Four weeks later, Mavis got out of the train at Melkbridge. She breathed a sigh of relief when her feet touched the platform; her one regret was that she was not leaving London further away than the hundred miles which separated Melkbridge from the metropolis. It seemed to her as if the great city were exclusively peopled with Mr. Orgles', Mrs Hamiltons, Miss Ewers, and their like. Ignorant of London's kindness, she had only thought for its wickedness. With the exception of one incident, she had resolved to forget as much as possible of her existence since she had left Brandenburg College; also, to see what happiness she could wrest from life in the capacity of clerk in the Melkbridge boot manufactory, a position she owed to her long delayed appeal to Mr Devitt for employment. The one incident that she cared to dwell upon was her meeting with Windebank and the kindly concern he had exhibited in her welfare. The morning following upon her encounter with him, she had long debated, without arriving at any conclusion, whether she had done well, or otherwise, in leaving him as she had done. As the days passed, if things seemed inclined to go happily with her, she was glad that she had put an end to their budding friendship, to regret her behaviour when vexed by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Her few hours' acquaintance with Windebank had ruffled the surface of the deep, unexplored waters of the girl's passion, which, rightly or wrongly, caused her to surrender her personal preferences and to regard the matter entirely from the man's point of view. This self-abasement was, largely, the result of the girl's natural instincts where her affections were concerned; these had been reinforced by the sentimental pabulum which enters so much into the fiction that is devoured by girls of Mavis' age and habit of thought. She argued how it would be criminally selfish of her to presume on his boyish attachment of the old days, which might lead him to believe that it was a duty for him to extend to his old-time playmate the lifelong protection of marriage.
Her lack of personal vanity was such that it never once occurred to her that she was eminently desirable in his eyes; that he wished for nothing better than for her to bestow herself, together with her affections, upon him for lifelong appreciation. She resolved to stifle her inclinations in order that the man's career should not suffer from legal companionship with a portionless, friendless girl.
Her unselfish resolutions faltered somewhat when, in resuming the weary search for chances of employment in the advertising columns of the newspapers, she came across the following, which was every day repeated for the remainder of the week:—
"To M...s, who foolishly lost herself in the fog on the night of last Thursday. She is earnestly urged to write to me, care of Taylor & Wintle, 43 Lincoln's Inn Fields. Do not let foolish scruples delay you from letting me hear from you."
She had got as far as writing a reply, but could never quite bring herself to post it.
A miserable Sunday had urged her to send it to its destination; the chance purchase of a Sunday paper decided the letter's, and, incidentally, her own fate. In it she read how, owing to threatened disturbance on the Indian frontier, Sir Archibald Windebank, D.S.O., would shortly leave Aldershot by S.S. Arabia with a reinforcing draft of the Rifle Brigade.
Mavis tore up her letter, to write another, which she addressed to the steamer which was to carry him the greater part of his long journey. She did not give her address; she told him how she believed it would be for his advantage not to encumber his noble career with concern for her. She had added that, if it were destined for them to meet, nothing would give her greater pleasure than to see him again. She ended by wishing him God-speed, a safe return, a successful and happy life. As the days passed, with all the indignities and anxieties attending the quest for employment, the girl's thoughts more and more inclined to Melkbridge. She longed to breathe its air, tread its familiar ways, steep herself in the scarcely awakened spirit of the place. She constantly debated in her mind whether or not she should write to Mr. Devitt to ask for employment. She told herself how, in doing what she had resolved upon doing only in the last extremity, she was giving no more hurt to her pride than it received, several times daily, in her hopeless search for work. A startling occurrence had put the fear of London into her heart and decided her to write to Melkbridge. She had been walking down Victoria Street, raging with anger at the insult that a rich photographer had offered her, to whom, in reply to an advertisement, she had applied for work, when her attention was attracted by a knot of people gathered about a hospital nurse, a girl, and a policeman.
The nurse, a harsh, forbidding-looking woman, was endeavouring to coax the girl into a waiting cab. The girl was excitedly appealing for release to the policeman, to the knot of spectators, to passers-by. When anyone displayed a sign of active interest in the matter, the nurse had put her finger to her forehead to signify that her charge was insane.
Mavis was about to avoid the gathering by crossing the road, when she caught a glimpse of the girl's face, to recognise it as belonging to Miss Meakin. Wondering what it could mean, she hastened to her old acquaintance, who, despite her protests, was being urged towards the cab.
"It's all a mistake. Let me go! Oh! won't anyone help?" Miss Meakin had cried as Mavis reached her side.
"What is it? What has happened?" asked Mavis.
"It's you: it's you! Thank Heaven!" cried Miss Meakin.
"What has happened? I insist on knowing," Mavis had asked, as she glanced defiantly at the forbidding-looking nurse.
"It's not a nurse. It's a man. I know he is. He's followed me, and now he's trying to get me away," sobbed the girl.
Mavis turned to the nurse, who put her finger to her forehead, as if to insist that Miss Meakin's mind was unhinged.
Mavis had appealed to the policeman, to declare there must be some mistake, as she knew Miss Meakin to be of sound mind; but this man had replied that it was not his place to interfere. Mavis, feeling anxious for her friend, was debating in her mind whether she should get into the cab with the girl and the nurse, when a keen-faced-looking man, who had listened to all that had been said, came forward to tell the policeman that if he did not interfere, his remissness, together with his number, would be reported to Scotland Yard.
The policeman, stirred to action, stepped forward, at which the nurse had sprung into the cab, to be driven away, when Miss Meakin had gone into hysterics upon Mavis' shoulder.
Later, after she had come to herself in a chemist's shop, she had told Mavis that she had left "Dawes'," and was now keeping house for an aunt who was reduced to taking in paying guests somewhere in North Kensington. She had been to Vincent Square to look up a late paying guest of her aunt's, who had taken with her some of the household linen by mistake. Upon her setting out for home, she had met with the uncanny adventure from which Mavis' timely arrival had released her.
Directly Mavis reached home, she had written to Mr Devitt. Four days passed, during which she heard nothing in reply. The suspense filled her soul with a sickening dread. Work at Melkbridge now promised alluring possibilities, qualities that had never presented themselves to her mind in the days when she believed that a letter from her would secure from Mr Devitt what she desired. To her surprised delight, the fifth morning's post had brought her a letter from Mr Devitt, which told her that, if she would start at once for Melkbridge, she could earn a pound a week in the office of a boot manufactory, of which he was managing director; the letter had also contained postal orders for three pounds to pay the expenses of her moving from London to Wiltshire. Mavis could hardly believe her eyes. She had already pawned most of her trinkets, till now there alone remained her father's gifts, from which she was exceedingly loath to part. The three pounds, in relieving her of this necessity, was in the nature of a godsend.
Now she stood on the platform at Melkbridge. Her luggage had been put out of the train, which had steamed away. Mavis thought that she would ask the station-master if he knew of a suitable lodging. The man whom she judged to be this person was, at present, engaged with the porters. While she waited till he should be at liberty, her mind went back to the time when she had last stood on the same platform. It had been on the day when she had come down to Melkbridge fully confident of securing work with the Devitt family. This had only been a few months ago, but to Mavis it seemed long years: she had experienced so much in the time. Then it occurred to her how often Archie Windebank had walked on the same platform—Archie Windebank, who was now on the sea so many hundreds of miles from where she stood. She wondered if he ever found time to think of her. She sighed.
Seeing that the station-master was disengaged, she approached the spectacled, dapper little man and told him of her wants.
"Would it be for long?" he asked.
"Possibly for years. I'm coming to work here."
"Work!"
"In the office of one of Mr Devitt's companies."
The man assumed an air of some deference.
"Mr Devitt! Our leading inhabitant—sings baritone," remarked the station-master.
"Indeed!"
"A fair voice, but a little undisciplined in the lower register. This is quite between ourselves."
"Of course. Do you think you can help me to find rooms?"
"I wish I could. Let me think."
Mr Medlicott, as he was called, put the tips of his fingers together, while he reflected. Mavis watched his face for something in the nature of encouragement.
"Dear! dear! dear! dear!" he complained.
"Don't bother. It's good of you to think of it at all," said Mavis.
"Stay! I have it. Why didn't I think of it before? Mrs Farthing: the very thing."
"Where does she live?"
"The Pennington side of Melkbridge—over a mile from here; but I know you'd find there everything that you desire."
"Thanks. I'll leave my boxes here and walk there."
"I can save you the trouble. Her husband is guard on the 4.52. If you can fill up the time till then, it will save you walking all that way, perhaps, for no purpose."
Mavis thanked the station-master, left her luggage in his care and walked to the town, where the unmistakable London cut of her well-worn clothes attracted the attention of the female portion of the population. She had a cup of tea in a confectioner's, and felt better for it. She then set out to walk to her old favourite nook on the banks of the river, a spot rich with associations of her childhood. Her nearest way was to walk across the churchyard to the meadows, the third of which bordered the Avon. It only needed a quarter of an hour's walk along its banks to find the place she wanted. Unconsciously, her steps led her in a contrary direction from that in which she had purposed going. Almost before she knew what she had done, she had taken the road to Haycock Abbey, which was Windebank's Wiltshire home. It required something of an effort to enable her to retrace her steps. She reached and crossed the churchyard, where long forgotten memories crowded upon her; it was with heavy heart that she struck across the meadows.
When she reached the Avon, she found the river to be swollen with the winter's rain. The water, seamed with dark streaks, flowed turbulently, menacingly, past her feet. She walked along the river's deserted bank to the place that she had learned to look upon as her own. Its discovery gave her much of a shock. She had always pictured it in her mind as when she had last seen it. Then, it had been in early July. The river had lazily flowed past banks gaily decorated with timid forget-me-nots and purple veitch; the ragged robin had looked roguishly from the hedge. Such was the heat, that the trees of her nook had looked longingly towards the cool of the water, while the scent of lately mown hay seemed to pervade the world. That was then.
Now, a desolation had invaded the spot. In place of summer gaiety there was only dreariness. The flowers had gone; a raw wind soughed along the river's banks; instead of the scent of the hay there was only the smell of damp earth, as if to proclaim to the girl that such desolation was the certain heritage of all living things.
Mavis could not get rid of the impression that the contrast between the place as she remembered it and as it was now resembled her own life. She made her way, with all dispatch, to the station. Here she learned that Mrs Farthing could not take her in until the following day, as her present "visitors" were not leaving till then. Mavis pricked up her ears at the mention of visitors; she did not think such polite euphemisms had penetrated so far afield.
She had little thought to give the matter, as she was concerned to know where she was going to spend the night. Mr Medlicott solved her perplexity; he insisted upon Mavis seeing Mrs Medlicott, who proved to be a simple, kindly countrywoman, who dropped an old-fashioned curtsey directly she set eyes on the girl. The station-master's wife showed Mavis a little room and told her that she was welcome to the use of it for the night, if she were not afraid of being kept awake by the passing and shunting of trains. Mavis jumped at the offer, whereat Mrs Medlicott insisted on her sitting down to a solid, homely tea, a meal which was often interrupted by Mr Medlicott getting up to attend to his duties upon the platform. When tea was over, there was yet another hour's daylight. Mrs Medlicott suggested to Mavis that it might be as well for her to call on Mrs Farthing, to see if she liked her; she mentioned that Mr Farthing was a very nice man, but that his wife was not a person everyone could get on with.
Mavis set out for the Pennington end of Melkbridge, where, after some inquiry, she found that Mrs Farthing lived in an old-world cottage, which was situated next door to a farm.
The girl's knock brought Mrs. Farthing, first to the window, then to the door, whereupon Mavis explained her errand, not forgetting to mention who had recommended her to come.
"Please to come inside," said Mrs. Farthing.
Mavis followed the woman, who was little and sharp-eyed, into a clean, orderly living room, where she was asked to take a seat. She was surprised to see her prospective landlady also sit, for all the world as if she were entertaining a guest.
"Did you say you were taking up church work?" asked Mrs Farthing.
"No, I did not."
"I thought you did," said Mrs Farthing, as her face fell.
"You see, my father was a sea captain, so I have to be so careful to whom I let my rooms."
"If I thought they weren't respectable, I shouldn't have come here," retorted Mavis.
Mrs Farthing winced, but recovered herself.
"Since I have been resident at Pennington Cottage, one colonel, three doctors, two lawyers, seven reverends, and one banker have visited here."
"I'm glad to see others appreciate you," remarked Mavis.
"Professional gentlemen and their ladies take to me at once. Did you tell me your uncle was a reverend?"
"No, I did not," replied Mavis, who was beginning to lose patience.
"You see, my father being a sea captain—"
"I can't see how that's anything to do with letting lodgings," said Mavis.
"Pardon me, it raises the question of references."
"Of course, I must have yours. I have only your word for the sort of people you've had here."
Mrs Farthing looked at Mavis in astonishment; she was unaccustomed to being tackled in this fashion.
"Perhaps, perhaps you'd like to see the sitting-room?" she faltered.
"I should," said Mavis.
Mrs Farthing led the way to a quaint little room, the window of which overlooked the neighbouring farmyard.
Mavis, although she took a fancy to it at once, was sufficiently diplomatic to say:
"It might, perhaps, suit me."
Mrs. Farthing pointed out the beauty of the view, a recommendation to which Mavis subscribed.
The girl's acquiescence emboldened Mrs Farthing to say:
"Did you say that your mother would sometimes visit you?"
Mavis trembled with indignation.
"I did nothing of the kind, and you know it," she cried. "If you wish to know, I'm employed by Mr Devitt, and should probably have stayed here for years. If you can't see at a glance what I am, all I can say is that you've been used to a tenth-rate lot of lodgers."
Mrs. Farthing capitulated.
"Wouldn't you like to see the bedroom?"
"If you don't ask any more silly questions."
"It's hard to forget my father was a sea captain," explained Mrs Farthing.
A door in the passage opened on to winding stairs, up which vanquished and victor walked.
From the first floor, a sort of gangway led to the door of a room that was raised some three feet from the level of where the two women stood.
"Now we ascend the Kyber Pass," cried Mrs Farthing gaily, as she set foot on the gangway.
As Mavis followed, it occurred to her how this remark might be invariably retailed to prospective lodgers by Mrs Farthing.
The bedroom's neat appointments made it even more attractive in Mavis' eyes than the sitting-room.
Mrs. Farthing wanted eight shillings a week for a permanency, but Mavis stuck out for seven. The issue was presently compromised by the landlady's agreeing to accept seven and sixpence.
"There's only one thing," said Mrs Farthing, as she sat on the bed; "and that's my husband."
"What about him?" asked Mavis, who had believed that everything was settled.
"He simply can't abide my letting rooms; he's on to me about it morning, noon, and night."
"I'm sorry."
"To think," as he says, "the daughter of a sea captain—" Here Mrs Farthing caught Mavis' eye, to substitute for what she was about to say: "But there," he says, "work your fingers to the bone; go and commit suicide by overdoing it; kill yourself outright with making other people comfortable, so long as you get your own way."
"Really!"
"That's what he says every minute of the time that he's at home."
When Mavis left Mrs Farthing to walk to the station, she could not help noticing how the rough and tumble of her experiences had had a hardening effect upon her once soft heart. It was not so long ago that, although presumption on a landlady's part would have goaded Mavis into making an apposite retort, she would have bitterly regretted the pain that her words may have inflicted. Now, she was indifferent to any annoyance that she may have caused Mrs Farthing. If anything, she was rather pleased with herself for having shown the woman her place.
It was something of an experience for Mavis to spend the evening in the sitting-room of a country railway station. Stillness violently alternated with the roar and rush of the trains. Mr Medlicott spent his spare time in the sitting-room, where his eyes never deserted the faded, uncanny-looking cabinet piano, which spread its expanse of faded green silk at one end of the room.
Mavis noticed his preoccupation.
"I wonder if you would do me a favour?" she asked.
"And what might that be?"
"If you would sing?"
"Delighted!" he cried, as he excitedly sprang to his feet.
"How nice of you!"
"Stay! What about the accompaniment?"
"I can manage that."
"At sight?"
"I think so."
"You're an acquisition to Melkbridge. There's one other thing."
"I knew you'd disappoint me. What is it?"
"The 7.53," replied the station-master, looking at his watch. "It's almost due."
"We can make a start," suggested Mavis.
Mr Medlicott quickly produced a collection of old-fashioned ballads, the covers of many of which were decorated with strange, pictorial devices.
"Stay! What say to 'Primrose Farm'?"
"Anything, so long as you sing," replied Mavis.
Mr Medlicott delightedly cleared his throat. It did not take Mavis long to discover that the station-master had little ear for music; he sang flat, although Mavis did her best to assist him by including in her accompaniment the notes of the vocal score. The song was no sooner concluded than the station-master caught up his braided cap and ran downstairs to meet the 7.53. Upon his return, he sang many songs. No sooner was one ended than he commenced another; they were only interrupted by the arrival of trains.
The room became insupportably hot. During one of Mr Medlicott's absences, Mavis asked his wife if she might open the window that overlooked the platform. Where Mavis sat by it, she could see Mr Medlicott performing his duties below. Once or twice, she fancied her ear caught strange sounds, which could be heard above the shouts of the porters and the noises of escaping steam; they proceeded from where Mr Medlicott stood. The noises became more insistent, when it occurred to Mavis that the station-master was taking advantage of the din to practise the more uncertain of his notes.
The next morning, when Mavis wanted to pay Mrs Medlicott, the station-master's wife would not hear of it. She declared that she was amply repaid by Mavis' accompanying her husband's songs, which was enough to make him happy for many weeks to come. Mrs Medlicott also observed that her husband would like to take singing lessons from Mavis, if the latter cared to teach him.
Mavis walked the good mile necessary to take her to the Melkbridge boot manufactory with a light heart. She reached it at nine, to find a square, unlovely building, enclosed by a high stone wall of the usual Wiltshire type, broken slabs of oolitic formation loosely thrown together. She explained her errand to the first person she met inside the gate, and was told to await the arrival of Mr Gaby, the manager, who was due in half an hour, the time, she afterwards learned, at which the lady clerks were expected. When Mr Gaby came, she found him to be a nervous, sandy-haired man, who blushed like any school-girl when he addressed Mavis. A few minutes later, two colleagues arrived, to whom she was formally introduced. The elder of these was Miss Toombs, a snub-nosed, short, flat-chested, unhealthy-looking woman, who was well into the thirties. She took Mavis' proffered hand limply, to drop it quickly and set about commencing her work. Her conduct was in some contrast to the other girl's, who was introduced to Mavis as Miss Hunter. She was tallish, dark, good-looking, with a self-possessed manner. The first two things Mavis noticed about her were that she was neatly and becomingly dressed, also that her eyebrows met above her nose. She looked at Mavis critically for a few moments, and gave the latter the impression that she had taken a dislike to her. Then Miss Hunter advanced to Mavis with outstretched hand to say:
"I hope we shall all be great friends and work together comfortably."
"Thank you," replied Mavis, at which Miss Hunter proceeded to instruct her in her duties. These were of the kind usually allotted to clerical beginners, and consisted of the registering, indexing, and sorting of all letters received in the course of the day.
Mavis worked with a will; her bold, unaffected handwriting emphasised the niggling scrawliness of Miss Hunter's previous entries in the book.
"Don't work so fast," said Miss Hunter presently, at which Mavis looked up in surprise.
"If you do, you won't have anything to go on with," continued Miss Hunter.
About eleven, Mavis learned from Mr Gaby that Mr. Devitt would like to see her. The manager conducted Mavis to the board room, where she found Mr Devitt standing before the fire. Directly he saw her, he came forward with outstretched hand.
"Good morning, Miss Keeves. Why—" He paused, to look at her with some concern.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"You're different. If I may say so, you look so much more grown up."
"I've had rather a rough time since I last saw you."
"I can well believe it to look at you. Why didn't you write?"
"I didn't like to. It's good of you to do what you've done."
Mr Devitt appeared to think for a few moments before saying:
"I'm sorry I can't do more; but one isn't always in a position to do exactly what one would like."
"Quite so," assented the girl.
More was said to the same effect, although Mavis could not rid herself of the impression that he was patronising her. A further thing that prejudiced her against Devitt was his absence of self-possession. While speaking, he gesticulated, moved his limbs, and seemed incapable of keeping still.
"I'll pay you back the three pounds you so kindly sent me, gradually," said Mavis presently.
"Wouldn't hear of it; nothin' to me; only too happy to oblige you," declared Devitt, showing by his manner that he considered the interview at an end.
As she walked towards the door, he said:
"By the way, where are you stayin'?"
"At Mrs Farthing's; it's quite near here."
"Quite two miles from us," remarked Devitt, as if more pleased than otherwise at the information.
"Quite," answered Mavis.
"Well, good-bye! Let me know if I can ever do any-thin' for you," he cried from the fireplace.
Mavis went back to her work. She had an hour's liberty at one, which she spent at Mrs Farthing's, who provided an appetising meal of stewed steak and jam roly-poly pudding.
About three, Miss Toombs made tea on the office fire; she asked Mavis if she would like to join the tea club.
"What's that?" asked Mavis.
"You pay fourpence a week for tea and biscuits. We take it in turn to make the tea and wash up: profits equally divided at Christmas."
"I shall be delighted," said Mavis, as she produced her purse.
"Not till tomorrow. Today you're a guest," remarked Miss Toombs listlessly.
About four, there was so little to do that Miss Toombs produced a book, whilst Miss Hunter rather ostentatiously opened the Church Times. Mavis scribbled on her blotting paper till Miss Toombs brought out a brown-paper-covered book from her desk, which she handed to Mavis.
"It's 'Richard Feverel'; if you haven't read it, you can take it home."
"Thanks. I'll take great care of it. I haven't read it."
"Not read Richard Feverel?" asked Miss Toombs, as she raised her eyebrows, but did not look at Mavis.
"Is it always easy like this?" Mavis asked of Miss Hunter, as they were putting on their things at half-past four.
"You call it easy?"
"Very. Is it always like this?"
"Always, except just before Christmas, when there's a bit of a rush, worse luck," replied Miss Hunter, to add after a moment: "It interferes with one's social engagements."
Mavis walked to her rooms with a light heart. It was good to tread the hard, firm roads, with their foundation of rock, to meet and be greeted by the ruddy-faced, solidly built Wiltshire men and women, many of whom stopped to stare after the comely, graceful girl with the lithe stride.
When Mavis had had tea and had settled herself comfortably by the fire with her book, she felt wholly contented and happy. Now and again, she put down Richard Feverel to look about her, and, with an immense satisfaction, to contrast the homely cleanliness of her surroundings with the dingy squalor of Mrs Bilkins's second floor back. It was one of the happiest evenings she ever spent. She often looked back to it with longing in her later stressful days.
About seven, she heard a knock at her door. She called out "Come in," at which, after much fumbling at the door handle, a big fair man, with wide-open blue eyes, stood in the doorway. He looked like a huge, even-tempered child; he carried two paper-covered books in his hand.
"I'm Farthing, miss," the man informed her.
"Good evening," said Mavis, who would scarcely have been surprised if Farthing had brought out a handful of marbles and started playing with them.
"The driver's out, miss, so—"
"The driver?" interrupted Mavis.
"Mrs Farthing, miss. I be only fireman when her be about," he humbly informed her.
"Won't you sit down?"
"I? No, thankee, miss. I thought you might want summat to read, so I brought you these."
Here Mr Farthing handed Mavis a Great Western Railway time table, together with "Places of Interest on the Great Western Railway."
"How kind of you! I shall be delighted to read them," declared Mavis untruthfully.
Then, as Mr Farthing was about to leave the room, she said:
"I'm afraid I'm in your bad books."
"Bad what, Miss?" he asked, perplexed.
"Books—that you're offended with me."
"I, miss?"
"For coming here as your lodger?"
Mr Farthing stared at her in round-eyed amazement.
"I understood from Mrs Farthing that you object to her taking lodgers," explained Mavis.
Mr Farthing's jaw dropped; he seemed dumbfounded.
"That you're complaining about Mrs Farthing overworking herself every minute you're at home," continued Mavis.
Mr Farthing backed to the door.
"And you tell her she's only killing herself by doing it."
Hopelessly bewildered, Mr Farthing clumped downstairs.
Mavis laughed long and softly at this refutation of Mrs Farthing's pretensions. Before she again settled down to the enjoyment of her book, she looked once more about the cleanly, comfortable room, which had an indefinable atmosphere of home.
"Yes, yes," thought Mavis, "it is—it is good to be alive."
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