Sparrows: The Story of an Unprotected Girl


CHAPTER TWELVE

MRS HAMILTON'S

Mavis followed her new friend past the pay box, down the carpeted stairs, into the street. She could not help seeing how bedraggled a sparrow she appeared when contrasted with the brilliant plumage of the woman at her side. A superb motor drew up to the pavement, from which a man got down to open the door.

"Get inside, dear," said the woman.

Mavis did as she was bid, hardly realising the good fortune which had so unexpectedly overtaken her.

"Telegraph office, then home," said the woman, who had, also, got into the car.

The man touched his hat and they were off. The woman did not speak at first, being seemingly absorbed in anxious thought. Mavis became conscious of a vague feeling of discomfort like to when—when—she tried to remember when this uneasy feeling had before possessed her. She glanced at her companion; she noticed that the woman's eyes were hard and cold; it was difficult to reconcile their expression with the sentiments she had professed. Then the woman turned to her.

"What is your name?"

"Mavis Weston Keeves."

"My name's Hamilton; it's really West-Hamilton, but I'm known as Mrs Hamilton. How old are you?"

"Eighteen. I'm nineteen in three months."

"Tell me more of yourself."

Mavis briefly told her story; as she finished, the car drew up at a post-office. Mrs Hamilton scanned Mavis's face closely before getting out.

"I shan't be a moment; it's only to someone who's coming to dinner."

Mavis, left alone in the motor, wondered at the strangeness of the adventure. She knew that Mrs Hamilton was scarcely a gentlewoman—even in the broad interpretation nowadays given to the word. But it was not this so much as the fact of her having such hard eyes which perplexed the girl. She had little time to dwell on this matter, as, in a very few moments, Mrs Hamilton was again beside Mavis, and they were speeding up Oxford Street.

"The fact is I live alone," said Mrs Hamilton. "I am in need of a companion, young and nice-looking, like yourself. I wonder if you'd care for the job."

"I wonder if you'd care to have me."

"I entertain a good deal, mostly gentlemen; two gentlemen are coming to dinner to-night."

"But you don't expect me—?"

"Why not?"

"But my clothes."

"Is that all? I've some things that will suit you down to the ground."

"You're very kind," said Mavis, as the motor, having turned into Regent Street, whizzed past the Langham Hotel.

"You play and sing?" asked Mrs Hamilton.

"A little."

"That always helps. And as to terms, if we get along well together, you'll be grateful to me till the day of your death."

Although the words were spoken without a suspicion of feeling, Mavis replied:

"I'm sure I shall."

"Here we are!" said Mrs Hamilton.

Mavis was much surprised that no word had been said about references.

A man-servant opened the door. Mavis passed in with Mrs Hamilton, for whom a telegram was waiting.

"Dinner at eight to-night, Jarvis; an hour earlier than usual. Lay for four," said Jarvis's mistress, after opening the telegram.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Jarvis, as Mrs Hamilton walked upstairs to the drawing-room, followed by Mavis.

Accustomed as Mavis had been of late to bed-sitting rooms or shabby lodging-house parlours, her first glimpse of Mrs Hamilton's richly-furnished drawing-room almost took away her breath. It was not so much the richness of the furniture which astonished her, as the daring scheme of decoration and the profusion of expensive nicknacks scattered about the room; these last were eloquent of Mrs Hamilton's ability to satisfy any whim, however costly it might be. The walls were panelled in white; white curtains were drawn across the windows; black bearskins covered the floor; the furniture was dark, formal, much of it carved; here and there on the white panelling of the walls were black Wedgwood plaques; black Wedgwood china stood audaciously upon and inside cabinets. A large grand piano and the cheerful blaze of a wood fire mitigated the severity of the room.

"How beautiful!" exclaimed Mavis.

"You like it?"

"It's the loveliest room I've ever been in."

"It's your home if we hit it off."

"Do you think we shall?"

"Up to now I don't see any reason why we shouldn't."

Mavis again breathed thanks to Heaven for having so generously answered her prayer. She felt how she would like to tell of her experience to any who denied the efficacy of personal supplication to God.

"Shall I play to you?" asked Mavis, after they had talked for some minutes.

"I don't like music," replied Mrs Hamilton.

"Not?"

"I don't understand it. Let's go upstairs to my room."

If she did not care for music, Mavis wondered why she had made a point of asking if she (Mavis) could play.

Mrs Hamilton's bedroom was a further revelation to the girl; she looked wide-eyed at the Louis Seize gilt furniture, the tapestry, the gilt-edged screens, the plated bath in a corner of the room, the superb dressing-table bestrewed with gold toilet nicknacks.

"Do you like my bed?" asked Mrs Hamilton, who was watching the girl's undisguised wonder.

"I haven't had time to take in the other things."

Mavis looked at the bed; it stood in an alcove on the side of the room furthest from where she was. It was long, low, and gilded; plum-coloured curtains rose in voluptuous folds till they were joined near the ceiling by a pair of big silver doves.

"Do you like it?" asked Mrs Hamilton.

"Like is scarcely the word. I've never imagined anything like it in my life."

"It belonged to Madame du Barri, the mistress of a French king."

"I've read something about her."

"He always wished to give her a toilette set of pure gold, but could never quite afford it. I hope to get one next year if things go well."

Mavis stared at Mrs Hamilton in wide-eyed amazement. The rich woman appeared to take no notice of the girl's surprise, and said:

"Sit by the fire with me a moment. It will soon be time for you to dress."

"Dress! I've only what I've got on with me. My one poor evening dress would look absurd in this house."

"I told you I'd see to that," replied Mrs Hamilton. "I've had a young friend staying with me who was just about your build. She left one or two of her evening dresses behind her. If they don't quite fit, my maid will take them in."

"You are good to me," said Mavis.

"If you like it, I'll give you one."

"How can I ever thank you?"

"You can to-night."

"To-night?"

"Listen. I've two old friends coming to dinner. One is a Mr—Mr Ellis, but he won't interest you a bit."

"Why not?"

"He's old and is already infatuated."

"Isn't the other, then?" asked Mavis lightly.

"Mr—Mr Williams! No. I wonder if you'd interest him."

"I don't suppose so for one moment," remarked Mavis.

"You're too modest. Mr Williams is young, good-looking, rich."

"Money doesn't interest me."

"Nonsense!"

"Really, it doesn't."

"Not after your wanting work for so long?"

"Not a bit."

"Not when you see it can buy things like mine?"

"Of course money is wonderful, but it isn't everything."

"You say that because you don't know. Money is power, happiness, contentment, life. And you know it in your heart of hearts. Every woman, who is anything at all, knows it. Surely, after all you've gone through, it appeals to you?"

Mrs Hamilton anxiously watched Mavis's face.

"Not a bit like it seems to—to some people," replied Mavis.

Mrs Hamilton's face fell. She was lost in anxious thought for some moments.

"Do you mind?" asked Mavis.

"Of course not. But we'll talk it over after you've seen Mr Williams."

"But is it so necessary for his happiness that he should be infatuated with anyone?"

"It might keep him from worse things. He's very impulsive and romantic. I've quite a motherly interest in the boy. You might assist me to reclaim him."

[Footnote: ]Although Mrs Hamilton spoke such maternal sentiments, Mavis looked in vain for the motherly expression upon her face, which she felt should inevitably accompany such words. Mrs Hamilton's face was hard, expressionless, cold. Presently she said:

"If you would care to go to your room, it's on the next floor, and the second door you come to on the right. If it isn't good enough, let me know."

"It's sure to be," remarked Mavis.

"Parkins, my maid, will come to you in ten minutes. Rest till then, as to-night I want you to look your best."

Mavis thanked and left Mrs Hamilton. She then found her way to her chamber. She was as surprised and delighted with this as she had been with the other two rooms, perhaps more so, because she reflected, with an immense satisfaction, that it might be her very own. The room was furnished throughout with satinwood; blue china bowls decorated the tops of cabinets; a painted satinwood spinet stood in a corner; the hearth was open and tiled throughout with blue Dutch tiles; the fire burned in a brass brazier which was suspended from the chimney.

Thought Mavis, as she looked rapturously about her:

"Just the room I should love to have had for always, if—if things had been different."

A door on the right of the fireplace attracted her. She turned the handle of this, to find it opened on to a luxuriously fitted bathroom, in a corner of which a fire was burning. Mavis returned to the bedroom, still wondering at the sudden change in her fortunes; even now, with all these tangible evidences of the alteration in her condition, she could scarcely believe it to be true: it all seemed like something out of a book or on the stage, two forms of distraction which, according to Miss Allen, did anything but represent life as it really was. She was still mentally agape at her novel surroundings when Parkins, Mrs Hamilton's maid, entered the room to dress Mavis.

Parkins's appearance surprised her; she was wholly unlike her conception of what a lady's-maid should be. Instead of being unassumingly dressed, quiet, self-effacing, Parkins was a bold, buxom wench, with large blue eyes and a profusion of fair hair. She wore white lace underskirts, openwork silk stockings, and showy shoes. Her manner was that of scarcely veiled familiarity. She carried upon her arm a gorgeous evening gown.

Mavis made an elaborate toilette. She bathed, presently to clothe herself in the many delicate garments which Mrs Hamilton had provided. Her hair was dressed by Parkins; later, when she put on the evening frock, she hardly knew herself. The gown was of grey chiffon, embroidered upon the bodice and skirt with silver roses; grey silk stockings, grey silver embroidered shoes completed the toilette.

"Madam sent you these," said Parkins, returning to the room after a short absence.

"Those!" cried Mavis, as her eyes were attracted by the pearl necklaces and other costly jewels which the maid had brought.

"Madam entertains very rich gentlemen; she likes everyone about her to look their best."

Mavis, with faint reluctance, let Parkins do as she would with her. The pearl necklaces were roped about her neck; gold bracelets were put upon her arms; a thin platinum circlet, which supported a large emerald, was clasped about her head.

Mavis stood to look at herself in the glass. She could scarcely believe that the tall, queenly, ardent-looking girl was the same tired, dispirited creature who had listlessly pinned on her hat of a morning before tramping out, in all weathers, to search for work. She gazed at herself for quite two minutes; whatever happened, the memory of how she looked in all this rich finery was something to remember.

"Will I do?" she asked of Mrs Hamilton, when that person, very richly garbed, came into the room.

Mrs Hamilton looked her all over before replying:

"Yes, you'll do."

"I'm glad."

"I never make a mistake. You can go, Parkins."

When the maid had left the room, Mrs Hamilton said:

"I'm going to introduce you to my friends as Miss Devereux."

"But—"

"I wish it."

"But—"

Mavis did not at all like this resolve.

"It was the name of my last companion, and I've got used to it. Besides, I wish it."

Mavis resented Mrs Hamilton's sudden assumption of authority; it quickened the vague feelings of dislike which she had felt in her presence, the vague feelings of dislike which reminded her of—of—ah! She remembered now. It was the same uncomfortable sensation which she had always experienced when Mrs Stanley stood by her in "Dawes'."

This discovery of the identity of the two emotions set Mavis wondering if either had anything to do with the character of the two women who had inspired them, and, if so, whether Mrs Hamilton followed the same loathsome calling as Mrs Stanley. Mavis comforted her mind's disquiet by reflecting how Miss Allen had, most likely, not told the truth about Mrs Stanley's occupation; also, by remembering how her present situation was the result of a direct, personal appeal to the Almighty, which precluded the remotest possibility of her being exposed to risk of insult or harm. She had little time for thinking on the matter, for Mrs Hamilton said:

"Mr Ellis has already come. Mr Williams will be here any moment. We'd better go down."

Mavis followed Mrs Hamilton to the drawing-room, where a man rose at their entrance, to whom Mavis was introduced as Miss Devereux.

He scarcely glanced at Mavis, gave her the most formal of bows, and, as the few remarks he made were directed to Mrs Hamilton, the girl had plenty of time in which to observe him. He was elderly, tall, distinguished-looking. He had the indefinable air of being, not only a man of wealth, but a "somebody." She was chiefly attracted by his grey eyes, which seemed dead and lifeless. The underlids of these were pencilled with countless small lines, which, with the weary, dull eyes, seemed quite out of keeping with the otherwise keenly intellectual face.

Mavis secretly resented the man's indifference to her comeliness. A few minutes later, the servant opened the door to announce Mr Williams, whereupon a tall, sun-bronzed, smart-looking man sauntered into the room. Something in his carriage and face suggested soldier to Mavis's mind. He was by no means handsome, but what might have been a somewhat plain face was made pleasant-looking by the deep sunburn and the kindliness of his expression.

Williams shook hands with Mrs Hamilton, nodded to Ellis, and then turned to Mavis. Directly he saw her, a look of surprise came into his face; the girl could not help seeing how greatly he was struck by her appearance. Mrs Hamilton introduced them, when he at once came to her side.

"Just think of it," he said, "I was in no hurry to get here. If I had only known!"

"Known what?" asked Mavis.

"That's asking something. In return I'm going to ask you a question."

"Well?"

"What is it like to be so charming?"

The same question asked by another man might have offended her. There was such a note of sincere, boyish admiration in the man's voice, that she had said, almost before she was aware of it:

"Rather nice."

He said more in the same strain. Mavis found herself greatly enjoying the thinly veiled compliments which he paid her. It was the first time since she had grown up that she had spoken to a smart man, who was obviously a gentleman. If this were not enough to thaw her habitual reserve, there was something strangely familiar in the young man's face and manner; it almost seemed to Mavis as if she were talking with a very old friend or acquaintance, which was enough to justify the unusual levity of her behaviour.

Once or twice, she caught Mrs Hamilton's eye, when she could not help seeing how her friend was much pleased at the way in which she attracted Mr Williams.

When he was taking the girl down to dinner, he murmured:

"May I call here often?"

"There's no charge for admission," replied Mavis.

"It wouldn't make any difference to me if there were."

"How nice to be so reckless!"

"I'm a lot in town for the next three months. I want to get as much out of life as I can."

"From school?"

"Aldershot."

"Are you in the service?"

"Eh!"

"If you are, haven't you any rank at your age?" asked Mavis.

"How do you know I'm not a Tommy?" he asked.

"That's what I thought you were," she retorted.

Mavis and Mrs Hamilton faced each other at table; Williams sat on her right, Ellis on her left. The conversation at the dinner-table was, almost exclusively, between the soldier and Mavis. Ellis scarcely spoke to his hostess, and then only when compelled.

"What will you drink?" asked Mrs Hamilton of Mavis.

"Water, please."

"Water?" echoed Mrs Hamilton.

Mr Ellis looked keenly at Mavis.

"Have some champagne," continued Mrs Hamilton.

"I'd fall under the table if I did. I'll have water. I never drink anything else," said Mavis.

"I never drink anything else except champagne," retorted Mrs Hamilton. "Look here, if Miss Devereux drinks water I shall," declared Williams.

"Do. The change will do you good," replied Mavis.

"See what I've let myself in for," said Williams, as he kept his word.

As the servant was about to pour out champagne for Mr Ellis, Mrs Hamilton said:

"Stop! I've something special for you."

She then whispered to the servant, who left the room to bring back a curious, old bottle. When this was opened, a golden wine poured into Mr Ellis's glass, where it bubbled joyously, as if rejoicing at being set free from its long imprisonment.

As the wine was poured out, Mavis noticed how Mr Ellis's eye caught Mrs Hamilton's.

The meal was long, elaborate, sumptuous. Mavis wondered when the procession of toothsome delicacies would stop. She enjoyed herself immensely; her unaccustomed personal adornment, the cosy room, the shaded lights, the lace table-cloth, the manner in which the food was served, above all, the manly, admiring personality of Mr Williams, all irresistibly appealed to her, largely because the many joyous instincts of her being had been starved for so long.

She surrendered herself body and soul to the exhilaration of the moment, as if conscious that it was all too good to be true; that her surroundings might any moment fade; that her gay clothes would disappear, and that she would again find herself, heartsick and weary, in her comfortless little combined room at Mrs Bilkins's. At the same time, her natural alertness took in everything going on about her.

As the dinner progressed, she could not help seeing how Mr Ellis's eyes seemed to awaken from their torpor; but the life that came into them was such that Mavis much preferred them as they originally were. They sparkled hungrily; it seemed to the girl as if they had a fearful, hunted, and, at the same time, eager, unholy look, as if they sought refuge in some deadly sin in order to escape a far worse fate. Mavis's and Williams's gaiety was infectious. Ellis frequently joined in the raillery proceeding between the pair; it was as if Mavis's youth, comeliness, and charm compelled homage from the pleasure-worn man of the world. Mrs Hamilton, all this while, said little; she left the entertaining to Mavis, who was more than equal to the effort; it seemed to the joy-intoxicated girl as if she were the bountiful hostess, Mrs Hamilton a chance guest at her table. The appearance of strawberries at dessert (it was January) made a lull in Mavis's enjoyment: the out-of-season fruit reminded her of the misery which could be alleviated with the expenditure of its cost. She was silent for a few moments, which caused Ellis to ask:

"I say, Windebank, what have you said to our friend?"

Mavis looked up quickly, to see a look of annoyance on Mrs Hamilton's face.

"Williams, I should have said," corrected Ellis. "I muddled the two names. What have you said to our friend that she should be so quiet all at once?"

"Give it up," replied Williams. "Perhaps she's offended at our childishness."

The men talked. Mrs Hamilton, with something of an effort, joined in the conversation. Mavis was silent; she wondered how Mr Ellis came to address Mr Williams as "Windebank," which was also the name of the friend of the far-away days when her father was alive. She reflected how Archie Windebank would be now twenty-eight, an age that might well apply to Mr Williams. Associated with these thoughts was an uneasy feeling, which had been once or twice in her mind, that the two men at table were far too distinguished-looking to bear such commonplace names as Ellis and Williams. The others rallied her on her depression. Striving to believe that she must be mistaken in her suspicions, she made an effort to end the perplexities that were beginning to confront her.

"Are you at Aldershot for long?" asked Mavis of Mr Williams.

"I scarcely know: one never does know these things."

"Do you come up often?"

"I shall now."

"To see your people?"

"They live in the west of England."

"Wiltshire?"

"How did you know?"

"I didn't; I guessed."

"Wherever they are, I don't see so much of them as I should."

"How considerate of you!"

"Isn't it? But they're a bit too formidable even for one of my sober tastes."

"I see. They're interesting and clever."

"If Low Church and frumpy clothes are cleverness, they're geniuses," he remarked.

"Of course, you prefer High Church and low bodices," retorted Mavis.

Soon after, Mrs Hamilton and Mavis left the men and went upstairs to the drawing-room. The girl was uneasy in her mind as to how Mrs Hamilton would take the fact of her having considerably eclipsed her employer at table; now that they were alone together, she feared some token of Mrs Hamilton's displeasure.

To her surprise and delight, this person said:

"You're an absolute treasure."

"You think so?"

"I don't think; I know. But then, I never make a mistake."

"I'm glad you're pleased."

"I'm not pleased; delighted is more the word. You're worth your weight in gold."

"I wish I were."

"But you will be, if you follow my advice. At first, I thought you a bit of a mug. I don't mind telling you, now I see how smart you are."

Mavis looked puzzled; the extravagant eulogy of her conduct seemed scarcely to be justified.

"You can see Williams is head over ears in love with you. So far, he's been beastly stand-offish to anyone I put him on to," continued Mrs Hamilton.

"Indeed!" said Mavis coldly. She disliked Mrs Hamilton's coarse manner of expressing herself.

Mrs Hamilton did not notice the frown on the girl's forehead, but went on:

"As for that idea of drinking water, it was a stroke of genius."

"What?"

"My heart went out to you when you insisted on having it, although I pretended to mind."

Mavis was about to protest her absolute sincerity in the matter, when Parkins, the maid who had dressed her, came into the room. She whispered to her mistress, at which Mrs Hamilton rose hurriedly and said:

"I must leave you for a little time on important business."

"What would you like me to do?" asked Mavis.

"Particularly one thing: don't leave this room."

"Why should I?"

"Quite so. But I want someone here when Mr Williams comes upstairs."

"I'll stick at my post," laughed Mavis, at which Mrs Hamilton and the comely-looking maid left the room.

Left alone, Mavis surrendered herself to the feeling of uneasiness which had been called into being, not only by her employer's strange words, but, also, by the fact of Mr Williams having been addressed by the other man as Windebank. The more she thought of it, the more convinced was she that Mr Ellis had not made a mistake in calling the other man by a different name to the one by which she had been introduced to him. The fact of his having admitted that his home was in Wiltshire, together with the sense of familiarity in his company, seemingly begotten of old acquaintance, tended to strengthen this conviction. On the other hand, if he were indeed the old friend of her childhood, there seemed a purposed coincidence in the fact of their having met again. She did not forget how her presence in Mrs Hamilton's house was the result of an appeal to her Heavenly Father, who, she firmly believed, would not let a human sparrow such as she fall to the ground. She was curious to discover the result of this seemingly preordained meeting. The sentimental speculation engendered a dreamy languor which was suddenly interrupted by a sense of acute disquiet. She was always a girl of abnormal susceptibility to what was going on about her; to such an extent was this sensibility developed, that she had learned to put implicit faith in the intuitions that possessed her. Now, she was certain that something was going on in the house, something that was hideous, unnatural, unholy, the conviction of which seemed to freeze her soul. She had not the slightest doubt on the matter: she felt it in the marrow of her bones.

She placed her hand on her eyes, as if to shut out the horrid certainty; the temporary deprivation of sight but increased the acuteness of her impression, consequently, her uneasiness. She felt the need of space, of good, clean air. The fine drawing-room seemed to confine her being; she hurried to the door in order to escape. Directly she opened it, she found Parkins, the over-dressed maid, outside, who, directly she saw Mavis, barred her further progress.

"What is it, miss?" she asked.

"Mrs Hamilton! I must see her."

"You can't, miss."

"I must. I must. There's something going on. I must see her."

A fearsome expression came over the maid's face as she said:

"I was coming to remind you from madam of your promise to her not to leave the drawing-room."

"I must. I must."

"If I may say so, miss, it will be as much as your place is worth to disobey madam."

These words brought a cold shock of reason to Mavis's fevered excitement.

She looked blankly at the servant for a moment or two, before saying:

"Thank you, Parkins; I will wait inside."

If her many weeks of looking for employment had taught her nothing else, they now told her how worse than foolish it would be to shatter at one blow Mrs Hamilton's good opinion of her. In compliance with her employer's request, she returned to the drawing-room, her nerves all on edge.

Although more convinced than before of the presence of some abomination, she made a supreme effort to divert her thoughts into channels promising relief from her present tension of mind.

She caught up and eagerly examined the first thing that came to hand. It was a large, morocco-bound, gold-edged photograph album; almost before she was aware of it, she was engrossed in its contents. It was full from cover to cover of coloured photographs of women. There were dark girls, fair girls, auburn girls, every type of womanhood to be met with under Northern skies; they ranged from slim girls in their teens to over-ripe beauties, whose principal attraction was the redundance of their figures. For all the immense profusion of varied beauty which the women displayed, they had certainly two qualities in common—they all wore elaborate evening dress; they were all photographed to display to the utmost advantage their physical attractions. Otherwise, thought Mavis, there was surely nothing to differentiate them from the usual run of comely womanhood. Always a lover of beauty, Mavis eagerly scanned the photographs in the book. To her tense imagination, it was like wandering in a highly cultivated garden, where there were flowers of every hue, from the timid shrinking violet and the rosebud, to the over-blown peony, to greet the senses. It was as if she wandered from one to the next, admiring and drinking in the distinctive beauty of each. There were supple, fair-petalled daffodils, white-robed daisies, scarlet-lipped poppies, and black pansies, instinct with passion, all waiting to be culled. It seemed as if a paradise of glad loveliness had been gathered for her delight. They were all dew-bespangled, sun-worshipping, wind-free, as if their only purpose was to languish for some thirsty bee to come and sip greedily of their sweetness. As Mavis looked, another quality, which had previously eluded her, seemed to attach itself to each and all of the flowers, a quality that their calculated shyness now made only the more apparent. It was as if at some time in their lives their petals had been one and all ravaged by some relentless wind; as if, in consequence, they had all dedicated themselves to decorate the altars raised to the honour and glory of love.

Mavis, also, noticed that beneath each photograph was written a number in big figures. Then the book repelled her. She put it down, not before she noticed that, scattered about the room, were other albums filled presumably in the same way as was the other. She had no mind to look at these, being already surfeited with beauty; also, she was more than ever aware of the sense of disquiet which had troubled her before. To escape once more from this, she walked to the piano, opened it, and let her fingers stray over the keys. She had not touched a piano for many weeks, consequently her fingers were stiff and awkward; but in a few minutes they got back something of their old proficiency: almost unconsciously, she strayed into an Andante of Chopin's.

The strange, appealing, almost unearthly beauty of the movement soothed her jangled nerves; before she was aware of it, she was enrapt with the morbid majesty of the music. Although she was dimly conscious that someone had come into the room, she went on playing.

The next definite thing that she knew was that two strong arms were placed about her body, that she was being kissed hotly and passionately upon eyes and lips.

"You darling; you darling; you perfect darling!" cried a voice.

Mavis was too overcome by the suddenness of the assault to know what to be at; her first instinct was to deliver herself from the defiling touch of her assailant. She freed herself with an effort, to see that it was Mr Williams who had so grossly insulted her. Blind rage, shame, outraged pride all struggled for expression; blind rage predominated.

"Oh, you beast!" she cried.

"Eh!"

"You beast! You beast! To do a thing like that!" Then, as she became on better terms with the nature of the vulgar insult to which she had been subjected, her anger blazed out.

"How dare you insult a defenceless girl?"

"But—" the man stammered.

"What have I ever done but try and work to keep away from such things, and now you come and—Oh, you beast—you cruel beast! You'll never know what you have done."

A sense of shame possessed her. She turned away to drop scalding tears. Anger quickly succeeded this brief fit of dejection. It caused her inexpressible pain to think that she, a daughter of a proud family, the girl with the aloof soul, should have been treated in the same way as any fast London shop-girl. She was consumed with passion; she feared what form her rage might take. At least she was determined to have the man turned out of the house. She moved towards the bell.

"If I've made a mistake," began the man, who all this time had been fearfully watching her.

"If you've made a mistake!" she echoed scornfully.

"The best of us do sometimes, you know," he continued.

"Why to me—to me? What have I said or done to encourage you? Why to me?" she cried.

"If I've made a mistake, I'm more sorry than I can say, more sorry than you can guess."

"What's the use of that to me? You touched my lips. Oh, I could tear them!" she cried desperately.

"Will you hear my excuse?"

"There's no excuse. Nothing—nothing will ever make me forget it. Oh, the shame of it!"

Here bitter tears again welled to her eyes.

The man was moved by her extremity.

"I am so very sorry. I wouldn't have had it happen for anything. I didn't know you were in the least like this."

"Why not? If you had met me as I was before I came here there might have been the shadow of an excuse. Do you usually behave to girls you meet at friends' houses like you did to me?"

"In friends' houses?" he asked, emphasising the word "friends."

"You heard what I said?"

"This is scarcely a friend's house."

"Why not?"

"Eh?"

"Why not? Why not? Can't you tell me?"

"But—"

"Why not? Why not? Answer!"

"Is it possible?"

"Is what possible?"

"You don't know the house you're in?"

"What house?" she asked wildly.

The look of terror, of fear, which accompanied this question was enough to dissipate any doubts of the girl's honesty which may have lingered in the man's mind.

"How long have you been here?"

"Three hours."

"And you don't know what Mrs Hamilton is?"

"No."

"What?" he cried excitedly.

"Tell me! Tell me!"

"Just tell me how you met her."

She told him in short words; she was reluctant to make a confidant of the man who had ravished her lips; she was dimly conscious that he may have had a remote excuse for his behaviour. When she had done, he said:

"Mrs Hamilton is one of the worst women in London. She'd have been 'run in' long ago if she weren't so rich and if her clients weren't so influential."

Mavis looked at him wide-eyed.

"That chap at dinner, didn't, you know he was Lord Kegworth? If you don't, you must have heard of the rotten life he's led."

"But—" stammered Mavis.

"Have you seen any photographs since you've been here?"

"Just now—these."

"She's their agent, go between. Here! What am I telling you? You can thank your stars you've met me."

Mavis's frightened eyes looked into his.

"I'm going to get you out of it."

"You?"

"There's not a moment to lose. Get on your things and clear out."

"But Mrs Hamilton—"

"She's busy for a moment. Slip on something over your dress and join me outside the drawing-room. If anyone interferes with you, shout."

"But—"

"Do as I tell you. Hang it! I must do something to try and make up for my blackguard behaviour."

Mavis went from the room, her heart beating with fear of discovery. For the time being, she had forgotten the insult offered her by the man she had left: her one thought was to put as great a space as possible between this accursed house and herself in the least imaginable time. She scarcely knew what she did. She tore off the pearls, the head circlet with its shining emerald, bracelets and other costly gee-gaws, and threw them on the table; she was glad to be rid of them; their touch meant defilement. She kicked off the grey slippers, tore off the silk stockings, and substituted for these her worn, down-at-heel shoes and stockings. There was no time to change her frock, so she pulled the cloak over her evening clothes; she meant to return these latter to their owner the first thing in the morning. She turned her back on the room, that such a short while back she had looked upon as her own, ran down the stairs and joined the man, who was impatiently waiting for her on the landing. Without exchanging a word, they descended to the ground floor. The front door was in sight and Mavis's heart was beating high with hope, when Mrs Hamilton, who looked tired and heated, stood in the passage.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Out for the evening," replied Williams.

"What time shall I expect you back?" she asked of Mavis.

"I'm not coming back," replied Mavis. "I wish I'd never come."

"Then—?"

"Yes," interrupted Williams, anticipating Mrs Hamilton's question.

"You believe and trust a notorious seducer like this man?" asked Mrs Hamilton of Mavis.

"Whatever I am, I ain't that," cried Williams.

"To a man who has ruined more girls than anyone else in London?" continued Mrs Hamilton. "I solemnly warn you that if you go with that man it means your ruin—ruin body and soul."

Mrs Hamilton spoke in such a low, earnest voice, that Mavis, who now recollected Mr Williams's previous behaviour to her, was inclined to waver.

Mrs Hamilton saw her advantage and said:

"Since you disbelieve in me, the least you can do is to go upstairs and take off my clothes."

"She'll do nothing of the kind," cried out the man.

"He doesn't want to lose his prey," Mrs Hamilton remarked to Mavis, who was inclined to falter a little more.

Perhaps Williams saw the weakening of the girl's resolution, for he made a last desperate effort on her behalf.

"Look here," he said, "I'm not a sneak, but, if you don't own up and let Miss Devereux go, I'll fetch in the police."

"You'll what?" cried Mrs Hamilton.

"Fetch in the police. Not to Mrs Hamilton, but to Mrs Bridgeman, Mrs Knight, or Mrs Davis."

Mrs Hamilton's face went white; she looked intently at the man to see if he were in earnest. His resolute eyes convinced her that he was.

The next moment, a torrent of foul words fell from her lips. She abused Mavis; she reviled the man; she accused the two of sin, the while she made use of obscene, filthy phrases, which caused Mavis to put her hands to her ears.

Mavis no longer wavered. She put her hand on the man's arm; the next minute they were out in the street.




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