When Mavis regained a semblance of consciousness, something soft and
warm lay on her heart. Jill was watching her with anxious eyes. A queer
little female figure stood beside the bed.
"Better, dear?" asked this person.
"Where's Mrs Gowler?" whispered Mavis.
"She got tired of waiting, so I came in. I've been here a hour" (she
pronounced the aspirate).
"Who are you?" asked Mavis.
"I'm the 'permanent.'"
"The what?"
"The 'permanent': at least, that's what they call me here. But you
mustn't talk. You've 'ad a bad time."
"Is it a boy or a girl?" asked Mavis.
"A boy. Don't say no more."
Mavis did not know if she were pleased or otherwise with the sex of her
child; she could only thankfully realise that she was free from
torment. She lay back, enjoying to the full her delicious comparative
ease, before lifting the bed clothes to press her lips against her
baby's head. She held it closer to her heart as she realised that its
father was the man she loved. Although the woman who had introduced
herself as the "permanent" had told Mavis not to talk, she did not set
the example of silence. While she busied herself about and in and out
of the room, she talked incessantly, chiefly about herself. For a long
time, Mavis was too occupied with her own thoughts to pay any attention
to what she was saying. Before she listened to the woman's gossip, she
was more intent on taking in the details of her appearance. Mavis could
not make up her mind whether she was young, old, or middle-aged; she
might so easily have been one of these. Her face was not unpleasant,
although her largish dark eyes were quite close to her snub nose, over
which the eyebrows met. Her expression was that of good-natured
simplicity, while her movements and manner of speaking betrayed great
self-consciousness, the result of an immense personal vanity. She was
soon to be a mother.
"It's my eighth, and all by different fathers," she told Mavis, who
wondered at the evident pride with which the admission was made, till
the woman added: "When you have had eight, and all by different
fathers, it proves how the gentlemen love you."
Mavis, for all her exhaustion, could not help smiling at the
ingenuousness of the "permanent's" point of view. Seeing Mavis smile,
the woman laughed also, but her hilarity was inspired by self-conscious
pride.
"P'raps you wonder what's become of the little dears. Three's dead,
two's 'dopted, an' two is paid for at five bob a week by the
gentlemen," she informed Mavis. She then asked: "I'spose this is your
first?"
Mavis nodded.
"My! You're a baby at it. I 'spect I'll have a dozen to your six."
Presently, she spoke of Mrs Gowler.
"I've had every kid here, all seven of 'em, before the one I'm
'spectin' on Sunday. That's why Piggy calls me the 'permanent.' Do you
like Piggy?"
Mavis moved her head in a way that could either be interpreted as a nod
or a negative shake.
"I don't care for her very much, though I must say that so long as you
locks up yer things, and don't take notice of what she says or does
when she's drunk, she's always quite the lady."
Mavis, for all her growing weariness, smiled.
"Do you know why I reely come here?" asked the "permanent." "'Cause I
love Piggy's son, Oscar. Oh, he is that comic! He do make me laugh so,
I never can see enough of him. Don't you love looking at Oscar?"
Mavis shook her head.
"Don't you think him comic?"
"No," whispered Mavis.
"Go h'on! But there, I nearly forgot!"
The "permanent" left the room, at which Mavis closed her eyes, thankful
for a few moments' peace.
"Take this cornflour," said a voice at her elbow: the "permanent" had
brought her a basinful of this food. "I made it meself, 'cause Piggy
always burns it, an' Oscar puts his fingers in it."
"You're very kind," murmured Mavis.
"Hold yer jaw," remarked the "permanent" with mock roughness.
Mavis gratefully swallowed the stuff, to feel the better for it. When
she had finished the last drop, she lay back to watch the "permanent,"
who arranged the room for the night. Candle, matches, and milk were put
handy for Mavis to reach; an old skirt was put down for Jill; bed and
pillows were made comfortable.
"If you want me, I'm in the left top front with Mrs Rabbidge."
"Not alone?" asked Mavis.
"Not me. Give me company when I 'ave kids. I'll bring yer tea in the
morning."
Whatever misfortunes the fates had reserved for Mavis, they had endowed
her with a magnificent constitution; consequently, despite the
indifferent nursing, the incompetent advice, the ill-cooked food, she
quickly recovered strength. Hourly she felt better, although the
nursing of her baby was a continuous tax upon her vitality. Following
the "permanent's" advice, who was an old hand in such matters, Mavis
kept quite still and did not exert herself more than she could possibly
help. But although her body was still, her mind was active. She fretted
because she had received no reply to her last little letter to Perigal.
Morning and evening, which was the time when she had been accustomed to
get letters from Wales, she would wait in a fever of anxiety till the
post arrived; when it brought no letter for her, she suffered acute
distress of mind.
Upon the fifth evening after her baby was born, Mrs Gowler thrust an
envelope beneath her door shortly after the postman had knocked. It was
a yellow envelope, on which was printed "On His Majesty's Service."
Mavis tore it open, to find her own letter to Perigal enclosed, which
was marked "Gone, no address." A glance told her that it had been
correctly addressed.
When, an hour later, Mrs Gowler came up to see if she wanted anything,
she saw that Mavis was far from well. She took her hand and found it
hot and dry.
"Does yer 'ead ache?" she asked of Mavis, whose eyes were wide open and
staring.
"It's awful."
"If you're no better in the morning, you'd better 'ave a shillingsworth
of Baldock."
If anything, Mavis was worse on the morrow. She had passed a restless
night, which had been troubled with unpleasantly vivid dreams;
moreover, the first post had brought no letter for her.
"Got a shillin'?" asked Mrs Gowler after she had made some pretence of
examining her.
"What for?" asked Mavis.
"Doctor's fee. You'll be bad if you don't see 'im."
"Is he clever?" asked the patient.
"Clever! 'E be that clever, it drops orf 'im."
When, with the patient's consent, Mrs Gowler set out to fetch the
doctor, she, also at the girl's request, sent a telegram to Mrs
Scatchard, asking her to send on at once any letters that may have come
for Mavis. She was sustained by a hope that Perigal may have written to
her former address.
"Got yer shillin' ready?" asked Mrs Gowler, an hour or so later. "'E'll
be up in a minute."
Two minutes later, Mrs Gowler threw the door wide open to admit Dr
Baldock. Mavis saw a short, gross-looking, middle-aged man, who was
dressed in a rusty frock-coat; he carried an old bowler hat and two odd
left-hand gloves. Mrs Gowler detailed Mavis's symptoms, the while Dr
Baldock stood stockstill with his eyes closed, as if intently listening
to the nurse's words. When she had finished, the doctor caught hold of
Mavis's wrist; at the same time, he fumbled for his watch in his
waistcoat pocket; not finding it, he dropped her arm and asked her to
put out her tongue. After examining this, and asking her a few
questions, he told her to keep quiet; also, that he would look in again
during the evening to see how she was getting on.
"Doctor's fee," said Mrs Gowler, as she thrust herself between the
doctor and the bed.
Mavis put the shilling in her hand, at which the landlady left the
room, to be quickly followed by the doctor, who seemed equally eager to
go. Mavis, with aching head, wondered if the evening post would bring
her the letter she hungered for from North Kensington.
An hour later, a note was thrust beneath her door. She got out of bed
to fetch it, to read the following, scrawled with a pencil upon a
soiled half sheet of paper:--
"Don't you go and be a fool and have no more of Piggy's doctors. He
isn't a doctor at all, and is nothing more than a coal merchant's
tally-man, who got the sack for taking home coals in the bag he carried
his dinner in. My baby is all right, but he squints. Does yours?--I
remain yours truly, the permannente, MILLY BURT."
Anger possessed Mavis at the trick Mrs Gowler had played in order to
secure a further shilling from her already attenuated store, an emotion
which increased her distress of mind. When Mrs Gowler brought in the
midday meal, which to-day consisted of fried fish and potatoes from the
neighbouring fried fish shop, Mavis said:
"If that man comes here again, I'll order him out."
"The doctor!" gasped Mrs Gowler.
"He's an impostor. He's no doctor."
"'E's as good as one any day, an' much cheaper."
"How dare he come into my room! I shall stop the shilling out of my
bill."
"You will, will yer! You try it on," cried Mrs Gowler defiantly.
"I believe he could be prosecuted, if I told the police about it,"
remarked Mavis.
At the mention of "police," Mrs Gowler's face became rigid. She
recovered herself and picked out for Mavis the least burned portion of
fish; she also gave her a further helping of potatoes, as she said:
"We won't quarrel over that there shillin', an' a cup o' tea is yours
whenever you want it."
Mavis smiled faintly. She was beginning to discover how it paid to
stick up for herself.
As the comparative cool of the evening succeeded to the heat of the
day, Mavis's agitation of mind was such that she could scarcely remain
in bed. The fact of her physical helplessness served to increase the
tension in her mind, consequently her temperature. She feared what
would happen to her already over-taxed brain should she not receive the
letter she desired. When she presently heard the postman's knock at the
door, her heart beat painfully; she lay in an immense suspense, with
her hands pressed against her throbbing head. After what seemed a great
interval of time (it was really three minutes), Mrs Gowler waddled into
the room, bringing a letter, which Mavis snatched from her hands. To
her unspeakable relief, it was in Perigal's handwriting, and bore the
Melkbridge postmark. She tore it open, to read the following:--
"MY DEAREST GIRL,--Why no letter? Are you well? Have you any news in
the way of a happy issue from all your afflictions? I have left Wales
for good. Love as always, C. D. P."
These hastily scribbled words brought a healing joy to Mavis's heart.
She read and re-read them, pressing her baby to her heart as she did
so. As a special mark of favour, Jill was permitted to kiss the letter.
If Mavis had thought that a communication, however scrappy, from her
lover would bring her unalloyed gladness, she was mistaken. No sooner
was her mind relieved of one load than it was weighted with another;
the substitution of one care for another had long become a familiar
process. The intimate association of mind and body being what it is,
and Mavis's offspring being dependent on the latter for its well-being,
it was no matter for surprise that her baby developed disquieting
symptoms. Hence, Mavis's new cause for concern.
Contrary to the case of unwedded mothers, as usually described in the
pages of fiction, Mavis's love for her baby had, so far, not been
particularly active, this primal instinct having as yet been more
slumbering than awake. As soon after his birth as she was capable of
coherent thought, she had been much concerned at the undeniable
existence of the new factor which had come into her life. There was no
contradicting Mrs Gowler, who had said that "babies take a lot of
explaining away." She reflected that, if the fight for daily bread had
been severe when she had merely to fight for herself, it would be much
harder to live now that there was another mouth to fill, to say nothing
of the disabilities attending her unmarried state. The fact of her
letter to Perigal having been returned through the medium of the
dead-letter office had almost distracted her with worry, and it is a
commonplace that this variety of care is inimical to the existence of
any form of love.
Her baby's illness quickly called to life all the immense maternal
instinct which she possessed, but, at the same time, her recent
awakening to her own claims to consideration made her realise, with a
heartfelt sigh, that, in loving her boy as she now did, she was only
giving a further precious hostage to happiness.
For three days the mother was kept in a suspense that served to
protract the boy's illness, but, at the end of this time, largely owing
to Mrs Gowler's advice, he began to improve. The day that his
disquieting symptoms disappeared, which was also the day on which he
recovered his appetite, was signalised by the arrival of Perigal's
reply to Mavis's letter from Durley Road, announcing the birth of their
son. In this, he congratulated her on her fortitude, and assured her
that her happiness and well-being would always be his first
consideration. It also told her that she was the best and most charming
girl he had ever met; meeting with other women only the more
strengthened this conviction.
Mavis's heart leapt with a great joy. So long as she was easily first
in her lover's eyes, nothing else mattered. She had been foolish ever
to have done other than implicitly trust him. His love decorated the
one-time sparrow that she was with feathers of gorgeous hue.
Days succeeded each other within the four walls of Mrs Gowler's nursing
home much as anywhere else, although in each twenty-four hours there
usually occurred what were to Mavis's sensitive eyes and ears
unedifying sights, agonised cries of women in torment. All day and
night, with scarcely any intermission, could be heard the wailing of
one or more babies in different rooms in the house. Mrs Gowler's
nursing home attracted numberless girls from all parts of the great
city, whose condition necessitated their temporary retirement from
employment, whatever it might be. Mavis gathered that they were mostly
the mean sort of general servant, who had succumbed to the
blandishments of the men who make it a practice to prey on this class
of woman. So far as Mavis could see, they were mostly plain and
uninteresting-looking; also, that the majority of them stayed only a
few days, lack of means preventing them being at Mrs Gowler's long
enough to recover their health. They would depart, hugging their baby
and carrying their poor little parcel of luggage, to be swallowed up
and lost in London's ravening and cavernous maw. As they sadly left the
house, Mavis could not help thinking that these deserted women were
indeed human sparrows, who needed no small share of their heavenly
Father's loving kindness to prevent them from falling and being utterly
lost in the mire of London. Once or twice during Mavis's stay, the
house was so full that three would sleep in one room, each of whom
would go downstairs to the parlour, which was the front room on the
ground floor, for the dreaded ordeal, to be taken upstairs as soon as
possible after the baby was born. Mavis, who had always looked on the
birth of a child as something sacred and demanding the utmost privacy,
was inexpressibly shocked at the wholesale fashion in which children
were brought into the world at Mrs Gowler's.
There was much that was casual, and, therefore, callous about the
circumstances attending the ceaseless succession of births; they might
as well have been kittens, their mothers cats, so Mavis thought, owing
to the mean indignities attaching to the initial stages of their
motherhood. It did not occur to her how house-room, furniture, doctors,
nurses, and servants supply dignity to a commonplace process of nature.
It seemed to Mavis that Mrs Gowler lived in an atmosphere of horror and
pain. At the same time, the girl had the sense to realise that Mrs
Gowler had her use in life, inasmuch as she provided a refuge for the
women, which salved their pride (no small matter) by enabling them to
forego entering the workhouse infirmary, which otherwise could not have
been avoided.
Oscar inspired Mavis with an inexpressible loathing. For the life of
her, she could not understand why such terrible caricatures of humanity
were permitted to live, and were not put out of existence at birth. The
common trouble of Mrs Gowler's lodgers seemed to establish a feeling of
fellowship amongst them during the time that they were there. Mavis was
not a little surprised to receive one day a request from a woman, to
the effect that she should give this person's baby a "feed," the mother
not being so happily endowed in this respect as Mavis. The latter's
indignant refusal gave rise to much comment in the place.
The "permanent" was soon on her feet, an advantage which she declared
was owing to her previous fecundity. Mavis could see how the
"permanent" despised her because she was merely nursing her first-born.
"'As Piggy 'ad a go at your box yet?" she one day asked Mavis, who
replied:
"I'm too careful. I always keep it locked."
"Locks ain't nothin' to her. If you've any letters from a gentleman, as
would compromise him, burn them."
"Why?"
"If she gets hold of 'em, she'll make money on 'em."
"Nonsense! She wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't she! Piggy 'ud do anythink for gin or that there dear comic
Oscar."
In further talks with the "permanent," Mavis discovered that, for all
her acquaintance's good nature, she was much of a liar, although her
frequent deviations from the truth were caused by the woman's boundless
vanity. Time after time she would give Mavis varying accounts of the
incidents attending her many lapses from virtue, in all of which
drugging by officers of His Majesty's army played a conspicuous part.
Mavis, except at meal times, saw little of Mrs Gowler, who was usually
in the downstair parlour or in other rooms of the house. Whenever she
saw Mavis, however, she persistently urged her to board out her baby
with one of the several desirable motherly females she was in a
position to recommend. Mrs Gowler pointed out the many advantages of
thus disposing of Mavis's boy till such time as would be more
convenient for mother and son to live together. But Mavis now knew
enough of Mrs Gowler and her ways; she refused to dance to the woman's
assiduous piping. But Mrs Gowler was not to be denied. One day, when
Mavis was sitting up in bed, Mrs Gowler burst into the room to announce
proudly that Mrs Bale had come to see Mavis about taking her baby to
nurse.
"Who is Mrs Bale?" asked Mavis, much annoyed at the intrusion.
"Wait till you see her," cried Mrs Gowler, as if her coming were a
matter of rare good fortune.
Mavis had not long to wait. In a few moments a tall, spare,
masculine-looking woman strode into the room. Mrs Bale's red face
seemed to be framed in spacious black bonnet strings. Mavis thought
that she had never seen such a long upper lip as this woman had. This
was surmounted by a broken, turned-up nose, on either side of which
were boiled, staring eyes, which did not hold expression of any kind.
If Mavis had frequented music halls, she would have recognised the
woman as the original of a type frequently seen on the boards of those
resorts, played by male impersonators. Directly she saw Mavis, Mrs Bale
hurried to the bedside and seized the baby, to dandle it in her arms,
the while she made a clucking noise not unlike the cackling of a hen.
Mavis noticed that Mrs Bale's breath reeked of gin.
"Put my baby down," said Mavis.
"I'll leave you two ladies to settle it between yer," remarked Mrs
Gowler, as she left the room.
"I'm not going to put my baby out to nurse. Good morning."
"Not for five shillings a week?" asked Mrs Bale.
"Good morning."
"Say I made it four and six?"
Mavis made no reply, at which Mrs Bale sat down and began to weep.
"What about the trouble and expense of coming all the way here?" asked
Mrs Bale.
"I never asked you to come."
"Well, I shan't leave this room till you give me six-pence for
refreshment to get me to the station."
"I won't give it to you; I'll give it to Mrs Gowler."
"An' a lot of it I'd see."
Mrs Gowler, who had been listening at the door, came into the room and
demanded to know what Mrs Bale meant.
Then followed a stream of recriminations, in which each accused the
other of a Newgate calendar of crime. Mavis at last got rid of them by
giving them threepence each.
Three nights before Mavis left Durley Road, she was awakened by the
noise of Jill's subdued growling. Thinking she heard someone outside
her room, she went stealthily to the door; she opened it quickly, to
find Mrs Gowler on hands and knees before her box, which she was trying
to open with a bunch of keys.
"What are you doing?" asked Mavis.
The woman entered into a confused explanation, which Mavis cut short by
saying:
"I've heard about your tricks. If I have any more bother from you, I
shall go straight from here to the police station."
"Gawd's truth! Why did I ever take you in?" grumbled Mrs Gowler as she
waddled downstairs. "I might 'ave known you was a cat by the colour of
your 'air."
The time came when Mavis was able to leave Durley Road. Whither she was
going she knew not. She paid her bill, refusing to discuss the many
extras which Mrs Gowler tried to charge, had her box taken by a porter
to the cloak room at the station, dressed her darling baby, said
good-bye to Piggy and went downstairs, to shudder as she walked along
the passage to the front door. She had not walked far, when an
ordinary-looking man came up, who barely lifted his hat.
"Can I speak to you, m'am?"
"What is it?"
"You have just left 9 Durley Road?"
"Y-yes."
"I'm a detective officer. I'm engaged in watching the house. Have you
any complaint to make?"
"I don't wish to, thank you."
"We know all sorts of things go on, but it's difficult to get evidence."
"I don't care to give you any because--because--"
"I understand, ma'm," said the man kindly. "I know what trouble is."
Mavis was feeling so physically and mentally low with all she had gone
through, that the man's kindly words made the tears course down her
cheeks.
She wiped them away, resettled the baby in her arms, and walked
sorrowfully up the road, followed by the sympathetic glance of the
plain-clothes detective.