Mavis heard him calling her name, first one way, then another; once, he approached and came quite near her, but he changed his direction, to pass immediately out of her ken.
She then hurried in the direction of what she believed to be Hammersmith; she could not know for certain, as the fog increased in intensity every minute. Her mind was too confused to ask anyone if she were going the right way, even if she had cared to know, which, at present, she did not. She was seized with a passion for movement, anything to distract her mind from the emotions possessing it. One moment, she blamed herself for having left Windebank as she had done; the next, she told herself and tried hard to believe that she had done the best conceivable thing under the circumstances.
She walked quickly, careless to where her footsteps led her, as if hurrying from, or to Windebank's side; she was not certain which she desired. She had walked for quite twenty minutes when she was brought up short by a blow on the forehead. Light flashed in her eyes; she put out her arms to save herself from a fall. She had walked into a tree, contact with which had bruised her face and torn skin from her forehead. Pain and dizziness brought her to the realisation of the fact that it was late, and that she was penniless; also, that she was unaware of her whereabouts. She resolved to get back to her lodging with as little delay as possible. She groped about, hoping to find someone who would tell her where she was and direct her to Kiva Street. After some minutes, she all but walked into a policeman, who told her how she was near the King's Road, Chelsea, also how to get to her destination. She hastened on, doing her utmost to follow his directions. This was not easy, the fog and the pain in her head both confusing her steps. Once or twice, she was almost overcome by faintness; then, she was compelled to cling to railings for support until she had strength to continue her way.
There came a time when her legs refused to carry her further; her head throbbed violently; a dark veil seemed to gradually blot out things as she knew them. She remembered no more.
When next she became dimly conscious, she seemed to be in a recumbent position in a strange room, where she was watching the doings of a woman who was unknown to her.
When Mavis first set eyes on this person, she appeared to be a decent, comely, fair-haired, youngish woman, who was dressed in the becoming black of one who had recently emerged from the mourning of widowhood. But as Mavis watched the woman, a startling transformation took place before her eyes. The woman began by removing her gloves and bonnet before a dressing glass, which was kept in position by a mangy hair brush thrust between the frame and its supports. Then, to the girl's wondering astonishment, the woman unpinned and took off her fair curls, revealing a mop of tangled, frowsy, colourless hair, which the wig had concealed. Next, she removed her sober, well-cut costume, also, her silk underskirt, to put on a much worn, greasy dressing-gown. Then, she pulled off her pretty shoes and silk stockings, to thrust her feet into worn slippers, through which her naked toes showed in more than one place.
Mavis rubbed her eyes; she expected every moment to find herself again in the street, clinging to the railings for support, at which moment of returning sense she would know that what she was now witnessing would prove to be an effect of her disordered imagination.
If what she saw were the result of a sick brain, it was a convincing, consistent picture which fascinated her attention.
The woman had taken up a not over-clean towel, to dip a corner of it in a jug upon the washstand before applying it to one side of her face. Mavis suffered her eyes to leave the woman in order to wander round the room. She was lying on a sofa at the foot of an iron bed. That part of the wall nearest to her was filled by the fireplace, in which a cheerful fire was burning; it looked as if it had recently been made up. Upon the mantelshelf were faded photographs of common, self-conscious people, the tops of which all but touched a framed print of the late Mr Gladstone. In the complementary recess to the one in which the washstand stood, was a table littered with odds and ends of food, some of which were still wrapped in the paper in which they had come from the shop. A smoking oil lamp, of which the glass shade had disappeared, and which was now shaded with the lid of a cardboard shoe box, cast elongated shadows of the occupier of the room on walls and ceiling as she moved. The atmosphere of the room was heavy with the mingled smell of paraffin oil and fugginess.
"Where—where am I?" asked Mavis.
"You've come round, then?" said the woman, who had just cleansed one side of her face of artificial complexion.
"How did I get here?"
"I found you outside as I came 'ome. I couldn't very well leave you like that."
"You're very kind."
"'Elp that you may be 'elped is my motto. An' then you didn't smell of drink. I wouldn't 'ave took you in if you had. Girls who're 'on the game' who drink ought to know better, and don't deserve sympathy."
Mavis stared at her wide-eyed, striving to recalled where she had heard that expression before, also what it meant.
"You sit quiet, dear; you'll be better directly," said the woman. "I've got to wash this stuff off. Beastly nuisance, but, if you don't, it stains the sheets and pillers, as I daresay you know."
Had Mavis possessed sufficient strength she would have combated this suggestion; it was as much as she could do to concentrate her wandering attention on the doings of the woman who had played good Samaritan in her extremity.
Mavis saw her cleanse the other side of her face and remove two false teeth from her mouth, actions which completed the transformation from that of a comely, interesting-looking, youngish woman to that of an elderly, extremely commonplace person with foxy, shifty eyes.
"Now I'm 'done.' I never feel reely at home till I get into my shirt sleeves, as you might say," remarked the woman.
Mavis sat up.
"'Ave a drink?" asked her benefactor.
"No, thank you."
"I don't mind a drop out of business hours, when I feel I've earned it, as you might say. I've got a quartern in a bottle. If I'd expected visitors, I'd have got more, but I'll go 'alves."
"No, thank you," repeated Mavis.
"Ah! Don't mind if I do?" said the woman, in the manner of one relieved of the possibility of parting with something that she would prefer to keep.
"Not at all."
The woman heated some water in a tin kettle, before mixing herself hot gin and water in a tooth glass, the edge of which was smudged with tooth powder.
"Smoke?"
"I do, sometimes," replied Mavis.
"Have a fag? A gentleman brought me these to-night."
Mavis somewhat reluctantly took and lit a cigarette. The woman did likewise, sipped her grog, and then brought a chair in order that she might sit by Mavis.
"What might your name be?"
"Keeves," answered Mavis shortly.
"Mine's Ewer—'Tilda Ewer. Miss, thank Gawd."
"You wear a wedding ring."
"Eh! That's business. And 'ow did you come to be overtook outside this 'ouse?"
"I walked far and was very tired."
"Rats!"
"I beg your pardon."
"Don't tell me. 'Ad a row with your boy, an' 'e biffed you on the 'ead. That's nearer the truth. And that's the worst of gentlemen in drink; but then, at other times, they're generous enough when they're in liquor, and don't mind if you help yourself to any spare cash they may 'appen to 'ave about them. It's as long as it's broad."
"You're quite wrong in thinking—" began Mavis.
"Don't come the toff with me," interrupted the woman. "If you was a reel young lady, you wouldn't be out on such a night, and alone. So don't tell me. I ain't lived forty—twenty-six years for nothink."
Mavis did not think it worth while to argue the point.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"'Alf-past two. I suppose I shall 'ave to keep you till the morning."
"I'll go directly. I can knock my landlady up."
"She's one of the right sort, eh? Ask no questions, but stick it on the rent!"
"If my head wasn't so bad, I'd go at once," remarked Mavis, who liked Miss Ewer less and less.
The woman took no notice of Mavis' ungracious speech: she was staring hard at Mavis' shoes.
"Fancy wearin' that lovely dress with them tuppenny shoes!" cried Miss Ewer suddenly.
"They are rather worn."
"Oh, you young fool! Beginner, I s'pose."
"I beg your pardon."
"Must be. No one else could be such a fool. Don't you know the gentlemen is most particular about underclothes, stockings and shoes?"
"It's a matter of utter indifference to me what the 'gentlemen' think," said Mavis with conviction.
"Go on!"
"Very well, if you don't believe me, you needn't."
"Here, I say, what are you?" asked Miss Ewer. "Tell me, and then we'll know where we stand."
"Tell you what?"
"Are you a naughty girl or a straight girl?"
"What do you mean?"
"Straight girls is them as only takes presents like silk stockings an' gloves from the gentlemen, like them girls in 'Dawes'."
"Girls in 'Dawes'!" echoed Mavis.
"They do a lot of 'arm; but yet you can't blame 'em: gentlemen will pay for anything rather than plank money down to them naughty girls as live by it."
"While I'm here, do you mind talking about something else?" asked Mavis angrily.
"I 'ave it. I 'ave it," cried Miss Ewer triumphantly. "You're one of the lucky ones. You're kep'."
"I beg your pardon."
"And good luck to you. Don't drink, keep him loving and generous, and put by for a rainy day, my dear: an' good luck to you."
"I'm well enough to go now," said Mavis, as she rose with something of an effort.
"Eh!"
"Thank you very much. Would you kindly show me the way out?"
"You've forgotten something, ain't yer?"
"What?"
"A little present for me."
"I've no money on me: really I haven't."
"Go on!"
"See!" cried Mavis, as she turned out the pockets of her cloak.
To her great surprise, many gold coins rolled on to the floor.
"Gawd in 'Eaven!" cried Miss Ewer, as she stooped to pick them up.
Mavis wondered how they had got there, till it occurred to her how Windebank, pitying her poverty, must have taken the opportunity of putting the money in her pocket when he insisted upon getting and helping her into her coat at the restaurant.
She at once told herself that she could not touch a penny piece of it, indeed the touch of it would seem as if it burnt her fingers. Her present concern was to get away as far from the money as possible.
"'Ow much can I 'ave?" cried Miss Ewer, who was on her knees greedily picking up the coins.
"All."
"All? Gawd's trewth!"
"Every bit. Only let me go; at once."
"'Ere, if you're so generous, ain't you got no more?" said Miss Ewer, the while her eyes shone greedily.
"I'll see," said Mavis, as she thoroughly turned out her pockets.
Another gold piece fell out; also, a bunch of violets.
"Vilets!" laughed Miss Ewer.
"Don't touch those. No one else shall have them," cried Mavis, as she wildly snatched them.
"You're welcome to that rubbage, and as you've given me all this, in return I'll give you a tip as is worth a king's money box."
"You needn't bother."
"You shall 'ave it. I've never told a soul. It's 'ow you can earn a living on the streets like me, and keep, like me, as good a maid as any lady married at St George's, 'Anover Square."
"Thank you, but—".
"Listen; listen; listen! It's dress quiet, pick up soft-looking gents, refuse drink, and pitch 'em a Sunday school yarn," said Miss Ewer impressively.
"But—".
"It's four pound a week I'm giving away. Tell 'em it's the first time you're going wrong; talk about your dead 'usband in 'is grave, an' the innocent little lovely baby girl in 'er cot (the gentlemen like baby girls better'n boys), as prayed for 'er mummy before she went to sleep. Then, squeeze a tear an' see if that don't touch their 'earts an' their pockets."
"Let me go! Let me go!" cried Mavis, horrified at the woman's communication.
"I thought I'd astonish you," said Miss Ewer complacently.
"Let me go. This way?"
"Too grateful to thenk me! Never mind; leave it till nex' time we meet. You can thenk me then. I thought I'd take your breath away."
"Let me out! Let me out!" cried Mavis, as she fumbled at the chain of the front door.
"Lemme. Good night, and Gawd bless yer," said Miss Ewer, furtively counting the gold pieces in her pocket.
Mavis did not reply.
"Thought I'd astonish yer. Fer Gawd's sake, don't whisper what I told you to a livin' soul. An' work 'ard and keep virtuous like me. Before Gawd, I'm as good a maid—"
These were the last words Mavis heard as she hurried away from Miss Ewer.
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