A day came when Mavis's courage failed. Acting on the advice of kindly
Mrs Scatchard, she had bought, for the sum of one guinea, a confinement
outfit from a manufacturer of such things. She unpacked her purchase
fearfully. Her heart beat painfully at the thought of the approaching
ordeal that the sight of the various articles awakened.
At the same time, she saw Perigal's conduct in the cold light of
reason. She was surprised to find how bitter she was with herself for
loving a man who could behave as selfishly as he had done. While the
mood possessed her, she went to a post-office and sent a reply-paid
telegram to Perigal, telling him to come to town at once, and asking
him to wire the train by which he would arrive. After sending the
telegram, she somewhat repented of her precipitancy, and waited in much
suspense to see what the answer would be. When, some two hours later,
she heard the double knock of a telegraph boy at the door, her heart
was filled with nervous apprehension, in which reawakened love for
Perigal bore no inconsiderable part. She opened his reply with
trembling hands. "Why? Wire or write reason--love--Charles," it ran.
In reply, she sat down and wrote a long letter, in which she told him
how she was situated, reminded him of his promises, which, if he still
loved her, as he had professed times out of number in his letters, it
was now more than ever incumbent on him to fulfil; she concluded by
imploring him to decide either one way or the other and put an end to
her suspense. Two days later, the first post brought a letter from
Wales. By the time it arrived Mavis had, in some measure, schooled her
fears and rebellious doubtings of her lover; therefore, she was not so
disappointed at its contents as she would otherwise have been. The
letter was written in much the same strain as his other communications.
While expressing unalterable love for Mavis, together with pride at the
privileges she had permitted him to enjoy, it told her how he was beset
by countless perplexities, and that directly he saw his way clear he
would do as she wished: in the meantime, she was to trust him as
implicitly as before.
Mavis sighed as she finished the letter; she then became lost in
troubled thought, during which she was uncertain whether to laugh for
joy or sorrow. She laughed for joy, perhaps because her mind, as once
before when similarly confronted, had chosen the easier way of
self-preservation, an instinct specially insistent in one of Mavis's
years. She laughed for very happiness and persuaded herself that she
was indeed a lucky girl to be loved so devotedly.
Although the colour soon went out of the blue sky of her joy-world, and
its trees and flowers lacked much of their one-time freshness, she was
not a little grateful for her short experience of its delights. It
helped her to bear the slights and disappointments of the following
days, of which she had no inconsiderable share.
As the year grew older, it became increasingly necessary for Mavis to
discover a place where she might stay during, and for a while after,
her confinement. Mrs Scatchard had told her from the first, that
however much she might be disposed to let Mavis remain in the house for
this event, Mr Scatchard strongly objected, at his age, to the
inconvenience of a baby under the same roof. Mavis filled many weary
hours in dragging herself up and down front-door steps in the quest for
accommodation; but she spent her strength in vain. Directly landladies
learned of the uses to which Mavis would put the room she wished to
engage, they became resentful, and sullenly told her that they could
not accommodate her. Little as Mavis was disposed to find harbourage
for herself and little one in the unhomely places she inspected, she
was hurt by the refusals encountered. It seemed to her that the act of
gravely imperilling life in order to confer life was a situation which
demanded loving care and devoted attention, necessities she lacked: the
refusal of blowsy landladies to entertain her application hurt her more
than the other indignities that she had, so far, been compelled to
endure. One Sunday afternoon Mrs Scatchard brought up the People, in
the advertising columns of which was a list of nursing homes. Mavis
eagerly scanned the many particulars set forth, till she decided that
"Nurse G.," who lived at New Cross, made the most seductive offer. This
person advertised a comfortable home to married ladies during and after
confinement; skilled care and loving attention were furnished for
strictly moderate terms.
Mavis decided to call on Nurse G. the following day.
The atmosphere of the Scatchards' had recently been highly charged, as
if in preparation for an event of moment. Whenever Mr Scatchard took
his walks abroad, he was always accompanied by either his wife or
niece, who, when they finally piloted him home, would wear a look of
self-conscious triumph. When Mavis came down to breakfast, before
setting out for New Cross, there was a hum of infinite preparation. Mr
Scatchard was greasing his hair; gorgeous raiment was being packed into
a bag; the final polish was being given to a silver trumpet. Both Mrs
Scatchard and her niece, besides being cloaked and bonneted, wore an
expression of grim resolution. Mr Scatchard had the look of a hunted
animal at bay. Little was said, but just before Mavis started, Miss
Meakin came to her and whispered:
"Wish us luck, dear."
"Luck?" queried Mavis.
"Don't you know of uncle and to-day's great doings?"
Mavis shook her head.
"Uncle and the King Emperor," explained Miss Meakin. "There's a royal
kick up to-day, and uncle and the King Emperor will be there."
"Have you and your aunt had an invitation too?" asked Mavis
mischievously.
"Not into the palace, as you might say. But we're both going as far as
the gates with uncle, to see he gets there safely and isn't tempted by
the way."
Soon after, Mr Scatchard left with the two women, looking, for all the
world, like a prisoner in charge of lynx-eyed warders. Then Mavis made
the long and tiring journey to New Cross. Nurse G. had advertised her
nursing home as being at No. 9 Durley Road. This latter she found to be
a depressing little thoroughfare of two-storeyed houses, all exactly
alike. She could discover nothing particularly inviting in the outside
appearance of No. 9. Soiled, worn, cotton lace curtains hung behind not
over-clean windows; behind these again were dusty, carefully closed
Venetian blinds. Mavis passed and repassed the house, uncertain whether
or not to call. Before deciding which to do, she made a mental
calculation (she was always doing this now) of exactly how much she
would have left after being paid by Mr Poulter and settling up with Mrs
Scatchard. As before, she reckoned to have exactly seven pounds fifteen
shillings. She had no intention of asking Perigal for help, as in his
last letter he had made copious reference to his straitened
circumstances. Any debasing shifts and mean discomforts to which her
poverty might expose her she looked on as a yet further sacrifice upon
the altar of the loved one, faith in whom had become the cardinal
feature of her life. The terms "strictly moderate" advertised by Nurse
G. decided her. She opened the iron gate and walked to the door.
Directly she knocked, she heard two or three windows thrown up in
neighbouring houses, from which the bodies of unkempt women projected,
to cast interested glances in Mavis's direction. As she waited, she
could hear the faint puling of a baby within the house. Next, she was
conscious that a lath of a Venetian blind was pulled aside and that
someone was spying upon her from the aperture. She waited further, the
while two of the curious women who leaned from the windows were loudly
deciding the date on which Mavis's baby would be born. Then, the door
of No. 9 was suspiciously opened about six inches. Mavis found herself
eagerly scanned by a fraction of a woman's face. The next moment, the
woman, who had caught sight of Mavis's appearance, which was now very
indicative of her condition, threw the door wide open and called
cheerily:
"Come in, my dear; come in."
"I want Nurse G.," said Mavis.
"That's me: G--Gowler. Come inside."
"But--" hesitated Mavis, as she glanced at the repulsive face of the
woman.
"Do either one thing or the other: come right in or keep out. The
neighbours do that talk."
Mavis walked into the passage, at which the woman sharply closed the
door. The puling of the baby was distinctly louder.
"We'll 'ave to talk 'ere," continued the woman, with some weakening of
her previous cordiality, "we're that full up: two in a room an' all
expectin'. But then it never rains but it pours, as you might say."
Mavis resisted an impulse to fly from the house. The more she saw of
Mrs Gowler (the woman wore a wedding ring), the less she liked her. To
begin with, her appearance had given Mavis much of a shock. Her alert
fancy had conjured up a vision of a kindly, motherly woman, with soft
eyes and voice, whose mere presence would have spoken of the sympathy
and tenderness for which the lonely heart of Mavis ached. Nurse Gowler
was short, fat, and puffy, with her head sunk right into her shoulders.
Her pasty face, with its tiny eyes, contained a mouth of which the
upper lip was insufficient to cover her teeth when her jaws were
closed; some of these teeth were missing, but whole ones and stumps
alike were discoloured with decay. It was her eyes which chiefly
repelled Mavis: pupil, iris, and the part surrounding this last, were
all of the same colour, a hard, bilious-looking green. Her face
suggested to Mavis a flayed pig's head, such as can be seen in pork
butchers' shops. As if this were not enough to disgust Mavis, the
woman's manner soon lost the geniality with which she had greeted her;
she stood still and impassively by Mavis, who could not help believing
that Mrs Gowler was attentively studying her from her hat to her shoe
leather.
Mavis began her story, to be interrupted by a repressed cry of pain
proceeding from the partly open door on the right. Mrs Gowler quickly
closed it.
Mavis resumed her story. When she got to the part where her supposed
husband was in America, Mrs Gowler impatiently interrupted her by
saying:
"Where 'e's making a 'ome for you."
"How did you know?" asked the astonished Mavis.
"It's always the way; we've lots of 'em like that here, occasionals and
regulars."
"Occasionals and regulars!"
"Lor' bless you, some of 'em comes as punctual as the baked potato man
in October. When was you expectin'?"
"I'm not quite certain," replied Mavis, at which Mrs Gowler plied her
with a number of questions, leading the former to remark presently:
"I guess you're due next Friday two weeks. To prevent accidents, you'd
better come on the Wednesday night. If you like to book a bed, I'll see
it's kep'."
"But what are your charges?"
"'Ow much can you afford?"
After discussion, it was arranged that, if Mavis decided to stay with
Mrs Gowler for three weeks certain, she was to pay twenty-two shillings
a week, this sum to include the woman's skilled attendance and nursing,
together with bed and board. In the event of Mavis wanting medical
advice, Mrs Gowler had an arrangement with a doctor by which he charged
the moderate fee of a shilling a visit to any of her patients that
required his services. The extreme reasonableness of the terms inclined
Mavis to decide on going to Mrs Gowler's.
"There's only one thing," she said: "I've a dog; she's a great pet and
quite clean. If you wouldn't object to her coming, I might--"
"Bring her: bring her. Is she having dear little puppies?"
"Oh dear, no."
"A pity. The more the merrier. I love work."
This decided Mavis. With considerable misgiving, but spurred by
poverty, she told the woman that she was coming.
"An' what about binding our bargain?" asked Mrs Gowler.
"How much do you want?" asked Mavis, as she produced her purse. "Will
five shillings do?"
"It'll do," admitted Mrs Gowler grudgingly, although the deposit she
usually received was half a crown.
"I feel rather faint. Is there anywhere I can sit down for a minute?"
asked Mavis.
"If you don't mind the kitchen. P'raps you'd like a cup of tea. I
always keep it ready on the fire."
Mavis thanked her and followed Mrs Gowler to the room indicated.
Although it was late in May, a roaring fire was burning in the kitchen,
about which, on various sized towel-horses, numerous articles of
babies' attire were airing.
"Too 'ot for yer?" asked Mrs Gowler.
"I don't mind where it is so long as I sit down."
"'Ow do you like your tea?" asked her hostess. "Noo or stooed?"
"I'd like fresh tea if it isn't any trouble," replied Mavis.
The tea was quickly made, there being a plentiful supply of boiling
water. Whilst Mavis was gratefully sipping hers, a noise of something
falling was heard in the scullery behind.
"It's that dratted cat," cried Mrs Gowler, as she caught up a broom and
waddled from the kitchen. She returned, a moment later, with something
remotely approaching a look of tenderness in her eyes.
"It's awright; it's my Oscar," she remarked.
Then what appeared to be a youth of eighteen years of age entered the
kitchen. He was dark, with a receding forehead; his chin, much too
large for his face, seemed as if it had been made for somebody else.
His absence of expression, together with the feeling of discomfort that
at once seized Mavis, told her that he was an idiot.
"Go an' shake hands with the lady, Oscar."
Mavis shuddered to feel his damp palm upon hers.
"You wouldn't believe it, but 'e's six fingers on each 'and, and 'e's
twenty-eight: ain't yer, Oscar?" remarked his mother proudly.
Oscar turned to grin at his mother, whilst Mavis, with all her maternal
instinct aroused, avoided looking at or thinking of the idiot as much
as possible.
Mrs Gowler waxed eloquent on the subject of her Oscar, to whom she was
apparently devoted. She was just telling Mavis how he liked to amuse
himself by torturing the cat, when a sharp cry penetrated into the
kitchen, as if coming from the neighbourhood of the front door.
"Bella's coming on," she said, as she caught up an apron before leaving
the kitchen. "Be nice to the lady, Oscar, and see her out, like the
gent you are," cried Mrs Gowler, before shutting the door.
Alone with the grinning idiot, Mavis shut her eyes, the while she
finished her tea. She did not want her baby to be in any way affected
by the acute mental discomfort occasioned to its mother by the presence
of Mrs Gowler's son, a contingency she had understood could easily be a
reality. When she looked about for her hat and umbrella, she
discovered, to her great relief, that she was alone, Oscar having
apparently slipped out after his mother, the kitchen door being ajar.
Mavis drew on her gloves, stopped her ears with her fingers as she
passed along the passage, opened the door and hurried away from the
house.
Once outside, the beauty of the sweet spring day emphasised the horror
of the house she had left.
She set her lips grimly, thought lovingly of Perigal, and resolved to
dwell on her approaching ordeal as little as possible. Before returning
to Mrs Scatchard's, she looked in to see Miss Nippett, who, with the
coming of summer, seemed to lose strength daily. She now hardly ever
got up, but remained in bed all day, where she would talk softly to
herself. She always brightened up when Mavis came into the room, and
was ever keenly interested in the latest news from the academy,
particularly in Mr Poulter's physical and economic wellbeing. Seeing
how make-believe inquiries of Mr Poulter after his accompanist's health
cheered the lonely old woman, Mavis had no compunction in employing
these white lies to brighten Miss Nippett's monotonous days.
She raised herself in bed and nodded a welcome as Mavis entered the
room. After assuring Mavis "that she was all right, reely she was," she
asked:
"When are you going to 'ave your baby?"
"Very soon now," sighed Mavis.
"I don't think I shall ever 'ave one," remarked Miss Nippett.
"Indeed!"
"They're a great tie if one has a busy life," she said, to add
wistfully, "Though it would be nice if one could get Mr Poulter for a
godfather."
"Wouldn't it!" echoed Mavis.
"Give it a good start in the world, you know. It 'ud be something to
talk about 'avin' 'im for a godfather."
Presently, when Mavis stooped to kiss the wan face before going, Miss
Nippett said:
"If I was to die, d'ye know what 'ud make me die 'appy?"
"Don't talk such nonsense: at your age, too."
"If I could just be made a partner in 'Poulter's,'" continued Miss
Nippett. "Not for the money, you understand, reely not for that; but
for the honour, as you might say."
"I quite understand."
"But there, one mustn't be too ambitious. That's the worst of me. And
it's the way to be un'appy," she sighed.
Mavis walked with heavy heart to her lodging; for all her own griefs,
Miss Nippett's touching faith in "Poulter's" moved her deeply.
When Mavis got back, she found Mrs Scatchard and her niece in high
feather. They insisted upon Mavis joining them at what they called a
knife and fork tea, to which Mr Napper and two friends of the family
had been invited. Mr Scatchard was not present, but no mention was made
of his absence, it being looked upon as an inevitable relaxation after
the work and fret of the day. The room was littered with evening papers.
"It all went off beautiful, my dear," Mrs Scatchard remarked to Mavis.
"I'm glad," said Mavis.
"We left him safe at the palace, and as there's nothing in the papers
about anything going wrong, it must be all right."
"Of course," Mavis assented.
"We know Mr Scatchard has his weaknesses; but then, if he hadn't, he
wouldn't be the musical artiste he is," declared his wife, at which
Mavis, who was just then drinking tea, nearly swallowed it the wrong
way.
Mr Napper soon dropped in, to be closely followed by a Mr Webb and a
Miss Jennings, who had never met the solicitor's clerk before. Mr Webb
and Miss Jennings were engaged to be married. As if to proclaim their
unalterable affection to the world, they sat side by side with their
arms about each other.
The presence of strangers moved Mr Napper to talk his farrago of
philosophical nonsense. It did not take long for Mavis to see that Miss
Jennings was much impressed by the flow of many-syllabled words which
issued, without ceasing, from the lawyer's clerk's lips. The admiration
expressed in the girl's eyes incited Mr Napper to further efforts.
He presently remarked to Miss Jennings:
"I can tell your character in two ticks."
Miss Jennings, who had been wholly resigned to the fact of her
insignificance, began to take herself with becoming seriousness.
"How?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with interest.
"By your face or by your 'ead."
"Do tell me," she pleaded.
"'Ead or face?"
"Try the head," she said, as she sought to free herself from her
lover's entangling embrace. But Mr Webb would not let her go; he
grasped her firmly by the waist, and, despite her entreaties, would not
relax his hold. Mr Napper made as if he would approach Miss Jennings,
but was restrained by Miss Meakin, who stamped angrily on his corns,
and, when he danced with pain, stared menacingly at him. When he
recovered, Miss Jennings begged him to tell her character by her face.
Mr Napper, looking out of the corner of one eye at Miss Meakin, stared
attentively at Miss Jennings, who was now fully conscious of the
attention she was attracting. Mr Webb waited in suspense, with his eye
on Mr Napper's face.
"You're very fond of draughts," said the latter presently.
"Right!" cried Miss Jennings, as she smiled triumph antly at her lover.
"But I shouldn't say you was much good at 'huffing,'" he continued.
"Right again!" smiled the delighted Miss Jennings.
"I should say your 'eart governed your 'ead," came next.
"Quite right!" cried Miss Jennings, who was now quite perked up.
"You're very fond of admiration," exclaimed Mr Napper, after a further
pause.
"She isn't; she isn't," cried Mr Webb, as his hold tightened on the
loved one's form.
More was said by Mr Napper in the same strain, which greatly increased
not only Miss Jennings's sense of self-importance, but her interest in
Mr Napper.
As Mavis perceived how his ridiculous talk captivated Miss Jennings, it
occurred to her that the vanity of women was such, that this instance
of one of their number being impressed by a foolish man's silly
conversation was only typical of the manner in which the rest of the
sex were fascinated.