A day came when Mavis's courage failed. Acting on the advice of kindly Mrs Scatchard, she had bought, for the sum of one guinea, a confinement outfit from a manufacturer of such things. She unpacked her purchase fearfully. Her heart beat painfully at the thought of the approaching ordeal that the sight of the various articles awakened.
At the same time, she saw Perigal's conduct in the cold light of reason. She was surprised to find how bitter she was with herself for loving a man who could behave as selfishly as he had done. While the mood possessed her, she went to a post-office and sent a reply-paid telegram to Perigal, telling him to come to town at once, and asking him to wire the train by which he would arrive. After sending the telegram, she somewhat repented of her precipitancy, and waited in much suspense to see what the answer would be. When, some two hours later, she heard the double knock of a telegraph boy at the door, her heart was filled with nervous apprehension, in which reawakened love for Perigal bore no inconsiderable part. She opened his reply with trembling hands. "Why? Wire or write reason—love—Charles," it ran.
In reply, she sat down and wrote a long letter, in which she told him how she was situated, reminded him of his promises, which, if he still loved her, as he had professed times out of number in his letters, it was now more than ever incumbent on him to fulfil; she concluded by imploring him to decide either one way or the other and put an end to her suspense. Two days later, the first post brought a letter from Wales. By the time it arrived Mavis had, in some measure, schooled her fears and rebellious doubtings of her lover; therefore, she was not so disappointed at its contents as she would otherwise have been. The letter was written in much the same strain as his other communications. While expressing unalterable love for Mavis, together with pride at the privileges she had permitted him to enjoy, it told her how he was beset by countless perplexities, and that directly he saw his way clear he would do as she wished: in the meantime, she was to trust him as implicitly as before.
Mavis sighed as she finished the letter; she then became lost in troubled thought, during which she was uncertain whether to laugh for joy or sorrow. She laughed for joy, perhaps because her mind, as once before when similarly confronted, had chosen the easier way of self-preservation, an instinct specially insistent in one of Mavis's years. She laughed for very happiness and persuaded herself that she was indeed a lucky girl to be loved so devotedly.
Although the colour soon went out of the blue sky of her joy-world, and its trees and flowers lacked much of their one-time freshness, she was not a little grateful for her short experience of its delights. It helped her to bear the slights and disappointments of the following days, of which she had no inconsiderable share.
As the year grew older, it became increasingly necessary for Mavis to discover a place where she might stay during, and for a while after, her confinement. Mrs Scatchard had told her from the first, that however much she might be disposed to let Mavis remain in the house for this event, Mr Scatchard strongly objected, at his age, to the inconvenience of a baby under the same roof. Mavis filled many weary hours in dragging herself up and down front-door steps in the quest for accommodation; but she spent her strength in vain. Directly landladies learned of the uses to which Mavis would put the room she wished to engage, they became resentful, and sullenly told her that they could not accommodate her. Little as Mavis was disposed to find harbourage for herself and little one in the unhomely places she inspected, she was hurt by the refusals encountered. It seemed to her that the act of gravely imperilling life in order to confer life was a situation which demanded loving care and devoted attention, necessities she lacked: the refusal of blowsy landladies to entertain her application hurt her more than the other indignities that she had, so far, been compelled to endure. One Sunday afternoon Mrs Scatchard brought up the People, in the advertising columns of which was a list of nursing homes. Mavis eagerly scanned the many particulars set forth, till she decided that "Nurse G.," who lived at New Cross, made the most seductive offer. This person advertised a comfortable home to married ladies during and after confinement; skilled care and loving attention were furnished for strictly moderate terms.
Mavis decided to call on Nurse G. the following day.
The atmosphere of the Scatchards' had recently been highly charged, as if in preparation for an event of moment. Whenever Mr Scatchard took his walks abroad, he was always accompanied by either his wife or niece, who, when they finally piloted him home, would wear a look of self-conscious triumph. When Mavis came down to breakfast, before setting out for New Cross, there was a hum of infinite preparation. Mr Scatchard was greasing his hair; gorgeous raiment was being packed into a bag; the final polish was being given to a silver trumpet. Both Mrs Scatchard and her niece, besides being cloaked and bonneted, wore an expression of grim resolution. Mr Scatchard had the look of a hunted animal at bay. Little was said, but just before Mavis started, Miss Meakin came to her and whispered:
"Wish us luck, dear."
"Luck?" queried Mavis.
"Don't you know of uncle and to-day's great doings?"
Mavis shook her head.
"Uncle and the King Emperor," explained Miss Meakin. "There's a royal kick up to-day, and uncle and the King Emperor will be there."
"Have you and your aunt had an invitation too?" asked Mavis mischievously.
"Not into the palace, as you might say. But we're both going as far as the gates with uncle, to see he gets there safely and isn't tempted by the way."
Soon after, Mr Scatchard left with the two women, looking, for all the world, like a prisoner in charge of lynx-eyed warders. Then Mavis made the long and tiring journey to New Cross. Nurse G. had advertised her nursing home as being at No. 9 Durley Road. This latter she found to be a depressing little thoroughfare of two-storeyed houses, all exactly alike. She could discover nothing particularly inviting in the outside appearance of No. 9. Soiled, worn, cotton lace curtains hung behind not over-clean windows; behind these again were dusty, carefully closed Venetian blinds. Mavis passed and repassed the house, uncertain whether or not to call. Before deciding which to do, she made a mental calculation (she was always doing this now) of exactly how much she would have left after being paid by Mr Poulter and settling up with Mrs Scatchard. As before, she reckoned to have exactly seven pounds fifteen shillings. She had no intention of asking Perigal for help, as in his last letter he had made copious reference to his straitened circumstances. Any debasing shifts and mean discomforts to which her poverty might expose her she looked on as a yet further sacrifice upon the altar of the loved one, faith in whom had become the cardinal feature of her life. The terms "strictly moderate" advertised by Nurse G. decided her. She opened the iron gate and walked to the door. Directly she knocked, she heard two or three windows thrown up in neighbouring houses, from which the bodies of unkempt women projected, to cast interested glances in Mavis's direction. As she waited, she could hear the faint puling of a baby within the house. Next, she was conscious that a lath of a Venetian blind was pulled aside and that someone was spying upon her from the aperture. She waited further, the while two of the curious women who leaned from the windows were loudly deciding the date on which Mavis's baby would be born. Then, the door of No. 9 was suspiciously opened about six inches. Mavis found herself eagerly scanned by a fraction of a woman's face. The next moment, the woman, who had caught sight of Mavis's appearance, which was now very indicative of her condition, threw the door wide open and called cheerily:
"Come in, my dear; come in."
"I want Nurse G.," said Mavis.
"That's me: G—Gowler. Come inside."
"But—" hesitated Mavis, as she glanced at the repulsive face of the woman.
"Do either one thing or the other: come right in or keep out. The neighbours do that talk."
Mavis walked into the passage, at which the woman sharply closed the door. The puling of the baby was distinctly louder.
"We'll 'ave to talk 'ere," continued the woman, with some weakening of her previous cordiality, "we're that full up: two in a room an' all expectin'. But then it never rains but it pours, as you might say."
Mavis resisted an impulse to fly from the house. The more she saw of Mrs Gowler (the woman wore a wedding ring), the less she liked her. To begin with, her appearance had given Mavis much of a shock. Her alert fancy had conjured up a vision of a kindly, motherly woman, with soft eyes and voice, whose mere presence would have spoken of the sympathy and tenderness for which the lonely heart of Mavis ached. Nurse Gowler was short, fat, and puffy, with her head sunk right into her shoulders. Her pasty face, with its tiny eyes, contained a mouth of which the upper lip was insufficient to cover her teeth when her jaws were closed; some of these teeth were missing, but whole ones and stumps alike were discoloured with decay. It was her eyes which chiefly repelled Mavis: pupil, iris, and the part surrounding this last, were all of the same colour, a hard, bilious-looking green. Her face suggested to Mavis a flayed pig's head, such as can be seen in pork butchers' shops. As if this were not enough to disgust Mavis, the woman's manner soon lost the geniality with which she had greeted her; she stood still and impassively by Mavis, who could not help believing that Mrs Gowler was attentively studying her from her hat to her shoe leather.
Mavis began her story, to be interrupted by a repressed cry of pain proceeding from the partly open door on the right. Mrs Gowler quickly closed it.
Mavis resumed her story. When she got to the part where her supposed husband was in America, Mrs Gowler impatiently interrupted her by saying:
"Where 'e's making a 'ome for you."
"How did you know?" asked the astonished Mavis.
"It's always the way; we've lots of 'em like that here, occasionals and regulars."
"Occasionals and regulars!"
"Lor' bless you, some of 'em comes as punctual as the baked potato man in October. When was you expectin'?"
"I'm not quite certain," replied Mavis, at which Mrs Gowler plied her with a number of questions, leading the former to remark presently:
"I guess you're due next Friday two weeks. To prevent accidents, you'd better come on the Wednesday night. If you like to book a bed, I'll see it's kep'."
"But what are your charges?"
"'Ow much can you afford?"
After discussion, it was arranged that, if Mavis decided to stay with Mrs Gowler for three weeks certain, she was to pay twenty-two shillings a week, this sum to include the woman's skilled attendance and nursing, together with bed and board. In the event of Mavis wanting medical advice, Mrs Gowler had an arrangement with a doctor by which he charged the moderate fee of a shilling a visit to any of her patients that required his services. The extreme reasonableness of the terms inclined Mavis to decide on going to Mrs Gowler's.
"There's only one thing," she said: "I've a dog; she's a great pet and quite clean. If you wouldn't object to her coming, I might—"
"Bring her: bring her. Is she having dear little puppies?"
"Oh dear, no."
"A pity. The more the merrier. I love work."
This decided Mavis. With considerable misgiving, but spurred by poverty, she told the woman that she was coming.
"An' what about binding our bargain?" asked Mrs Gowler.
"How much do you want?" asked Mavis, as she produced her purse. "Will five shillings do?"
"It'll do," admitted Mrs Gowler grudgingly, although the deposit she usually received was half a crown.
"I feel rather faint. Is there anywhere I can sit down for a minute?" asked Mavis.
"If you don't mind the kitchen. P'raps you'd like a cup of tea. I always keep it ready on the fire."
Mavis thanked her and followed Mrs Gowler to the room indicated. Although it was late in May, a roaring fire was burning in the kitchen, about which, on various sized towel-horses, numerous articles of babies' attire were airing.
"Too 'ot for yer?" asked Mrs Gowler.
"I don't mind where it is so long as I sit down."
"'Ow do you like your tea?" asked her hostess. "Noo or stooed?"
"I'd like fresh tea if it isn't any trouble," replied Mavis.
The tea was quickly made, there being a plentiful supply of boiling water. Whilst Mavis was gratefully sipping hers, a noise of something falling was heard in the scullery behind.
"It's that dratted cat," cried Mrs Gowler, as she caught up a broom and waddled from the kitchen. She returned, a moment later, with something remotely approaching a look of tenderness in her eyes.
"It's awright; it's my Oscar," she remarked.
Then what appeared to be a youth of eighteen years of age entered the kitchen. He was dark, with a receding forehead; his chin, much too large for his face, seemed as if it had been made for somebody else. His absence of expression, together with the feeling of discomfort that at once seized Mavis, told her that he was an idiot.
"Go an' shake hands with the lady, Oscar."
Mavis shuddered to feel his damp palm upon hers.
"You wouldn't believe it, but 'e's six fingers on each 'and, and 'e's twenty-eight: ain't yer, Oscar?" remarked his mother proudly.
Oscar turned to grin at his mother, whilst Mavis, with all her maternal instinct aroused, avoided looking at or thinking of the idiot as much as possible.
Mrs Gowler waxed eloquent on the subject of her Oscar, to whom she was apparently devoted. She was just telling Mavis how he liked to amuse himself by torturing the cat, when a sharp cry penetrated into the kitchen, as if coming from the neighbourhood of the front door.
"Bella's coming on," she said, as she caught up an apron before leaving the kitchen. "Be nice to the lady, Oscar, and see her out, like the gent you are," cried Mrs Gowler, before shutting the door.
Alone with the grinning idiot, Mavis shut her eyes, the while she finished her tea. She did not want her baby to be in any way affected by the acute mental discomfort occasioned to its mother by the presence of Mrs Gowler's son, a contingency she had understood could easily be a reality. When she looked about for her hat and umbrella, she discovered, to her great relief, that she was alone, Oscar having apparently slipped out after his mother, the kitchen door being ajar. Mavis drew on her gloves, stopped her ears with her fingers as she passed along the passage, opened the door and hurried away from the house.
Once outside, the beauty of the sweet spring day emphasised the horror of the house she had left.
She set her lips grimly, thought lovingly of Perigal, and resolved to dwell on her approaching ordeal as little as possible. Before returning to Mrs Scatchard's, she looked in to see Miss Nippett, who, with the coming of summer, seemed to lose strength daily. She now hardly ever got up, but remained in bed all day, where she would talk softly to herself. She always brightened up when Mavis came into the room, and was ever keenly interested in the latest news from the academy, particularly in Mr Poulter's physical and economic wellbeing. Seeing how make-believe inquiries of Mr Poulter after his accompanist's health cheered the lonely old woman, Mavis had no compunction in employing these white lies to brighten Miss Nippett's monotonous days.
She raised herself in bed and nodded a welcome as Mavis entered the room. After assuring Mavis "that she was all right, reely she was," she asked:
"When are you going to 'ave your baby?"
"Very soon now," sighed Mavis.
"I don't think I shall ever 'ave one," remarked Miss Nippett.
"Indeed!"
"They're a great tie if one has a busy life," she said, to add wistfully, "Though it would be nice if one could get Mr Poulter for a godfather."
"Wouldn't it!" echoed Mavis.
"Give it a good start in the world, you know. It 'ud be something to talk about 'avin' 'im for a godfather."
Presently, when Mavis stooped to kiss the wan face before going, Miss Nippett said:
"If I was to die, d'ye know what 'ud make me die 'appy?"
"Don't talk such nonsense: at your age, too."
"If I could just be made a partner in 'Poulter's,'" continued Miss Nippett. "Not for the money, you understand, reely not for that; but for the honour, as you might say."
"I quite understand."
"But there, one mustn't be too ambitious. That's the worst of me. And it's the way to be un'appy," she sighed.
Mavis walked with heavy heart to her lodging; for all her own griefs, Miss Nippett's touching faith in "Poulter's" moved her deeply.
When Mavis got back, she found Mrs Scatchard and her niece in high feather. They insisted upon Mavis joining them at what they called a knife and fork tea, to which Mr Napper and two friends of the family had been invited. Mr Scatchard was not present, but no mention was made of his absence, it being looked upon as an inevitable relaxation after the work and fret of the day. The room was littered with evening papers.
"It all went off beautiful, my dear," Mrs Scatchard remarked to Mavis.
"I'm glad," said Mavis.
"We left him safe at the palace, and as there's nothing in the papers about anything going wrong, it must be all right."
"Of course," Mavis assented.
"We know Mr Scatchard has his weaknesses; but then, if he hadn't, he wouldn't be the musical artiste he is," declared his wife, at which Mavis, who was just then drinking tea, nearly swallowed it the wrong way.
Mr Napper soon dropped in, to be closely followed by a Mr Webb and a Miss Jennings, who had never met the solicitor's clerk before. Mr Webb and Miss Jennings were engaged to be married. As if to proclaim their unalterable affection to the world, they sat side by side with their arms about each other.
The presence of strangers moved Mr Napper to talk his farrago of philosophical nonsense. It did not take long for Mavis to see that Miss Jennings was much impressed by the flow of many-syllabled words which issued, without ceasing, from the lawyer's clerk's lips. The admiration expressed in the girl's eyes incited Mr Napper to further efforts.
He presently remarked to Miss Jennings:
"I can tell your character in two ticks."
Miss Jennings, who had been wholly resigned to the fact of her insignificance, began to take herself with becoming seriousness.
"How?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with interest.
"By your face or by your 'ead."
"Do tell me," she pleaded.
"'Ead or face?"
"Try the head," she said, as she sought to free herself from her lover's entangling embrace. But Mr Webb would not let her go; he grasped her firmly by the waist, and, despite her entreaties, would not relax his hold. Mr Napper made as if he would approach Miss Jennings, but was restrained by Miss Meakin, who stamped angrily on his corns, and, when he danced with pain, stared menacingly at him. When he recovered, Miss Jennings begged him to tell her character by her face.
Mr Napper, looking out of the corner of one eye at Miss Meakin, stared attentively at Miss Jennings, who was now fully conscious of the attention she was attracting. Mr Webb waited in suspense, with his eye on Mr Napper's face.
"You're very fond of draughts," said the latter presently.
"Right!" cried Miss Jennings, as she smiled triumph antly at her lover.
"But I shouldn't say you was much good at 'huffing,'" he continued.
"Right again!" smiled the delighted Miss Jennings.
"I should say your 'eart governed your 'ead," came next.
"Quite right!" cried Miss Jennings, who was now quite perked up.
"You're very fond of admiration," exclaimed Mr Napper, after a further pause.
"She isn't; she isn't," cried Mr Webb, as his hold tightened on the loved one's form.
More was said by Mr Napper in the same strain, which greatly increased not only Miss Jennings's sense of self-importance, but her interest in Mr Napper.
As Mavis perceived how his ridiculous talk captivated Miss Jennings, it occurred to her that the vanity of women was such, that this instance of one of their number being impressed by a foolish man's silly conversation was only typical of the manner in which the rest of the sex were fascinated.
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