TRAVAIL

If Mavis had believed that the recovery of her property would give her

peace of mind, she soon discovered how grievously she was mistaken.

Directly she left the police station with Mr Napper, all her old fears

and forebodings for the future resumed sway over her thoughts. As

before, she sought to allay them by undiminished faith in her lover.

She accepted Mr Napper's hospitality in the form of tea and toast at a

branch of the Aerated Bread Company, where she asked him how much she

was in his debt for his services. To her surprise, he replied, "Nothing

at all," and added that he was only too glad to assist her, not only

for Miss Meakin's sake, but because he felt that Mavis dimly

appreciated his intellectuality. Upon Mavis untruthfully replying that

she did, Mr Napper gave a further effort to impress, not only her, but

others seated about them; he talked his jargon of scientific and

philosophical phrases at the top of his voice. She was relieved when

she was rid of his company. She then took train to Shepherd's Bush,

where she called on Miss Meakin as promised. Much to her surprise, Miss

Meakin, who was now robed in a flimsy and not too clean teagown, had

not the slightest interest in knowing if Mavis had recovered her

property; indeed, she had forgotten that Mavis had lost anything. She

was only concerned to know what Mavis thought of Mr Napper, and what

this person had said about herself: on this last matter, Mavis was

repeatedly cross-questioned. Mavis then spoke of a matter she had

thought of on the way down: that of engaging a room at Mrs Scatchard's

if she had one to let. Miss Meakin, however, protested that she had

nothing to do with the business arrangements of the house, and declared

that her aunt had better be consulted.

Upon Mavis interviewing Mrs Scatchard on the matter, the latter

declared that her niece had suggested the subject to her directly after

Mavis had left in the morning, a statement which Miss Meakin did not

appear to overhear. Mrs Scatchard showed Mavis a clean, homely little

room. The walls were decorated with several photographs of

celebrations, which, so far as she could see, were concerned with the

doings of royalty. When it came to the discussion of terms, Mrs

Scatchard pointed out to Mavis the advantage of being in a house rented

by a man like Mr Scatchard, who was "so mixed up with royalty," as she

phrased it; but, partly in consideration of the timely service which

Mavis had once rendered Miss Meakin, and largely on the score that

Mavis boasted of blood (she had done nothing of the kind), Mrs

Scatchard offered her the room, together with use of the bathroom, for

four-and-sixpence a week. Upon Mavis learning that the landlady would

not object to Jill's presence, she closed with the offer. At Mrs

Scatchard's invitation, she spent the evening in the sitting-room

downstairs, where she was introduced to Mr Scatchard. If, as had been

alleged, Mr Scatchard was a pillar of the throne, that august

institution was in a parlous condition. He was a red-headed, red-eyed,

clean-shaven man, in appearance not unlike an elderly cock; his blotchy

face, thick utterance, and the smell of his breath, all told Mavis that

he was addicted to drink. Mavis wondered how this fuddled man, whose

wife let lodgings in a shabby corner of Shepherd's Bush, could be

remotely associated with Government, till it leaked out that he had

been for many years, and still was, one of the King's State trumpeters.

Mavis was grateful to the Scatchards for their humble hospitality, if

only because it prevented her mind from dwelling on her extremity. She

was so tired with all she had gone through, that, directly she got to

bed, she fell asleep, to awake about five with a mind possessed by

fears for the future. Try as she could, faith in her lover refused to

supply the relief necessary to allow her further sleep.

About seven, kindly Mrs Scatchard brought her up some tea, her excuse

for this attention being that "blood" could not be expected to get up

without a cup of this stimulant. Mrs Scatchard, like most stout women,

was of a nervous, kindly, ingenuous disposition. It hurt Mavis

considerably to tell her the story she had concocted, of a husband in

straitened circumstances in America, who was struggling to prepare a

home for her. Mrs Scatchard was herself a bereaved mother. Much moved

by her recollections, she gave Mavis needed and pertinent advice with

reference to her condition.

"There is kindness in the world," thought Mavis, when she was alone.

After breakfast, that was supplied at a previously arranged charge of

fourpence, Mavis, fearing the company of her thoughts, betook herself

to Miss Nippett in the Blomfield Road.

She found her elderly friend in bed, a queer, hapless figure in her

pink flannel nightgown.

"I haven't heard anything," said Miss Nippett, as soon as she caught

sight of Mavis.

"Of what?"

"What luck Mr Poulter's had at the dancing competition! Haven't you

come about that?"

"I came to see how you were."

"Don't you worry about me. I shall be right again soon; reely I shall."

Mavis tried to discover if Miss Nippett were properly looked after, but

without result, Miss Nippett's mind being wholly possessed by

"Poulter's" and its chief.

"He promised to send me a postcard to say how he got on, but I suppose

he was too busy to remember," sighed Miss Nippett.

"Surely not!"

"He's like all these great men: all their 'earts in their fame, with no

thought for their humble assistants," she complained, to add after a

few moments' pause, "A pity you're married."

"Why?"

"'Cause, since I've been laid up, he's been in want of a reliable

accompanist."

Mavis explained that she would be glad of some work, at which her

friend said:

"Then off you go at once to the academy. He's often spoken of you, and

quite nicely, and he's asked for you in family prayers. If he's won the

prize, it's as sure as 'knife' that he'll give you the job. And mind

you come and tell me if he's won."

Mavis thanked her wheezing, kind-hearted friend, and promised that she

would return directly she had any news. Then, with hope in her heart,

she hurried to the well-remembered academy, where she had sought work

so many eventful months ago. As before, she looked into the impassive

face of "Turpsichor" while she waited for the door to be answered.

A slatternly servant of the charwoman species replied to her summons.

Upon Mavis saying that she wanted to see Mr Poulter immediately, she

was shown into the "Ladies' Waiting Room," from which Mavis gathered

that Mr Poulter had returned.

After a while, Mr Poulter came into the room with a shy, self-conscious

smile upon his lovable face.

"You've heard?" he asked, as she shook hands.

Mavis looked at him in surprise.

"Of course you have, and have come to congratulate me," he continued.

"I'm glad you've been successful," said Mavis, now divining the reason

of his elation.

"Yes" (here he sighed happily), "I've won the great cotillion prize

competition. Just think of it!" Here he took a deep breath before

saying, "All the dancing-masters in the United Kingdom competed, even

including Gellybrand" (here his voice and face perceptibly hardened),

"but I won."

"I congratulate you," said Mavis.

Mr Poulter's features weakened into a broad smile eloquent of an

immense satisfaction.

"You can tell people you've been one of the first to congratulate me,"

he remarked.

"I won't forget. I was sorry to see that Miss Nippett is so unwell."

"It's most unfortunate; it so interferes with the evening classes."

"But she may get well soon."

"I fear not."

"Really?" asked Mavis, genuinely concerned for her friend's health.

"It's a great pity. Accompanists like her are hard to find. Besides,

she was well acquainted with all the many ramifications of the academy."

Mavis recalled that, in the old days of her association with

"Poulter's," she had noticed that otherwise kindly Mr Poulter took Miss

Nippett's body and soul loyalty to him quite as a matter of course.

Time, apparently, had not caused him to think otherwise of the faithful

accompanist than as a once capable but now failing machine.

Mr Poulter asked Mavis what had happened to her since he had last seen

her. She told him the fiction of her marriage; it hurt her to see how

glibly the lie now fell from her lips.

After Mr Poulter had congratulated her and her absent husband, he said:

"I fear you would not care to undertake any accompanying."

"But I should."

"As you did before?"

"Certainly!"

It was then arranged that Mavis should commence work at the academy on

that day, for much the same terms she was paid before. This matter

being settled, she asked for notepaper and envelope, on which she wrote

to Mrs Farthing, asking her to be so good as to send Jill at once, and

to be sure to let her know by what train she would arrive at

Paddington. Mavis was careful to head the notepaper with the address of

the academy; she did not wish anyone at Melkbridge to know her actual

address. After taking leave of Mr Poulter and posting her letter, she

repaired to Miss Nippett's as arranged. The accompanist was now out of

bed, in a chair before the fire. Directly she caught sight of Mavis,

she said:

"'As he won?"

"Yes, he's won the great cotillion prize competition."

A look of intense joy illumined Miss Nippett's face.

"Isn't he proud?" she asked.

"Very!"

"An' me not there to see him in his triumph." A cloud overspread Miss

Nippett's features.

"What's the matter?" asked Mavis.

"Did he--did he send and tell you to tell me as 'ow he'd won."

The wistful old eyes were so pleading, that Mavis fibbed.

"Of course he sent me."

"I thought he wouldn't forget his old friend," she remarked with a sigh

of relief. "'E'd surely know I was anxious to know."

Mavis told Miss Nippett of her engagement to play at "Poulter's" during

the latter's absence.

"Don't you count on it being for long," said Miss Nippett.

"I hope it won't be, for your sake."

"I'm counting the minute' till I shall be back again at the academy,"

declared Miss Nippett.

Mavis, as she looked at the eager, pinched face, could well believe

that she was speaking the truth.

"I shall buy you a bottle of port wine," said Mavis.

"What say?"

Mavis repeated her words.

"Oh, I say! Fancy me 'avin' port wine! I once 'ad a glass; it did make

me feel 'appy."

Two days later, in accordance with the contents of a letter she had

received from Mrs Farthing, Mavis met the train at Paddington that was

to bring her dear Jill from Melkbridge. She discovered her friend

huddled in a corner of the guard's van; her grief was piteous to

behold, her eyes being full of tears, which the kindly attentions of

the guard had not dissipated. Directly she saw her mistress, Jill

uttered a cry that was almost human in its gladness, and tried to jump

into Mavis' arms.

When Jill was released, Mavis hugged her in her arms, careless of the

attention her devotion attracted.

With her friend restored to her, that evening was the happiest she had

spent for some time.

For many succeeding weeks, Mavis passed her mornings with Jill, or Miss

Nippett, or both; and most of her afternoons and all of her evenings at

the academy. The long hours, together with the monotonous nature of the

work, greatly taxed her energies, lessened as these were by the

physical stress through which she was passing.

She obtained infrequent distraction from the peculiarities of the

pupils. One, in particular, who was a fat Jewess, named Miss Hyman,

greatly amused her. This person was desperately anxious to learn

waltzing, but was handicapped by bandy legs. As she spun round and

round the room with Mr Poulter, or any other partner, she would close

her eyes and continually repeat aloud, "One, two, three; one, two,

three," the while her feet kept step with the music.

Otherwise, her days were mostly drab-coloured, the only thing that at

all kept up her spirits being her untiring faith in Perigal--a faith

which, in time, became a mechanical action of mind. Strive as she might

to quell rebellious thoughts, now and again she would rage soul and

body at the web that fate, or Providence, had spun about her life. At

these times, it hurt her to the quick to think that, instead of being

the wife she deserved to be, she was in her present unprotected

condition, with all its infinite possibilities of disaster. Again and

again the thought would recur to her that she might have been

Windebank's wife at any time that she had cared to encourage his

overtures, and if she were desirable as a wife in his eyes, why not in

Charlie Perigal's! Gregarious instincts ran in her blood. For all her

frequent love of solitude, there were days when her soul ached for the

companionship of her own social kind. This not being forthcoming-indeed

(despite her faith in Perigal) there being little prospect of it--she

avoided as much as possible the sight of, or physical contact with,

those prosperous ones whom she knew to be, in some cases, her equals;

in most, her social inferiors.

It was at night when she was most a prey to unquiet thoughts. Tired

with her many hours' work at the piano, she would fall into a deep

sleep, with every prospect of its continuing till Mrs Scatchard would

bring up her morning cup of tea, when Mavis would suddenly awaken, to

remain for interminable hours in wide-eyed thought. She would go over

and over again events in her past life, more particularly those that

had brought her to her present pass. The immediate future scarcely

bothered her at all, because, for the present, she was pretty sure of

employment at the academy. On the very rare occasions on which she

suffered her mind to dwell on what would happen after her child was

born, should Perigal not fulfil his repeated promises, her vivid

imagination called up such appalling possibilities that she refused to

consider them; she had enough sense to apply to her own case the wisdom

contained in the words, "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof."

In these silent watches of the night, so protracted and awesome was the

quiet, that it would seem to the girl's preternatural sensibilities as

if the life of the world had come to a dead stop, and that only she and

the little one within her were alive. Then she would wonder how many

other girls in London were in a like situation to hers; if they were

constantly kept awake obsessed by the same fears; also, if, like her,

they comforted themselves by clasping a ring which they wore suspended

on their hearts--a ring given them by the loved one, even as was hers.

Then she would fall to realising the truth of the saying, "How easily

things go wrong." It seemed such a little time since she had been a

happy girl at Melkbridge (if she had only realised how really happy she

was!), with more than enough for her everyday needs, when her heart was

untrammelled by love; when she was healthful, and, apart from the hours

which she was compelled to spend at the office, free. Now--An alert

movement within her was more eloquent than thought.

Sometimes she would believe that her present visitation of nature was a

punishment for her infringement of God's moral law; whilst at others

she would rejoice with a pagan exultation that, whatever the future

held in store, she had most gloriously lived in these crowded golden

moments which were responsible for her present plight.

Once or twice her distress of mind was such that she could no longer

bear the darkness; she would light the candle, when the confinement of

the walls, the sight of the orderly and familiar furniture of the room,

would suggest an imprisoning environment from which there was no

escape. As if to make a desperate effort to free herself, she would

jump out of bed, and, throwing the window up, would look out on the

night, as if to implore from nature the succour that she failed to get

elsewhere. If the night were clear, she would gaze up at the heavens,

as if to wrest from its countless eyes some solution of, or, failing

that, some sympathy for her extremity of mind. But, for all the

eagerness with which her terror-stricken eyes would search the stars,

these looked down indifferently, unpityingly, impersonally, as if they

were so inured to the sight of sorrow that they were now careless of

any pain they witnessed. Then, with a pang at her heart, she would

wonder if Perigal were also awake and were thinking of her. She

convinced herself again and again that her agonised communing with the

night would in some mysterious way affect his heart, to incline it

irresistibly to hers, as in those never-to-be-forgotten nights and days

at Polperro.

She heard from him fairly regularly, when he wrote letters urging her

for his sake to be brave, and telling of the many shocks he had

received from the persistent ill luck which he was seeking to overcome.

If he had known how eagerly she awaited the familiar writing, how she

read and re-read, times without number, every line he wrote, how she

treasured the letters, sleeping with them under her pillow at night, he

would have surely written with more persistency and at greater length

than he did. Occasionally he would enclose money; this she always

returned, saying that, as she was now in employment, she had more than

enough for her simple needs. Once, after sending back a five-pound note

he had sent her, she received a letter by return of post--a letter

which gave a death blow to certain hopes she had cherished. She had

long debated in her mind if she should apply the gold-mounted dressing

case which Windebank had sent her for a wedding present to a purchase

very near to her heart. She knew that, if he could know of the purpose

to which she contemplated devoting it, and of her straightened

circumstances, he would wish her to do as she desired. Having no other

money available, she was tempted to sell or pawn the dressing case, to

buy with the proceeds a handsome outfit for the expected little life,

one that should not be unworthy of a gentlewoman's child. She felt

that, as, owing to the unconventional circumstances of its birth, the

little one might presently be deprived of many of life's advantages, it

should at least be appropriately clad in the early days of its

existence. She had already selected the intended purchase, and was

rejoicing in its richness and variety, when the reply came to her

letter to Perigal that returned the five-pound note. This told Mavis

what straitened circumstances her lover was in. He asked what she had

done with the gold-mounted dressing case, and, if it were still in her

possession, if she could possibly let him have the loan of it in order

to weather an impending financial storm. With a heart that strove

valiantly to be cheerful, Mavis renounced further thought of the

contemplated layette, and sent off the dressing case to her lover. It

was a further (and this time a dutiful) sacrifice of self on the altar

of the loved one. Most of her spare time was now devoted to the making

of the garments, which, in the ordinary course of nature, would be

wanted in about two months. Sometimes, while working, she would sing

little songs that would either stop short soon after they were started,

or else would continue almost to the finish, when they would end

abruptly in a sigh. Often she would wonder if the child, when born,

would resemble its father or its mother; if her recent experiences

would affect its nature: all the thousand and one things that that most

holy thing on earth, an expectant, loving mother, thinks of the life

which love has called into being.

At all times she told herself that, if her wishes were consulted, she

would prefer the child to be a boy, despite the fact that it was a more

serious matter to launch a son on the world than a daughter. But she

knew well that, if anything were to happen to her lover (this was now

her euphemism for his failing to keep his promise), a boy, when he came

to man's estate, might find it in his heart to forgive his mother for

the untoward circumstances of his birth, whereas a daughter would only

feel resentment at the possible handicap with which the absence of a

father and a name would inflict her life. Thus Mavis worked with her

needle, and sang, and thought, and travailed; and daily the little life

within her became more insistent.