessly. It seemed as if she were as a drowning person who had
been offered the chance of clutching a straw, but had refused to take
it. There was little likelihood of her getting a second chance. She
must resign herself to the worst. She had forgotten; one hope was still
left, one she had, hitherto, lost sight of: this to pray to her
Heavenly Father, to remind Him that she, as a human sparrow, was in
danger of falling; to implore succour. Although she had knelt morning
and evening at her bedside, it had lately been more from force of habit
than anything else; her heart had not inspired her lips. There had been
some reason for this: every morning she had been devoured by eagerness
to get work; at night, she had been too weary and dispirited to pray
earnestly. Mavis covered her eyes with her hands; she prayed heartfully
and long for help. Words welled from her being; their burden was:
"I am young; I love life; help me to live, if only for a little while,
in this glorious, wonderful world of Thy making. I only ask for bread,
for which I am eager to work. Help me! Help me! Help me!"
Mavis uncovered her eyes. The tea-shop, the music, the indefinable
odour of women all seemed bizarre after her communion with the Most
High. She made ready to go.
"Are you in trouble?" said a voice at her elbow.
"Yes," she replied.
"I must help you," said the voice.
Mavis saw a richly dressed, bejewelled, comfortable-looking woman at
her side.
She was not in the least surprised; a friend had been sent in answer to
her prayer.
"Is it over money?" asked the instrument.
Mavis nodded.
"I thought as much. I saw you outside the tea-shop and followed you in.
Is your time your own?"
"Absolutely."
"No parents or anyone?"
"I haven't a friend or relation in the world."
"Ah! I must really help you. Come with me. Let me pay for your tea."
Mavis, before she went, found time to offer up brief, heartfelt thanks
for having speedily received an answer to her prayer.