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.
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