Seven weeks passed quickly for Mavis, during which her horizon sensibly widened. She learned many things, the existence of which she would never have thought possible till the knowledge stared her in the face. To begin with, she believed that the shabby treatment, in the way of food and accommodation, that the girls suffered at "Dawes'" would bind them in bonds of sympathy: the contrary was the case. The young women in other departments looked down on and would have nothing to do with girls, such as she, who worked in the shop. These other departments had their rivalries and emulation for social precedence, leading to feuds, of which the course of action consisted of the two opposing parties sulking and refusing to speak to each other, unless compelled in the course of business. The young women in the showroom were selected for their figures and general appearance; these, by common consent, were the aristocracy of the establishment. After a time, Mavis found that there was another broad divergence between her fellow-workers, which was quite irrespective of the department in which they were. There was a type of girl, nearly always the best-looking, which seemed to have an understanding and freemasonry of its own, together with secrets, confidences, and conversations, which were never for the ears of those who were outsiders—in the sense of their not being members of this sisterhood. Miss Potter, Miss Allen, and Miss Impett all belonged to this set, which nearly always went out after shop hours in evening dress, which never seemed to want for ready money or pretty clothes, and which often went away for the weekend ("Dawes'" closed at two on Saturdays). When Mavis had first been introduced to the three girls with whom she shared her bedroom, she had intuitively felt that there was a broad, invisible gulf which lay between her and them; as time went on, this division widened, so far as Miss Impett and Miss Potter were concerned, to whom Mavis rarely spoke. Miss Allen, who, in all other respects, toadied to and imitated Miss Potter, was disposed to be friendly to Mavis. Miss Impett, who on occasion swore like any street loafer, Mavis despised as a common, ignorant girl. Miss Potter she knew to be fast; but Miss Allen, when alone with Mavis, went out of her way to be civil to her; the fact of the matter being that she was a weak, easily led girl, whose character was dominated by any stronger nature with which she came in contact.
Another thing which much surprised Mavis was the heartless cruelty the girls displayed to any of their number who suffered from any physical defect. Many times in the day would the afflicted one be reminded of her infirmity; the consequent tears incited the tormentors to a further display of malignity.
Bella, the servant, was an object of their attentions; her gait and manner of breathing would be imitated when she was by. She was always known by the name of "Pongo," till one of the "young ladies" had witnessed The Tempest from the upper boxes of His Majesty's Theatre; from this time, it was thought to be a mark of culture on the part of many of the girls at "Dawes'" to call her "Caliban." Mavis sympathised with the afflicted woman's loneliness; she made one or two efforts to be friendly with her, but each time was repulsed.
One day, however, Mavis succeeded in penetrating the atmosphere of ill-natured reserve with which "Pongo" surrounded herself. The servant was staggering upstairs with two big canfuls of water; the task was beyond her strength.
"Let me help you," said Mavis, who was coming up behind her.
"Shan't," snorted Bella.
"I shall do as I please," remarked Mavis, as she caught hold of one of the cans.
"Leave 'old!" cried Bella; but Mavis only grasped the can tighter.
"Go on now; don't you try and get round me and then turn an' laugh at me."
"I never laugh at you, and I only want to help you up with the water."
"Straight?"
"What else should I want?"
"Don't be kind to me," cried Bella, suddenly breaking down.
"Bella!" gasped Mavis in astonishment.
"Don't you start being kind to me. I ain't used to it," wept Bella.
"Don't be a fool, Bella!"
"I ain't a fool. I'm onny ugly and lopsided, and everyone laughs at me 'ceptin' you, and I've no one or—or nothin' to care for."
Mavis thought it advisable to take Bella into her room, which happened to be empty; here, she thought, Bella would be free from eyes that would only find food for mirth in her tears.
"I've never had a young man," sobbed Bella. "An' that's why I turned to Gawd and looked down on the young ladies here, as 'as as many young men as they want; too many sometimes. An' speaking of Gawd, it's nice to 'ave Someone yer know as cares for you, though you can't never see 'Im or walk out with 'Im."
From this time, she tried to do Bella many little kindnesses, but, saving this one instance, the servant was always on her guard and never again opened her heart to Mavis.
Miss Striem did not carry out her threat of charging Mavis for the extras she refused to eat. In time, Mavis got used to the food supplied by "Dawes'"; she did not swallow everything that was put upon her plate, indeed, she did not eat with good appetite at three consecutive meals; but she could sit at the table in the feeding-room without overwhelming feelings of repulsion, and, by shutting her eyes to the unconcealed mastication of the girl opposite, could often pick enough to satisfy her immediate needs. The evening was the time when she was most hungry; after the walk which she made a point of taking in all weathers, she would get quite famished, when the morsel of Canadian cheese and sour bread supplied for supper was wholly insufficient. At first, she was tempted to enter the cheaper restaurants with which the streets about Oxford Street abound; but these extravagances made serious inroads on her scanty capital and had to be given up, especially as she was saving up to buy new boots, of which she was in need.
She confided in Miss Meakin, who was now looking better and plumper, since nearly every evening she had taken to supping with her "boy's" mother, who owned a stationery business in the Holloway Road.
"I know, it's dreadful. I used to be like that before I met Sylvester," Miss Meakin answered to Mavis's complaint.
"But what am I to do?" asked Mavis.
"Have you ever tried brisket?"
"What's that?"
"Beef!"
"Beef?"
"You get it at the ham and beef shop. You get quite a lot for five pence, and when they get to know you they give you good weight."
"But you must have something with it," remarked Mavis.
"Then you go to a baker's and buy a penn'orth of bread."
"But where am I to eat it?" asked Mavis.
"In some quiet street," replied Miss Meakin. "Why not?"
"With one's fingers?"
"There's no one to see you."
Mavis looked dubious.
"It's either that or picking up 'boys,'" remarked Miss Meakin.
"Picking up boys!" echoed Mavis, with a note of indignation in her voice.
"It's what the girls do here if they don't want to go hungry."
"But I don't quite understand."
"Didn't you come here through old Orgles's influence?" asked Miss Meakin guardedly.
"Nothing of the kind; one of the partners got me in."
"Sorry! I heard it was that beast Orgles. But most of the 'boys' who try and speak to you in the street are only too glad to stand a girl a feed."
"But why should they?"
"Don't you know?"
"It would put me under an obligation to the man," remarked Mavis.
"Of course; that's what the gentlemen want."
"But it might lead silly girls into all sorts of trouble."
"I think most of us know how to behave like ladies and drop the gentleman when he wants to go too far."
"Good heavens!" cried Mavis, who was taken aback by the vulgarity of Miss Meakin's point of view.
Perhaps the latter resented the moral superiority contained in her friend's exclamation, for she said with aggrieved voice:
"There's Miss Searle and Miss Bone, who're taken everywhere by a REEL swell; they even went to Paris with him at Easter; and no matter what he wants, I'm sure no one can say they're not ladies."
Mavis thought for a moment before saying:
"Is that quite fair to the man?"
"That's his look-out," came the swift retort.
"I don't fancy the brisket and I don't fancy picking up men. Can't one get on and get in the showroom and earn more money?" asked Mavis.
"One can," replied Miss Meakin, much emphasising the "can."
"How is it done?"
"You ask your friend Miss Allen; she'll tell you all about it."
"She's no friend of mine. Can't you tell me?"
"I could, but don't want to; you look at things so funny. But, then, you don't like Browning," replied Miss Meakin.
Mavis was filled with blind rage at the indifference of "Dawes'" to the necessities of those they engaged; as long as the firm's big dividend was made, they were careless to what questionable shifts and expedients their staff was reduced in order to have sufficient strength to bring to the daily task of profit-earning. She pondered on the cruelty and injustice of it all in odd moments; she could not give much thought to the matter, as Christmas was approaching, which meant that "Dawes'" would be hard at work to cope with the rush of custom every minute of the working day, and for some time after the doors were closed to the public. The class of customer had, also, changed. When Mavis first went to "Dawes'," the people whom she served were mostly visitors to London who were easily and quickly satisfied; then had followed the rough and tumble of a remnant sale. But now, London was filling with those women to whom shopping is at once an art, a fetish, and a burden. Mavis found it a trying matter to satisfy the exigent demands of the experienced shopper. She was now well accustomed to the rudeness of women to those of their own sex who were less happily placed; but she was not a little surprised at a type of customer whom she was now frequently called upon to serve. This was of the male sex; sometimes young; usually, about forty; often, quite old; it was a smart, well-dressed type, with insinuating manners and a quiet, deferential air that did not seem to know what it came to buy or cared what it purchased so long as it could engage Mavis in a few moments' conversation. She soon got to know this type at a glance, and gave it short shrift. Others at "Dawes'" were not so coy. Many of the customers she got to know by sight, owing to their repeated visits. One of these she disliked from the first; later experience of her only intensified this impression. She was a tall, fine woman, well, if a trifle over-dressed; her complexion was a little more aggressive than most of the females who shopped at "Dawes'." Her name was Mrs Stanley; she appeared well known to the girls for whom Bella the servant declared she was in the habit of praying. From the first, Mrs Stanley was attracted by Mavis, into whose past life she made sympathetic and tactful inquiries. Directly she learned that Mavis was an orphan, Mrs Stanley redoubled her efforts to win the girl's confidence. But it was all of no use; Mavis turned a deaf ear to all Mrs Stanley's insinuations that a girl of her striking appearance was thrown away in a shop: it was as much as Mavis could do to be coldly civil to her. Even when Mrs Stanley gave up the girl as a bad job, the latter was always possessed by an uneasy sensation whenever she was near, although Mavis might not have set eyes on her.
Another customer who attracted much attention was the Marquis de Raffini; he was old, distinguished-looking, and the last survivor of an illustrious French family.
Mavis saw him come into "Dawes'" soon after she had commenced work, when he was accompanied by a showy, over-dressed girl, whom he referred to as Madame the Marquise, and for whom he ordered a costly and elaborate trousseau. He seemed well known to the girls, who told Mavis that he appeared every few months with a different young woman; also, that when, in the ordinary course of nature, the condition of the temporary Madame the Marquise could no longer be concealed, the Marquis was in the habit of providing a lump sum of some hundreds of pounds as dowry in order to induce someone (usually a working man) to marry his mistress. Mavis was shocked at what she heard; it seemed strange to her that such things should exist and be discussed as if they were the most everyday occurrences.
Often, while busily engaged in serving customers or in hearing and seeing things which, before she came to "Dawes'," she would never have believed to be possible, she had a strong suspicion that old Orgles was watching her from the top of a flight of stairs or the tiny window in his room; it seemed that he was a wary old spider, she a fly, and that he was biding his time. This impression saddened her; it also made her attend carefully to her duties, it being his place to deal with those of the staff who were remiss in their work. It was only of an evening, when she was free of the shop, that she could be said to be anything like her old, light-hearted self. She would wash, change her clothes, and scurry off to a ham and beef warehouse she had discovered in a turning off Oxford Street, where she would get her supper. The shop was kept by a man named Siggers. He was an affected little man, who wore his hair long; he minced about his shop and sliced his ham and beef with elaborate wavings of his carving knife and fork. Mavis proving a regular customer, he let her eat her supper in the shop, providing her with knife, fork, tablecloth, and mustard. Although married and henpecked, he affected to admire Mavis; while she ate her humble meal, he would forlornly look in her direction, sigh, and wearily support his shaggy head with his forefinger; but she could not help noticing that, when afflicted with this mood, he would often glance at himself in a large looking glass which faced him as he sat. His demonstrations of regard never became more pronounced. It was as much as Mavis could do to stop herself from laughing outright when she paid him, it being a signal mark of his confidence that he did not exact payment from her "on delivery of goods in order to prevent regrettable mistakes," as printed cards, conspicuously placed in the shop, informed customers—or clients, as Mr Siggers preferred to call them.
One night, Mavis, by the merest chance, made a discovery that gladdened her heart: she lighted upon Soho. She had read and loved her Fielding and Smollett when at Brandenburg College; the sight of the stately old houses at once awoke memories of Tom Jones, Parson Adams, Roderick Random, and Lady Bellaston, She did not immediately remember that those walls had sheltered the originals of these creations; when she realised this fact she got from the nearest lending library her old favourites and carefully re-read them. She, also, remembered her dear father telling her that an ancestor of his, who had lived in Soho, had been killed in the thirties of the eighteenth century when fighting a famous duel; this, and the sorry dignity of the Soho houses, was enough to stir her imagination. Night after night, she would elude the men who mostly followed her and walk along the less frequented of the sombre streets. These she would people with the reckless beaux, the headstrong ladies of that bygone time; she would imagine the fierce loves, the daring play, the burning jealousies of which the dark old rooms, of which she sometimes caught a glimpse, could tell if they had a mind. Sometimes she would close her eyes, when the street would be again filled with a jostling crowd of sedan chairmen, footmen, and linkboys; she could almost smell the torches and hear the cries of their bearers. It gave her much of a shock to realise how beauties, lovers, linkboys, and all had disappeared from the face of the earth, as if they had never been. She wondered why Londoners were so indifferent to the stones Soho had to tell. Then she fell to speculating upon which the house might be where her blood-thirsty ancestor had lived; also, if it had ever occurred to him that one of his descendants, a girl, would be wandering about Soho with scarce enough for her daily needs. In time, she grew to love the old houses, which seemed ever to mourn their long-lost grandeur, which still seemed full of echoes of long-dead voices, which were ill-reconciled to the base uses to which they were now put. Perhaps she, also, loved them because she grew to compare their fallen state with that of her own family; it seemed that she and they had much in common; and shared misfortunes beget sympathy.
Thus Mavis worked and dreamed.
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