Mavis was seriously alarmed for Miss Nippett. Her friend was so ill that she insisted upon a doctor being called in. After examining the patient, he told her that Miss Nippett was suffering from acute influenza; also, that complications were threatening. He warned Mavis of the risk of catching the disease, which, in her present condition, might have serious consequences; but she had not the heart to leave her friend to the intermittent care of the landlady. With the money that Miss Nippett instructed her to find in queer hiding-places, Mavis purchased bovril, eggs, and brandy, with which she did her best to patch up the enfeebled frame of the sick woman. Nothing that she or the doctor could do had any permanent effect; every evening, Miss Nippett's temperature would rise with alarming persistence.
"I wonder if she's anything on her mind that might account for it," the doctor said to Mavis, when leaving one evening.
"I don't see what she could have, unless—"
"Unless?"
"I believe she worries about a matter connected with her old occupation. I'll try and find out," said Mavis.
"'Ow did 'e say I was?" asked Miss Nippett, as Mavis rejoined her.
"Much better."
"I ain't."
"Nonsense!"
"Reely I ain't. If 'e says I'm better, 'e'd better stay away. That's the worst of these fash'nable 'Bush' doctors; they make fortunes out of flattering people they're better when they're not."
Mavis had more than a suspicion that Miss Nippett's retarded convalescence was due to not having attained that position in the academy to which she believed her years of faithful service entitled her. Mavis made reference to the matter; the nature of Miss Nippett's replies converted suspicion into certainty.
The next morning, Mavis called on Mr Poulter, whom she had not seen for two weeks, the increasing physical disabilities of her condition compelling her to give up work at the academy. She found him engaged in the invention of a new country dance for a forthcoming competition. Mavis explained her errand, but had some difficulty in convincing even kindly Mr Poulter of Miss Nippett's ambitious leanings: in the course of years, he had come to look on his devoted accompanist very much as he regarded "Turpsichor" who stood by the front door. Mavis's request surprised him almost as much as if he had been told that "Turpsichor" herself ached to waltz with him in the publicity of a long night.
"I don't believe she's very long to live," said Mavis. "If you could make her a partner, merely in an honorary sense, it would make her last days radiantly happy."
"It might be done, my dear," mused Mr Poulter.
"But, whatever you do, don't let her think I suggested it to you."
"'Poulter's' can be the soul of tact and discretion," he informed her.
After more conversation on the subject, Mavis was about to take her leave when the postman brought a parcel addressed to her at the academy, from her old Pennington friend, Mrs Trivett. It contained eggs, butter, and cream, together with a letter. This last told Mavis that things were in a bad way at the farm; in consequence, her husband was thinking of sub-letting his house, in order to migrate to Melkbridge, where he might earn a living by teaching music. It closed with repeated wishes for Mavis's welfare.
"These people will send things in my maiden name," said Mavis, as she wondered if Mr Poulter's suspicions had been aroused by similar packages having occasionally arrived for her addressed in the same way.
"It was only to be expected. From your professional association with the academy, they would think it only proper to address you by 'Miss' and your maiden name," remarked guileless Mr Poulter.
Upon Mavis's third visit to Miss Nippett after her interview with Mr Poulter, she noticed a change in the sick woman's appearance; she was sitting up in bed with a face wreathed in smiles.
"'Ave you 'eard?" she cried excitedly, when she saw Mavis.
"Heard what?" asked Mavis innocently.
"'Bout me an' 'Poulter's.' You don't mean to say you 'aven't 'eard!"
"I hope it's good news."
"Good! Good! It's wonderful! Jest you throw your eye over that."
Mavis read a formally worded letter from Mr Poulter, in which he informed Miss Nippett "that, in consideration of her many years' faithful service, he could think of no more fitting way to reward her than by taking her into partnership: in accordance with this resolve, what was formerly known as 'Poulter's' would in future be described for all time as 'Poulter and Nippett's.'"
"What d'ye think of that?" asked Miss Nippett.
"It's only what you deserved."
"There's no going back on it now it's in black and white."
"He wouldn't wish to."
"It's proof, ain't it, legal an' all that?"
"Absolute. I congratulate you," said Mavis, as she took the wan white hand in hers.
"Even now I can't b'lieve it's true," sighed the accompanist, as she sank exhausted on her pillows.
"You're overdoing it," said Mavis, as she mixed some brandy and milk.
"I 'ate the muck," declared Miss Nippett, when Mavis besought her to drink it.
"But if you don't do what you're told, you'll never get well."
"Reely!"
"Of course not. Take this at once," Mavis commanded.
"Here, I say, who are you talking to? Have you for gotten I'm a partner in—" Here the little woman broke off, to exclaim as she burst into tears: "It's true: it's true: it's reely, reely true."
Before Mavis went home, she soothed Miss Nippett's tears; she left her in a condition of radiant, enviable happiness. She had never seen anyone so possessed by calm abiding joy as the accompanist at her unlooked-for good fortune.
On her way back, Mavis marvelled at what she believed to be the all-wise arrangements of Providence, by which happiness was parcelled out to the humblest of human beings. With the exception of Windebank, she had not been friendly with a rich person since she had been a child, so could not, at present, have any opinion of how much happiness the wealthy enjoyed; but she could not help remarking how much joy and contentment she had encountered in the person seemingly most unlikely to be thus blessed. At this period of her life, it did not occur to her that the natural and proper egoism of the human mind finds expression in a vanity, that, if happily unchastened by knowledge or experience, is a source of undiluted joy to the possessor.
If time be measured by the amount of suffering endured, it was a little later that Mavis realised that to be ignorant is to be often happy, enlightenment begetting desires that there is no prospect of staying, and, therefore, discontentment ensues.
When Mavis next visited Miss Nippett, she rummaged, at her friend's request, in the cupboard containing the unclaimed "overs" for finery with which the accompanist wished to decorate her exalted state. If Miss Nippett had had her way and had appeared in the street wearing the gaudy, fluffy things she picked out, she would have been put down as a disreputable old lady. But, for all Miss Nippett's resolves, it was written in the book of fate that she was to take but one more journey out of doors, and that in the simplest of raiment. For all her prodigious elation at her public association with Mr Poulter, her health far from improved; her strength declined daily; she wasted away before Mavis' dismayed eyes. She did not suffer, but dozed away the hours with increasingly rare intervals in which she was stark awake. On these latter occasions, for all the latent happiness which had come into her life, she would fret because Mr Poulter rarely called to inquire after her health. Such was her distress at this remissness on the part of the dancing master, that more often than not, when Miss Nippett, after waking from sleep, asked with evident concern if Mr Poulter had been, Mavis would reply:
"Yes. But he didn't like to come upstairs and disturb you."
For five or six occasions Miss Nippett accepted this explanation, but, at last, she became skeptical of Mavis' statements.
"Funny 'e always comes when I'm asleep!" she would say. "S'pose he was too busy to send up 'is name an' chance waking me. Tell those stories to them as swallers them."
But a time came when Miss Nippett was too ill even to fret. For three days she lay in the dim borderland of death, during which the doctor, when he visited her, became more and more grave. A time came when he could do no more; he told Mavis that the accompanist would soon be beyond further need of mortal aid.
The news seemed to strike a chill to Mavis' heart. Owing to their frequent meetings, Miss Nippett had become endeared to her: she could hardly speak for emotion.
"How long will it be?" she asked.
"She'll probably drag through the night. But if I were you, I should go home in the morning."
"And leave her to die alone?"
"You have your own trouble to face. Hasn't she any friends?"
"None that I know of."
"No one she'd care to see?"
"There's one man, her old employer. But he's always so busy."
"Where does he live?"
Mavis told him.
"I'll find time to see him and ask him to come."
"It's very kind of you."
But the kindly doctor did not seem to hear what she said; he was sadly regarding Miss Nippett, who, just now, was dozing uneasily on her pillows. Then, without saying a word, he left the room.
Thus it came about that Mavis kept the long, sad night vigil beside the woman whom death was to claim so soon. As Miss Nippett's numbered moments remorselessly passed, the girl's heart went out to the pitiful, shrivelled figure in the bed. It seemed that an unfair contest was being fought between the might and majesty of death on the one hand, and an insignificant, work-worn woman on the other, in which the ailing body had not the ghost of a chance. Mavis found herself reflecting on the futility of life, if all it led to were such a pitifully unequal struggle as that going on before her eyes. Then she remembered how she had been taught that this world was but a preparation for the joyous life in the next; also, that directly Miss Nippett ceased to breathe it would mean that she was entering upon her existence in realms of bliss. Somehow, Mavis could not help smiling at the mental picture of her friend which had suddenly occurred to her. In this, she had imagined Miss Nippett with a crown on her head and a harp in her hand, singing celestial melodies at the top of her voice. The next moment, she reproached herself for this untimely thought; her heart ached at the extremity of the little old woman huddled up in the bed. Mavis had always lived her life among more or less healthy people, who were ceaselessly struggling in order to live; consequently, she had always disregarded the existence of death. The great destroyer seemed to find small employment amongst those who flocked to their work in the morning and left it at night; but here, in the meagre room, where human clay was, as it were, stripped of all adornments, in order not to lose the smallest chance in the fell tussle with disease, it was brought home to Mavis what frail opposition the bodies of men and women alike offer to the assaults of the many missioners of death. Things that she had not thought of before were laid bare before her eyes. The inevitable ending of life bestowed on all flesh an infinite pathos which she had never before remarked. The impotence of mankind to escape its destiny made life appear to her but as a tragic procession, in which all its distractions and vanities were only so much make-believe, in order to hide its destination from eyes that feared to see. The helplessness, the pitifulness of the passing away of the lonely old woman gave a dignity, a grandeur to her declining moments, which infected the common furniture of the room. The cheap, painted chest of drawers, the worn trunk at the foot of the bed, the dingy wall-paper, the shaded white glass lamp on the rickety table, all seemed invested with a nobility alien to their everyday common appearance, inasmuch as they assisted at the turning of a living thing, who had rejoiced, and toiled, and suffered, into unresponsive clay. Even the American clock on the mantelpiece acquired a fine distinction by reason of its measuring the last moments of a human being, with all its miserable sensibility to pain and joy—a distinction that was not a little increased, in Mavis' eyes, owing to the worldly insignificance of the doomed woman.
After Mavis had got ready to hand things that might be wanted in the night, she settled herself in a chair by the head of the bed in order to snatch what sleep she might. Before she dozed, she wondered if that day week, which she would be spending at Mrs Gowler's, would find her as prostrated by illness as was her friend. Two or three times in the dread silent watches of the night, she was awakened by Miss Nippett's continually talking to herself. Mavis would interrupt her by asking if she would take any nourishment; but Miss Nippett, vouchsafing no answer, would go on speaking as before, her talk being entirely concerned with matters connected with the academy. And all the time, the American clock on the mantelpiece remorselessly ticked off the accompanist's remaining moments.
Mavis, heartsick and weary, got little sleep. She watched the night grow paler and paler outside the window, till, presently, the shaded lamp at the bedside seemed absurdly wan. Birds greeted with their songs the coming of the day. The sun rose in another such a blue sky as that on which she and Charlie Perigal had enjoyed their never-to-be-forgotten visit to Llansallas Bay. Mavis was not a little jarred by the insensibility of the June day to Miss Nippett's approaching dissolution. She reflected in what a sad case would be humanity, if there were no loving Father to welcome the bruised and weary traveller, arrived at the end of life's pilgrimage, with loving words or healing sympathy. In her heart of hearts, she envied Miss Nippett the heavenly solace and divine compassion which would soon be hers. Then her heart leapt to the glory of the young June day; she devoutly hoped that she would be spared to witness many, many such days as she now looked upon.
"Mrs Kenrick!" said a voice from the bed.
"Are you awake?" asked Mavis.
"Do draw that there blind. I can't stand that there sun."
"Does it worry you?"
"Give me the 'lectric, same as they have at the Athenaeum on long nights."
Mavis did as she was bid: the light of the lamp at once became an illumination of some importance.
"Now I want me shawl on again; the old one." "Don't you want any nourishment?" asked Mavis, as she fastened the familiar shawl about Miss Nippett's shoulders.
"What's the use?"
"To get better, of course."
"No getting better for me. I know: reely I do."
"Nonsense!"
Miss Nippett shook her head as resolutely as her bodily weakness permitted.
"What's the time?" she asked presently.
Mavis told her.
"Whatever 'appens, I shall go down to posterity as a partner in 'Poulter's'!"
"You've no business to think of such things," faltered Mavis.
"It's no use codding me. I know; reely I do."
"Then, if you don't believe me, wouldn't you like to see a clergyman?"
"There's someone else I'd much sooner see."
"Mr Poulter?"
"You've guessed right this time. Is there—is there any chance of his coming?" asked Miss Nippett wistfully.
"There's every chance. The doctor was going to tell him how ill you were."
"But you don't understand; these great, big, famous men ain't like me and you. They—they forget and—" Tears gathered in the red rims of Miss Nippett's eyes. Mavis wiped them gently away and softly kissed the puckered brow.
"There's somethin' I'd like to tell you," said Miss Nippett, some minutes later.
"Try and get some sleep," urged Mavis.
"But I want to tell someone. It isn't as if you was a larruping girl who'd laugh, but you're a wife, an' ever so big at that, with what you're expectin' next week."
"What is it?" asked Mavis.
"Bend over: you never know oo's listening."
Mavis did as she was asked.
"It's Mr Poulter—can't you guess?" faltered Miss Nippett.
"Tell me, dear."
"I b'lieve I love him: reely I do. Don't laugh."
"Why should I?"
"There was nothing in it—don't run away thinking there was—but how could there be, 'im so great and noble and famous, and me—"
Increasing weakness would not suffer Miss Nippett to finish the sentence.
Mavis forced her to take some nourishment, after which, Miss Nippett lay back on her pillow, with her eyes fixed on the clock. Mavis sat in the chair by the bedside. Now and again, her eyes would seek the timepiece. Whenever she heard a sound downstairs (for some time the people of the house could be heard moving about), Miss Nippett would listen intently and then look wistfully at Mavis.
The girl divined how heartfully the dying woman hungered for Mr Poulter's coming.
Thrice Mavis offered to seek him out, but on each occasion Miss Nippett's terrified pleadings not to be left alone constrained her to stay.
It wanted a few minutes to eight when Miss Nippett fell into a peaceful doze. Mavis took this opportunity of making herself a much-needed cup of tea. Whilst she was gratefully sipping it, Miss Nippett suddenly awoke to say:
"There! There's something I always meant to do."
"Never mind now," said Mavis soothingly.
"But I do. It is something to mind about—I never stood 'Turpsichor' a noo coat of paint."
"Don't worry about it."
"I always promised I would, but kep' putting it off an' off, an' now she'll never get it from me. Poor old 'Turpsichor'!"
Miss Nippett soon forgot her neglect of "Turpsichor" and fell into a further doze.
When she next awoke, she asked:
"Would you mind drawing them curtains?"
"Like that?"
"You are good to me: reely you are."
"Nonsense!"
"But then you ought to be: you've got a good man to love you an' give you babies."
"What is it you want?" asked Mavis sadly.
"Can you see the 'Scrubbs'?"
"The prison?"
"Yes, the 'Scrubbs.' Can you see 'em?"
"Yes."
"Quite distinct?"
"Quite."
"That's awright."
Miss Nippett sighed with some content.
"If 'e don't come soon, 'e'll be too late," murmured Miss Nippett after an interval of seeming exhaustion.
Mavis waited with ears straining for the sound of the knocker on the front door. Miss Nippett lay so that her weakening eyes could watch the door of the bedroom. Now and again, Mavis addressed one or two remarks to her, but the old woman merely shook her head, as if to convey that she had neither the wish nor the strength for further speech. Mavis, with a great fear, noted the failing light in her friend's eyes, but was convinced that, for all the weakening of the woman's physical processes, she desired as ardently as ever a sight of Mr Poulter before she died. A few minutes later, a greyness crept into Miss Nippett's face. Mavis repressed an inclination to fly from the room. Then, although she feared to believe the evidence of her ears, a knock was heard at the door. After what seemed an interval of centuries, she heard footsteps ascending the stairs. Mavis glanced at Miss Nippett. She was horrified to see that her friend was heedless of Mr Poulter's possible approach. She moved quickly to the door. To her unspeakable relief, Mr Poulter stood outside. She beckoned him quickly into the room. He hastened to the bedside, where, after gazing sadly at the all but unconscious Miss Nippett, he knelt to take the woman's wan, worn hand in his. To Mavis's surprise, Miss Nippett's fingers at once closed on those of Mr Poulter. As the realisation of his presence reached the dying woman's understanding, a smile of infinite gladness spread over her face: a rare, happy smile, which, as if by magic, effaced the puckered forehead, the wasted cheeks, the long upper lip, to substitute in their stead a great contentment, such as might be possessed by one who has found a deep joy, not only after much travail, but as if, till the last moment, the longed-for bliss had all but been denied. The wan fingers grasped tighter and tighter; the smile faded a little before becoming fixed.
Another moment, and "Poulter's" had lost the most devoted servant which it had ever possessed.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg