Otherwise, her days were mostly drab-coloured, the only thing that at all kept up her spirits being her untiring faith in Perigal—a faith which, in time, became a mechanical action of mind. Strive as she might to quell rebellious thoughts, now and again she would rage soul and body at the web that fate, or Providence, had spun about her life. At these times, it hurt her to the quick to think that, instead of being the wife she deserved to be, she was in her present unprotected condition, with all its infinite possibilities of disaster. Again and again the thought would recur to her that she might have been Windebank's wife at any time that she had cared to encourage his overtures, and if she were desirable as a wife in his eyes, why not in Charlie Perigal's! Gregarious instincts ran in her blood. For all her frequent love of solitude, there were days when her soul ached for the companionship of her own social kind. This not being forthcoming-indeed (despite her faith in Perigal) there being little prospect of it—she avoided as much as possible the sight of, or physical contact with, those prosperous ones whom she knew to be, in some cases, her equals; in most, her social inferiors.

It was at night when she was most a prey to unquiet thoughts. Tired with her many hours' work at the piano, she would fall into a deep sleep, with every prospect of its continuing till Mrs Scatchard would bring up her morning cup of tea, when Mavis would suddenly awaken, to remain for interminable hours in wide-eyed thought. She would go over and over again events in her past life, more particularly those that had brought her to her present pass. The immediate future scarcely bothered her at all, because, for the present, she was pretty sure of employment at the academy. On the very rare occasions on which she suffered her mind to dwell on what would happen after her child was born, should Perigal not fulfil his repeated promises, her vivid imagination called up such appalling possibilities that she refused to consider them; she had enough sense to apply to her own case the wisdom contained in the words, "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof."

In these silent watches of the night, so protracted and awesome was the quiet, that it would seem to the girl's preternatural sensibilities as if the life of the world had come to a dead stop, and that only she and the little one within her were alive. Then she would wonder how many other girls in London were in a like situation to hers; if they were constantly kept awake obsessed by the same fears; also, if, like her, they comforted themselves by clasping a ring which they wore suspended on their hearts—a ring given them by the loved one, even as was hers. Then she would fall to realising the truth of the saying, "How easily things go wrong." It seemed such a little time since she had been a happy girl at Melkbridge (if she had only realised how really happy she was!), with more than enough for her everyday needs, when her heart was untrammelled by love; when she was healthful, and, apart from the hours which she was compelled to spend at the office, free. Now—An alert movement within her was more eloquent than thought.

Sometimes she would believe that her present visitation of nature was a punishment for her infringement of God's moral law; whilst at others she would rejoice with a pagan exultation that, whatever the future held in store, she had most gloriously lived in these crowded golden moments which were responsible for her present plight.

Once or twice her distress of mind was such that she could no longer bear the darkness; she would light the candle, when the confinement of the walls, the sight of the orderly and familiar furniture of the room, would suggest an imprisoning environment from which there was no escape. As if to make a desperate effort to free herself, she would jump out of bed, and, throwing the window up, would look out on the night, as if to implore from nature the succour that she failed to get elsewhere. If the night were clear, she would gaze up at the heavens, as if to wrest from its countless eyes some solution of, or, failing that, some sympathy for her extremity of mind. But, for all the eagerness with which her terror-stricken eyes would search the stars, these looked down indifferently, unpityingly, impersonally, as if they were so inured to the sight of sorrow that they were now careless of any pain they witnessed. Then, with a pang at her heart, she would wonder if Perigal were also awake and were thinking of her. She convinced herself again and again that her agonised communing with the night would in some mysterious way affect his heart, to incline it irresistibly to hers, as in those never-to-be-forgotten nights and days at Polperro.

She heard from him fairly regularly, when he wrote letters urging her for his sake to be brave, and telling of the many shocks he had received from the persistent ill luck which he was seeking to overcome. If he had known how eagerly she awaited the familiar writing, how she read and re-read, times without number, every line he wrote, how she treasured the letters, sleeping with them under her pillow at night, he would have surely written with more persistency and at greater length than he did. Occasionally he would enclose money; this she always returned, saying that, as she was now in employment, she had more than enough for her simple needs. Once, after sending back a five-pound note he had sent her, she received a letter by return of post—a letter which gave a death blow to certain hopes she had cherished. She had long debated in her mind if she should apply the gold-mounted dressing case which Windebank had sent her for a wedding present to a purchase very near to her heart. She knew that, if he could know of the purpose to which she contemplated devoting it, and of her straightened circumstances, he would wish her to do as she desired. Having no other money available, she was tempted to sell or pawn the dressing case, to buy with the proceeds a handsome outfit for the expected little life, one that should not be unworthy of a gentlewoman's child. She felt that, as, owing to the unconventional circumstances of its birth, the little one might presently be deprived of many of life's advantages, it should at least be appropriately clad in the early days of its existence. She had already selected the intended purchase, and was rejoicing in its richness and variety, when the reply came to her letter to Perigal that returned the five-pound note. This told Mavis what straitened circumstances her lover was in. He asked what she had done with the gold-mounted dressing case, and, if it were still in her possession, if she could possibly let him have the loan of it in order to weather an impending financial storm. With a heart that strove valiantly to be cheerful, Mavis renounced further thought of the contemplated layette, and sent off the dressing case to her lover. It was a further (and this time a dutiful) sacrifice of self on the altar of the loved one. Most of her spare time was now devoted to the making of the garments, which, in the ordinary course of nature, would be wanted in about two months. Sometimes, while working, she would sing little songs that would either stop short soon after they were started, or else would continue almost to the finish, when they would end abruptly in a sigh. Often she would wonder if the child, when born, would resemble its father or its mother; if her recent experiences would affect its nature: all the thousand and one things that that most holy thing on earth, an expectant, loving mother, thinks of the life which love has called into being.

At all times she told herself that, if her wishes were consulted, she would prefer the child to be a boy, despite the fact that it was a more serious matter to launch a son on the world than a daughter. But she knew well that, if anything were to happen to her lover (this was now her euphemism for his failing to keep his promise), a boy, when he came to man's estate, might find it in his heart to forgive his mother for the untoward circumstances of his birth, whereas a daughter would only feel resentment at the possible handicap with which the absence of a father and a name would inflict her life. Thus Mavis worked with her needle, and sang, and thought, and travailed; and daily the little life within her became more insistent.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE NURSING HOME

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.



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

MISS 'PETT'S APOTHEOSIS

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.



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE ORDEAL

Mavis and Jill stood outside Mrs Gowler's, in the late evening of the Wednesday after the day on which Miss Nippett had commenced her long, long rest. Mavis had left the trunk she was bringing at the station (a porter was trundling it on), but before opening the gate of No. 9 Durley Road, she instinctively paused to take what she thought might prove a last look at the world.

The contented serenity of the summer night enhanced the meanness of the little street; but Mavis's imagination soared over the roofs, not only of the road in which she stood, but of countless other roofs, till it winged its way to Melkbridge. Instead of the depressing road, with its infrequent down-at-heel passers-by, Mavis saw only the Avon as she had known it a year ago. The river flowed lazily beneath the pollard willows, as if complaisant enough to let these see their reflection in the water. Forget-me-nots jewelled the banks; ragged robin looked roguishly from, clumps of bushes; the scent of hay seemed to fill the world. That was then.

Now—! Before she had set out for Durley Road, she had penned a little note to Perigal. In this she had told him of the circumstances in which she was writing it, and had said that if it proved to be the last letter she should send him, that she would never cease to love and trust him in any world to which it might please God to take her. This was all she had written; but the moving simplicity of her words might have touched even Perigal's heart. Besides writing to her lover, Mavis had given Mrs Scatchard the address to which she was going, and had besought her, in the event of anything untoward happening, either to take Jill for her own or to find her a good home. Mrs Scatchard's promise to keep and cherish Jill herself, should anything happen to her mistress, cheered Mavis much.

Mavis took a last long look of the June night, sighed and entered the gate of No. 9: her nerves were so disordered that it seemed as if it shut behind her with a menacing clang. She knocked at the door, but, upon no one coming, she knocked again and again. She knew there was someone in the house, for the wailing of babies could be heard within. For all anyone cared, her baby might have been born on the step. After knocking and waiting for quite a long time, the door was opened by a sad-faced girl, who, with the remains of a fresh complexion, looked as if she were countryborn and bred.

"Mrs Gowler?" asked Mavis wearily.

Without making any reply, the young woman left the door open and disappeared up the stairs. Mavis, followed by Jill, dragged herself into the passage. The puling and smell of unwashed babies assailed her ears and nostrils to such an extent, that, to escape from these, she walked into the kitchen and closed the door. This room was empty, but, as on her last visit, a fire roared in the kitchener, before which innumerable rows of little garments were airing. Overpowered by the stifling heat, Mavis sank on a chair, where a horde of flies buzzed about her head and tried to settle on her face. She was about to seek the passage in preference to the stuffy kitchen, when she heard a loud single knock at the front door. Believing this to be the porter with her luggage, she went to the door, to find that her surmise was correct.

"Which room shall I take it to, miss?"

"It will do if you put it in the hall," replied Mavis.

When she had paid the man and shut the door, she sat upon her box in the passage. Jill nestled beside her, whilst Mavis rested with her fingers pressed well against her ears, to deaden the continual crying of babies which came from various rooms in the house.

As Mavis thus waited, disconsolate and alone, her heart sank within her. Her present case seemed to foreshadow the treatment she would receive at Mrs Gowler's hands during her confinement, which might now occur at any moment. As she waited, she lost all count of time; her whole being was concerned with an alteration in her habits of thought, which had been imminent during the last few months, but which needed a powerful stimulus to be completely effected. This was now supplied. Hitherto, when it became a question whether she should consider others before herself, she had, owing to an instinct in her blood, chosen the way of self-abnegation. She often suspected that others took advantage of this unselfishness, but found it hard to do otherwise than she had always done. Whether it was owing to all she had lately endured, or because her maternal instinct urged her to think only of her as yet unborn little one, she became aware of a hardening of heart which convinced her of the expediency of fighting for her own hand in the future. Mrs Gowler's absence was the immediate cause of this manifestation. Had she not loved Perigal so devotedly and trusted him so completely, she would have left the miserable house in Durley Road and gone to an expensive nursing home, to insist later upon his meeting the bill. For all her awakened instinct of self, the fact of her still deciding to remain at Mrs Gowler's was a yet further sacrifice on the altar of the loved one. Perhaps this further self-effacement where her lover was concerned urgently moved her to stand no trifling in respect of others. Consequently, when about half-past ten Mrs Gowler opened the door, accompanied by her idiot son, Oscar, who looked more imbecile than ever in elaborate clothes, she was not a little surprised to be greeted by Mavis with the words:

"What does this mean?"

"What does what mean?" replied Mrs Gowler, bridling.

"Keeping me waiting like this."

"Wot do you expect for wot you're payin'—brass banns and banners?"

"I don't expect impertinence from you!" cried Mavis.

"Imperence! imperence! And oo's Mrs Kenrick to give 'erself such airs! And before my Oscar too!"

"Listen to me," said Mavis.

"I wonder you don't send for your 'usband to go for me."

"But—"

"Your lovin' 'usband wot's in Ameriky a-making a snug little 'ome for you."

Mavis was, for the moment, vanquished by the adroitness of Mrs Gowler's thrust.

"I'm not well enough to quarrel. Please to show me my room."

"That's better. An' I'll be pleased to show you what you call 'my room' when I've given my Oscar 'is supper," shouted Mrs Gowler, as she sailed into the kitchen, followed by her gibbering son, who twice turned to stare at Mavis.

Alone in the unlit, stuffy passage, Mavis whispered her troubles to Jill. Tears came to her eyes, which she held back by thinking persistently of the loved one. While she waited, she heard the clatter of plates and the clink of glasses in the kitchen. Mavis would have gone for a short walk, but she had a superstitious fear of going out of doors again till after her baby was born.

The sharp cry, as of one suddenly assailed by pain, came from the floor overhead. Then a door opened, and footsteps came to the top of the first flight of stairs.

"Mrs Gowler! Mrs Gowler!" cried a woman's voice frantically. But the woman had to call many times before her voice triumphed over the thickness of the kitchen door and the noise of the meal.

"Oo is it?" asked Mrs Gowler, when she presently came from the kitchen, with her mouth full of bread, cheese, stout, and spring onions.

"Liz—Mrs Summerville!" replied the woman.

"'Arf a mo', an' I'll be up," grumbled Mrs Gowler, as she returned to the kitchen, to emerge a few seconds later pinning on her apron.

"You finish yer supper, Oscar, but don't drink all the stout," she called to her son, as she went up the stairs. Before she had got to the landing, the cry was heard again and yet again. It sounded to Mavis like some wounded animal being tortured beyond endurance. The cries continued, to seem louder when a door was opened, and to be correspondingly deadened when this was closed. Mavis shuddered; anticipation of the torment she would have to endure chilled the blood in her veins; cold shivers coursed down her back. It was as if she were imprisoned in a house of pain, from which she could only escape by enduring the most poignant of all torture inflicted by nature on sensitive human bodies. The cries became continuous. Mavis placed her fingers in her ears to shut them out. For all this precaution, a scream of pain penetrated to her hearing. A few moments later, when she had to use her hands in order to prevent Jill from jumping on to her lap, she did not hear a sound. Some quarter of an hour later, Mrs Gowler descended the stairs.

"A quick job that," she remarked to Mavis, who did not make any reply. "Let's 'ope you'll be as sharp," added the woman, as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Mavis gathered from these remarks that a mother had been delivered of a child during Mrs Gowler's brief sojourn upstairs. The latter confirmed this surmise by saying a little later, when she issued from the kitchen drying her hands and bared arms on a towel:

"The worst of these here nursing 'omes is that yer never knows when you're going to be on the job. I didn't expect Liz till termorrer."

Mavis made no reply.

"Would you like a glass of stout?" asked Mrs Gowler.

"No, thank you."

"I'm going to open another bottle an' thought you'd join, jes' friendly like, as you might say. What with the work an' the 'eat of the kitchen, I tell yer, I can do with it."

"I'm tired of sitting in this horrible passage. I wish you would show me to my room."

"Wait till it's ready," retorted Mrs Gowler, angry at her hospitality being refused.

"It ought to be ready. What else did I arrange to come for?"

"You can go up if you like, but Mrs May is bathing her baby, an' there's no room to move."

"Does—does that mean that you haven't given me a room to myself?" cried Mavis.

"Wot more d'ye expect for wot you're payin'?"

Mavis made up her mind.

"If you don't give me a room to myself, I shall go," declared Mavis.

"And 'ave yer baby in the street?"

"That's my affair."

Mavis rose as if to make good her words.

Seeing that she was in earnest, Mrs Gowler said:

"Don't be a mug. I'll see what I can do."

Mavis was much relieved when Mrs Gowler waddled up the stairs, taking with her an evil-smelling oil lamp. The woman's presence was beginning to inspire her with a nameless dread, which was alien to the repulsion inspired by her appearance and coarse speech. Now and again, Mavis caught a glimpse of terrifying depths of resolution in the woman's nature; then she seemed as if she would stick at nothing in order to gain her ends.

"This way, please, Mrs 'Aughty," Mrs Gowler presently called from the landing above Mavis's head.

Mavis walked up the two flights of stairs, followed by Jill, where she found Mrs Gowler in the passage leading to the two top-back rooms of the house. One of these was small, being little larger than a box-room, but to Mavis's eyes it presented the supreme advantage of being untenanted by any other patient.

"We'd better 'ave most of the furniture out, 'ceptin' the bed and washstand," declared Mrs Gowler.

"But where am I to keep my things?" asked Mavis.

"Can't you 'ave your box jes' outside the door? If there ain't no space, you might pop off before I could hop round the bed."

"Is it often dangerous?" faltered Mavis.

"That depends. 'Ave you walked much?"

"A good deal. Why?"

"That's in yer favour. But I 'ope nothin' will 'appen, for my sake. I can't do with any more scandals here. I've my Oscar to think of."

"Scandals?" queried Mavis.

"What about gettin' your box upstairs?" asked Mrs Gowler, as if wishful to change the subject.

"Isn't there anyone who can carry it up?"

"Not to-night. Yer can't expect my Oscar to soil 'is 'ands with menial work. I'm bringing him up to be the gent he is."

"Then I'll go down and fetch what I want for the night."

"Let me git 'em for yer," volunteered Mrs Gowler, as her eyes twinkled greedily.

"I won't trouble you."

Mavis went down to the passage, taking with her the evil-smelling lamp: the spilled oil upon the outside of this greased Mavis's fingers.

To save her strength, she cut the cords with which her trunk was bound with a kitchen knife, borrowed from Mrs Gowler for this purpose. She took from this box such articles as she might need for the night. Amongst other things, she obtained the American clock which had belonged to her old friend Miss Nippett. Mr Poulter, to whom the accompanist had left her few possessions, had prevailed on Mavis to accept this as a memento of her old friend.

Mavis toiled up the stairs with an armful of belongings, preceded by Mrs Gowler carrying the lamp, the woman impressed at the cut and material of which her last arrival's garments were made.

When Mavis had wound up the clock and placed it on the mantelpiece, and, with a few deft touches, had made the room a trifle less repellent, she saw her landlady come into the room with three bottles and two glasses (one of these latter had recently held stout) tucked under her arms.

"I thought we'd 'ave a friendly little chat, my dear," remarked Mrs Gowler, as if to explain her hospitality.

Just then, Mavis's heart ached for the sympathy and support of some motherly person in whom she could confide. A tender word, a hint of appreciation of her present extremity, would have done much to give her stay for the approaching dread ordeal. Perhaps this was why, for the time being, she stifled her dislike of Mrs Gowler and submitted to the woman's presence. Mrs Gowler unscrewed a bottle of stout, poured herself out a glass, drank it at one draught, and then half filled a glass for Mavis.

"Drink it, my dear. It will do us both good," cried Mrs Gowler, who already showed signs of having drunk more than she could conveniently carry.

Mavis, not to seem ungracious, sipped the stout as she sat on the bed.

"'Ow is it you ain't in a proper nursing 'ome?" asked Mrs Gowler, after she had opened the second bottle.

"Aren't I?" asked Mavis quickly.

"I've 'eard of better," answered Mrs Gowler guardedly. "Though, after all, I may be a better friend to you than all o' them together, with their doctors an' all."

"Indeed!" remarked Mavis, wondering what she meant.

"But that's tellin's," continued Mrs Gowler, looking greedily at Mavis from the depths of her little eyes.

"Is it?"

"Babies is little cusses; noisy, squally little brats."

"Not one's own."

"That's what I say. I love the little dears. Gawd's messages I call them. All the same, they're there, as you might say. An' yer can't explain them away."

"True," smiled Mavis.

"An' their cost!" grumbled Mrs Gowler, as she drained the second bottle by putting it to her lips. "They simply eat good money, an' never 'ave enough."

"One must look after one's own," remarked Mavis.

"Little dears! 'Ow I love their pretty prattle. It makes me think of 'eavens an' Gawd's angels," said Mrs Gowler. Then, as Mavis did not make any remark, she added: "Six was born 'ere last week."

"So many!"

"But onny three's alive."

"The other three are dead!"

"It costs five bob a week an' extries to let a kid live, to say nothin' of the lies and trouble an' all. An' no thanks you get for it."

"A mother loves and looks after her own," declared Mavis.

"Little dears! Ain't they pretty when they prattles their little prayers?" asked Mrs Gowler, as her lips parted in a terrible smile. "Many's the time I've given 'em gin from me own bottle to give the little angels sleep."

She said more to the same effect, to pause before saying, with a return to her practical manner:

"An' the gentlemen! They're always 'appy when anything 'appens to baby."

Mavis looked at the woman with questioning eyes; she wondered what she meant. For a few moments Mrs Gowler attempted to lull Mavis's uneasiness by extravagant praise of infants' ways, which culminated in a hideous imitation of baby language. Suddenly she stopped; her little eyes glared fiercely at Mavis, while her face became rigid.

"What's the matter?" asked the girl.

Mrs Gowler rose unsteadily to her feet and said:

"Ten quid down will save you from forking out five bob a week till you're blue in the face from paying it."

Mavis stared at her in astonishment. Mrs Gowler backed to the door.

"Told yer you'd fallen on your feet. Next time you'll know better. No pretty pretties: one little nightdress is all you'll want. But it's spot cash."

Mavis was alone; it was, comparatively, a long time before she gathered what Mrs Gowler meant. When she realised that the woman had as good as offered to murder her child, when born, for the sum of ten pounds, her first impulse was to leave the house. But it was now late; she was worn out with the day's happenings; also, she reflected that, with the scanty means at her disposal, a further move to a like house to Mrs Gowler's might find her worse off than she already was. Her heart was heavy with pain when she knelt by her bedside to say her prayers, but, try as she might, she could find no words with which to thank her heavenly Father for the blessings of the day and to implore their continuance for the next, as was her invariable custom. When she got up from her knees, she hoped that the disabilities of her present situation would atone for any remissness of which she had been guilty. Although she was very tired, it was a long time before she slept. She lay awake, to think long and lovingly of Perigal. This, and Jill's presence, were the two things that sustained her during those hours of sleeplessness in a strange, fearsome house, troubled as she was with the promise of infinite pain.

That night she loved Perigal more than she had ever done before. It seemed to her that she was his, body and soul, for ever and ever; that nothing could ever alter it. When she fell asleep, she did not rest for long at a stretch. Every now and then, she would awaken with a start, when, for some minutes, she would listen to the ticking of the American clock on the mantelpiece. Her mind went back to the vigil she had spent during Miss Nippett's kit night of life. Then, it had seemed as if the clock were remorselessly eager to diminish the remaining moments of the accompanist's allotted span. Now, it appeared to Mavis as if the clock were equally desirous of cutting short the moments that must elapse before her child was born.

The next morning, she was awakened soon after eight by the noise of a tray being banged down just inside the door, when she gathered that someone had brought her breakfast. This consisted of coarsely cut bread, daubed with disquieting-looking butter, a boiled shop egg, and a cup of thin, stewed tea. As Mavis drank the latter, she recollected the monstrous suggestion which Mrs Gowler had insinuated the previous evening. The horror of it filled her mind to the exclusion of everything else. She had quite decided to leave the house as soon as she could pack her things, when a pang of dull pain troubled her body. She wondered if this heralded the birth of her baby, which she had not expected for quite two days, when the pain passed. She got out of bed and was setting about getting up, when the pain attacked her again, to leave her as it had done before. She waited in considerable suspense, as she strove to believe that the pains were of no significance, when she experienced a further pang, this more insistent than the last. She washed and dressed with all dispatch. While thus occupied, the pains again assailed her. When ready, she went downstairs to the kitchen, followed by Jill, to find the room deserted. She called "Mrs Gowler" several times without getting any response. Before going to her box to get some things she wanted, she gave Jill a run in the enclosed space behind the house. When Mavis presently went upstairs with an armful of belongings from her box, she heard a voice call from the further side of a door she was passing:

"Was you wanting Piggy?"

"I wanted Mrs Gowler."

"She's gone out and taken Oscar with her."

"When will she be back?"

"Gawd knows. Was you wanting her pertikler?"

"Not very," answered Mavis, at which she sought her room.

For four hours, Mavis sat terrified and alone in the poky room, during which her pains gradually increased. They were still bearable, and not the least comparable to the mental tortures which continually threatened her, owing to the dreariness of her surroundings and her isolation from all human tenderness. Now and again, she would play with Jill, or she would remake her bed. When the horror of her position was violently insistent, she would think long and lovingly of Perigal, and of how he would overwhelm her with caresses and protestations of livelong devotion, could he ever learn of all she had suffered from her surrender at Looe.

About one, the door was thrust open, and Mrs Gowler, hot and perspiring, and wearing her bonnet, came into the room, carrying a plate, fork, knife, and spoon in one hand and a steaming pot in the other.

"'Elp yerself!" cried Mrs Gowler, as she threw the plate and spoon upon the bed and thrust the pot beneath Mavis's nose.

"It's coming on," said Mavis.

"You needn't tell me that. I see it in yer face. 'Elp yerself."

"But—"

"I'll talk to you when I've got the dinners. 'Elp yerself."

"What is it?" asked Mavis.

"Lovely boiled mutting. Eat all you can swaller. You can do with it before you've done," admonished the woman.

Six o'clock found Mavis lying face downwards on the bed, her body racked with pain. Mrs Gowler sat impassively on the only chair in the room, while Jill watched her mistress with frightened eyes from a corner. Now and again, when a specially violent pain tormented her body, Mavis would grip the head rail of the bed with her hands, or bite Perigal's ring, which she wore suspended from her neck. Once, when Mrs Gowler was considerate enough to wipe away the beads of sweat, which had gathered on the suffering girl's forehead, Mavis gasped:

"Is it nearly over?"

"What! Over!" laughed Mrs Gowler mirthlessly. "I call that the preliminary canter."

"Will it be much worse?"

"You're bound to be worse before you're better."

"I can't—I can't bear it!"

"Bite yer wedding ring and trus' in Gawd," remarked Mrs Gowler, in the manner of one mechanically repeating a formula. "This is what some of the gay gentlemen could do with."

"It's—it's terrible," moaned Mavis.

"'Cause it's your first. When you've been here a few times, it's as easy as kiss me 'and."

Very soon, Mavis was more than ever in the grip of the fiend who seemed bent on torturing her without ruth. She had no idea till then of the immense ingenuity which pain can display in its sport with prey. During one long-drawn pang, it would seem to Mavis as if the bones in her body were being sawn with a blunt saw; the next, she believed that her flesh was being torn from her bones with red-hot pincers. Then would follow a hallowed, blissful, cool interval from searing pain, which made her think that all she had endured was well worth the suffering, so vastly did she appreciate relief. Then she would fall to shivering. Once or twice, it seemed that she was an instrument on which pain was extemporising the most ingenious symphonies, each more involved than the last. Occasionally, she would wonder if, after all, she were mistaken, and if she were not enjoying delicious sensations of pleasure. Then, so far as her pain-racked body would permit, she found herself wondering at the apparently endless varieties of torment to which the body could be subjected.

Once, she asked to look at herself in the glass. She did not recognise anything resembling herself in the swollen, distorted features, the distended eyes, and the dilated nostrils which she saw in the glass which Mrs Gowler held before her. She was soon lost to all sense of her surroundings. She feared that she was going mad. She reassured herself, however, because, by a great effort of will, she would conjure up some recollection of the loved one's appearance, which she saw as if from a great distance. Then, after eternities of torment, she was possessed by a culminating agony. Sweat ran from her pores. Every nerve in her being vibrated with suffering, as if the accumulated pain of the ages was being conducted through her body. More and even more pain. Then, a supreme torment held her, which made all others seem trifling by comparison. The next moment, a new life was born into the world—a new life, with all its heritage of certain sorrow and possible joy; with all its infinite sensibility to pleasure or pain, to hope and love and disillusion.



CHAPTER THIRTY

THE "PERMANENT"

When Mavis regained a semblance of consciousness, something soft and warm lay on her heart. Jill was watching her with anxious eyes. A queer little female figure stood beside the bed.

"Better, dear?" asked this person.

"Where's Mrs Gowler?" whispered Mavis.

"She got tired of waiting, so I came in. I've been here a hour" (she pronounced the aspirate).

"Who are you?" asked Mavis.

"I'm the 'permanent.'"

"The what?"

"The 'permanent': at least, that's what they call me here. But you mustn't talk. You've 'ad a bad time."

"Is it a boy or a girl?" asked Mavis.

"A boy. Don't say no more."

Mavis did not know if she were pleased or otherwise with the sex of her child; she could only thankfully realise that she was free from torment. She lay back, enjoying to the full her delicious comparative ease, before lifting the bed clothes to press her lips against her baby's head. She held it closer to her heart as she realised that its father was the man she loved. Although the woman who had introduced herself as the "permanent" had told Mavis not to talk, she did not set the example of silence. While she busied herself about and in and out of the room, she talked incessantly, chiefly about herself. For a long time, Mavis was too occupied with her own thoughts to pay any attention to what she was saying. Before she listened to the woman's gossip, she was more intent on taking in the details of her appearance. Mavis could not make up her mind whether she was young, old, or middle-aged; she might so easily have been one of these. Her face was not unpleasant, although her largish dark eyes were quite close to her snub nose, over which the eyebrows met. Her expression was that of good-natured simplicity, while her movements and manner of speaking betrayed great self-consciousness, the result of an immense personal vanity. She was soon to be a mother.

"It's my eighth, and all by different fathers," she told Mavis, who wondered at the evident pride with which the admission was made, till the woman added: "When you have had eight, and all by different fathers, it proves how the gentlemen love you."

Mavis, for all her exhaustion, could not help smiling at the ingenuousness of the "permanent's" point of view. Seeing Mavis smile, the woman laughed also, but her hilarity was inspired by self-conscious pride.

"P'raps you wonder what's become of the little dears. Three's dead, two's 'dopted, an' two is paid for at five bob a week by the gentlemen," she informed Mavis. She then asked: "I'spose this is your first?"

Mavis nodded.

"My! You're a baby at it. I 'spect I'll have a dozen to your six."

Presently, she spoke of Mrs Gowler.

"I've had every kid here, all seven of 'em, before the one I'm 'spectin' on Sunday. That's why Piggy calls me the 'permanent.' Do you like Piggy?"

Mavis moved her head in a way that could either be interpreted as a nod or a negative shake.

"I don't care for her very much, though I must say that so long as you locks up yer things, and don't take notice of what she says or does when she's drunk, she's always quite the lady."

Mavis, for all her growing weariness, smiled.

"Do you know why I reely come here?" asked the "permanent." "'Cause I love Piggy's son, Oscar. Oh, he is that comic! He do make me laugh so, I never can see enough of him. Don't you love looking at Oscar?"

Mavis shook her head.

"Don't you think him comic?"

"No," whispered Mavis.

"Go h'on! But there, I nearly forgot!"

The "permanent" left the room, at which Mavis closed her eyes, thankful for a few moments' peace.

"Take this cornflour," said a voice at her elbow: the "permanent" had brought her a basinful of this food. "I made it meself, 'cause Piggy always burns it, an' Oscar puts his fingers in it."

"You're very kind," murmured Mavis.

"Hold yer jaw," remarked the "permanent" with mock roughness.

Mavis gratefully swallowed the stuff, to feel the better for it. When she had finished the last drop, she lay back to watch the "permanent," who arranged the room for the night. Candle, matches, and milk were put handy for Mavis to reach; an old skirt was put down for Jill; bed and pillows were made comfortable.

"If you want me, I'm in the left top front with Mrs Rabbidge."

"Not alone?" asked Mavis.

"Not me. Give me company when I 'ave kids. I'll bring yer tea in the morning."

Whatever misfortunes the fates had reserved for Mavis, they had endowed her with a magnificent constitution; consequently, despite the indifferent nursing, the incompetent advice, the ill-cooked food, she quickly recovered strength. Hourly she felt better, although the nursing of her baby was a continuous tax upon her vitality. Following the "permanent's" advice, who was an old hand in such matters, Mavis kept quite still and did not exert herself more than she could possibly help. But although her body was still, her mind was active. She fretted because she had received no reply to her last little letter to Perigal. Morning and evening, which was the time when she had been accustomed to get letters from Wales, she would wait in a fever of anxiety till the post arrived; when it brought no letter for her, she suffered acute distress of mind.

Upon the fifth evening after her baby was born, Mrs Gowler thrust an envelope beneath her door shortly after the postman had knocked. It was a yellow envelope, on which was printed "On His Majesty's Service." Mavis tore it open, to find her own letter to Perigal enclosed, which was marked "Gone, no address." A glance told her that it had been correctly addressed.

When, an hour later, Mrs Gowler came up to see if she wanted anything, she saw that Mavis was far from well. She took her hand and found it hot and dry.

"Does yer 'ead ache?" she asked of Mavis, whose eyes were wide open and staring.

"It's awful."

"If you're no better in the morning, you'd better 'ave a shillingsworth of Baldock."

If anything, Mavis was worse on the morrow. She had passed a restless night, which had been troubled with unpleasantly vivid dreams; moreover, the first post had brought no letter for her.

"Got a shillin'?" asked Mrs Gowler after she had made some pretence of examining her.

"What for?" asked Mavis.

"Doctor's fee. You'll be bad if you don't see 'im."

"Is he clever?" asked the patient.

"Clever! 'E be that clever, it drops orf 'im."

When, with the patient's consent, Mrs Gowler set out to fetch the doctor, she, also at the girl's request, sent a telegram to Mrs Scatchard, asking her to send on at once any letters that may have come for Mavis. She was sustained by a hope that Perigal may have written to her former address.

"Got yer shillin' ready?" asked Mrs Gowler, an hour or so later. "'E'll be up in a minute."

Two minutes later, Mrs Gowler threw the door wide open to admit Dr Baldock. Mavis saw a short, gross-looking, middle-aged man, who was dressed in a rusty frock-coat; he carried an old bowler hat and two odd left-hand gloves. Mrs Gowler detailed Mavis's symptoms, the while Dr Baldock stood stockstill with his eyes closed, as if intently listening to the nurse's words. When she had finished, the doctor caught hold of Mavis's wrist; at the same time, he fumbled for his watch in his waistcoat pocket; not finding it, he dropped her arm and asked her to put out her tongue. After examining this, and asking her a few questions, he told her to keep quiet; also, that he would look in again during the evening to see how she was getting on.

"Doctor's fee," said Mrs Gowler, as she thrust herself between the doctor and the bed.

Mavis put the shilling in her hand, at which the landlady left the room, to be quickly followed by the doctor, who seemed equally eager to go. Mavis, with aching head, wondered if the evening post would bring her the letter she hungered for from North Kensington.

An hour later, a note was thrust beneath her door. She got out of bed to fetch it, to read the following, scrawled with a pencil upon a soiled half sheet of paper:—

"Don't you go and be a fool and have no more of Piggy's doctors. He isn't a doctor at all, and is nothing more than a coal merchant's tally-man, who got the sack for taking home coals in the bag he carried his dinner in. My baby is all right, but he squints. Does yours?—I remain yours truly, the permannente, MILLY BURT."

Anger possessed Mavis at the trick Mrs Gowler had played in order to secure a further shilling from her already attenuated store, an emotion which increased her distress of mind. When Mrs Gowler brought in the midday meal, which to-day consisted of fried fish and potatoes from the neighbouring fried fish shop, Mavis said:

"If that man comes here again, I'll order him out."

"The doctor!" gasped Mrs Gowler.

"He's an impostor. He's no doctor."

"'E's as good as one any day, an' much cheaper."

"How dare he come into my room! I shall stop the shilling out of my bill."

"You will, will yer! You try it on," cried Mrs Gowler defiantly.

"I believe he could be prosecuted, if I told the police about it," remarked Mavis.

At the mention of "police," Mrs Gowler's face became rigid. She recovered herself and picked out for Mavis the least burned portion of fish; she also gave her a further helping of potatoes, as she said:

"We won't quarrel over that there shillin', an' a cup o' tea is yours whenever you want it."

Mavis smiled faintly. She was beginning to discover how it paid to stick up for herself.

As the comparative cool of the evening succeeded to the heat of the day, Mavis's agitation of mind was such that she could scarcely remain in bed. The fact of her physical helplessness served to increase the tension in her mind, consequently her temperature. She feared what would happen to her already over-taxed brain should she not receive the letter she desired. When she presently heard the postman's knock at the door, her heart beat painfully; she lay in an immense suspense, with her hands pressed against her throbbing head. After what seemed a great interval of time (it was really three minutes), Mrs Gowler waddled into the room, bringing a letter, which Mavis snatched from her hands. To her unspeakable relief, it was in Perigal's handwriting, and bore the Melkbridge postmark. She tore it open, to read the following:—

"MY DEAREST GIRL,—Why no letter? Are you well? Have you any news in the way of a happy issue from all your afflictions? I have left Wales for good. Love as always, C. D. P."

These hastily scribbled words brought a healing joy to Mavis's heart. She read and re-read them, pressing her baby to her heart as she did so. As a special mark of favour, Jill was permitted to kiss the letter. If Mavis had thought that a communication, however scrappy, from her lover would bring her unalloyed gladness, she was mistaken. No sooner was her mind relieved of one load than it was weighted with another; the substitution of one care for another had long become a familiar process. The intimate association of mind and body being what it is, and Mavis's offspring being dependent on the latter for its well-being, it was no matter for surprise that her baby developed disquieting symptoms. Hence, Mavis's new cause for concern.

Contrary to the case of unwedded mothers, as usually described in the pages of fiction, Mavis's love for her baby had, so far, not been particularly active, this primal instinct having as yet been more slumbering than awake. As soon after his birth as she was capable of coherent thought, she had been much concerned at the undeniable existence of the new factor which had come into her life. There was no contradicting Mrs Gowler, who had said that "babies take a lot of explaining away." She reflected that, if the fight for daily bread had been severe when she had merely to fight for herself, it would be much harder to live now that there was another mouth to fill, to say nothing of the disabilities attending her unmarried state. The fact of her letter to Perigal having been returned through the medium of the dead-letter office had almost distracted her with worry, and it is a commonplace that this variety of care is inimical to the existence of any form of love.

Her baby's illness quickly called to life all the immense maternal instinct which she possessed, but, at the same time, her recent awakening to her own claims to consideration made her realise, with a heartfelt sigh, that, in loving her boy as she now did, she was only giving a further precious hostage to happiness.

For three days the mother was kept in a suspense that served to protract the boy's illness, but, at the end of this time, largely owing to Mrs Gowler's advice, he began to improve. The day that his disquieting symptoms disappeared, which was also the day on which he recovered his appetite, was signalised by the arrival of Perigal's reply to Mavis's letter from Durley Road, announcing the birth of their son. In this, he congratulated her on her fortitude, and assured her that her happiness and well-being would always be his first consideration. It also told her that she was the best and most charming girl he had ever met; meeting with other women only the more strengthened this conviction.

Mavis's heart leapt with a great joy. So long as she was easily first in her lover's eyes, nothing else mattered. She had been foolish ever to have done other than implicitly trust him. His love decorated the one-time sparrow that she was with feathers of gorgeous hue.

Days succeeded each other within the four walls of Mrs Gowler's nursing home much as anywhere else, although in each twenty-four hours there usually occurred what were to Mavis's sensitive eyes and ears unedifying sights, agonised cries of women in torment. All day and night, with scarcely any intermission, could be heard the wailing of one or more babies in different rooms in the house. Mrs Gowler's nursing home attracted numberless girls from all parts of the great city, whose condition necessitated their temporary retirement from employment, whatever it might be. Mavis gathered that they were mostly the mean sort of general servant, who had succumbed to the blandishments of the men who make it a practice to prey on this class of woman. So far as Mavis could see, they were mostly plain and uninteresting-looking; also, that the majority of them stayed only a few days, lack of means preventing them being at Mrs Gowler's long enough to recover their health. They would depart, hugging their baby and carrying their poor little parcel of luggage, to be swallowed up and lost in London's ravening and cavernous maw. As they sadly left the house, Mavis could not help thinking that these deserted women were indeed human sparrows, who needed no small share of their heavenly Father's loving kindness to prevent them from falling and being utterly lost in the mire of London. Once or twice during Mavis's stay, the house was so full that three would sleep in one room, each of whom would go downstairs to the parlour, which was the front room on the ground floor, for the dreaded ordeal, to be taken upstairs as soon as possible after the baby was born. Mavis, who had always looked on the birth of a child as something sacred and demanding the utmost privacy, was inexpressibly shocked at the wholesale fashion in which children were brought into the world at Mrs Gowler's.