Sparrows Part 10

"There! I forgot," cried Amelia. She went to the drawer of the dresser and brought out something wrapped in tissue paper.

Mavis undid this, to find Amelia's offering to consist of a silver brooch forming the word "May."

"It's the nearest I could get to your nime, miss," she explained.

"Thank you so much."

"It ain't good enough for you: nothin' ain't good enough for you.

Wasn't you loved by the music master, 'im who was so lovely and dark?"

wept Amelia.

It was with a heavy heart that Mavis left Brandenburg College, the walls of which had sheltered her for so long: she did her best to be self-possessed as she kissed the Misses Mee and walked to her new address, to which her two boxes had been taken the first thing by the carriers.

The rest of the morning, and after the simple meal which Mrs Ellis provided, Mavis unpacked her things and made her room as homelike as possible. While she was doing this, she would now and again stop to wonder if she had heard the postman's knock; although she could hear him banging at doors up and down the street, he neglected to call at No. 20, a fact which told Mavis that so far no one had troubled to seriously consider her applications for employment. A cup of tea with Mrs Ellis put a cheerful complexion upon matters; she spent the next few hours in finishing her little arrangements. These completed to her satisfaction, she leaned against the window and looked hungrily towards the heavens. It was a blue, summer evening; there was not a cloud in the sky.

Although the raucous voices of children playing in the streets a.s.sailed her ears, she was scarcely conscious of these, her thoughts being far away. She was always a lover of nature; wildflowers, especially cowslips, affected her more than she would care to own; the scent of hay brought a longing to her heart; the sight of a roadside stream fascinated her. Now, she was longing with a pa.s.sionate desire for the peace of the country. Upon this July evening, the corn must now be all but ripe for the sickle, making the fields a glory of gold. She pictured herself wandering alone in a vast expanse of these; gold, gold, everywhere; a lark singing overhead. Then, in imagination, she found her way to a nook by the Avon at Melkbridge, a spot endeared to her heart by memories that she would never forget. As a child, she loved to steal there with her picture book; later, as a little girl, she would go there all alone, and, lying on her back, would dream, while her eyes followed the sun. Her fondness for this place was the only thing which she had kept from her father's knowledge. She wondered if this hiding place, where she had loved to take her thoughts, were the same. She could shut her eyes and recall it: the pollard willows, the brown river banks, the swift, running river in which the forget-me-nots (so it appeared to her) never seemed to tire in the effort to see their reflection.

Darkness came out of the east. Mavis's heart went out to the summer night. Then, she was aware of a feeling of physical discomfort. The effort of imagination had exhausted her. She became wearily conscious of the immediate present. The last post, this time, knocked at the door of Mrs Ellis', but it brought no letter for Mavis. It seemed that the world had no need of her; that no one cared what became of her. She was disinclined to go out, consequently, the limitations of her surroundings made her quickly surrender to the feeling of desolation which attacked her. She wondered how many girls in London were, at the present moment, isolated from all congenial human companionship as she was. She declined the landlady's kindly offer to partake of cold boiled beef and spring onions in the status of guest; the girl seemed to get satisfaction from her morbid indulgence in self-pity.

As she was about to undress, her eye fell on the Bible which Helen Mee had given her earlier in the day. Mavis remembered something had been written on the fly-leaf: more from idle curiosity than from any other motive, she opened the cover of the book, to read in the old lady's meager, pointed hand:

"Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.

"Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows."--St Matthew x. 29, 31.

Mavis's heart was filled with contrition. She was not forgotten; there was Someone who cared what became of her. Although she was now as one of the sparrows, which are never certain of their daily food, she could not fall without the knowledge of One who cared, and He---

Mavis knelt: she implored forgiveness for having believed herself to be utterly forgotten: she thanked Him for caring that a poor, friendless girl, such as she, should not fall.

CHAPTER FIVE

BARREN WAYS

There followed for Mavis many, many anxious days, spent from the first thing in the morning till late at night in a fruitless search for work.

Her experiences were much the same as those of any attractive, friendless girl seeking to earn her livelihood in London. To begin with, she found that the summer was a time of year in which the openings she sought were all obstinately closed, the heads of firms, or those responsible for engaging additional a.s.sistance, being either away on holidays, or back from these in no mood to consider Mavis'

application.

Another thing that struck her was that, whenever she went to interview men, she was always treated civilly, cordially, or familiarly; but the womenfolk she saw were invariably rude, directly they set eyes upon her comeliness. Once or twice, she was offered employment by men; it was only their free and easy behaviour which prevented her accepting it.

Mavis, as yet, was ignorant of the conditions on which some employers of female labour engage girls seeking work; but she had a sensible head screwed on her pretty shoulders; she argued that if a man were inclined to be familiar after three minutes' acquaintance, what would he be when she was dependent upon him for a weekly wage? It was not compatible with her vast self-respect to lay herself open to risk of insult, suggested by a scarcely veiled admiration for her person after a few moments' acquaintance. It was not as if she had any qualification of marketable value; she knew neither shorthand nor typewriting; she could merely write a decent hand, was on very fair terms with French, on nodding acquaintance with German, and had a sound knowledge of arithmetic.

On the face of it, her best course was to get a situation as governess; but Mavis, after a week's trial, gave up the endeavour. The mothers of possible pupils, with whom the girl's credentials from the college secured an interview, were scarcely civil to the handsome, distinguished-looking girl; they were sure that such looks, seeking for employment, boded ill for anyone indulgent enough to engage her. Mavis could not understand such behaviour; she had read in books how people were invariably kind and sympathetic, women particularly so, to girls in want of work; surely she furnished opportunity for her own s.e.x to show consideration to one of the less fortunate of their kind.

Mavis next advertised in local papers for pupils to whom she would teach music. Receiving no replies, she attempted to get employment in a house of business; this effort resulted in her obtaining work as a canva.s.ser, remuneration being made by results. This meant tramping the pavement in all weathers, going up and coming down countless flights of stairs, swallowing all kinds of humiliating rebuffs in the effort to sell some encyclopedia or somebody's set of novels, which no one wanted. She always met with disappointment and, in time, became used to it; but there were occasions when a purchaser seemed likely, when hope would beat high, only to give place to sickening despair when her offer was finally rejected. On the whole, she met with civility and consideration from the young men (mostly clerks in offices) whom she interviewed; but there was a type of person whose loud-voiced brutality cut her to the quick. This was the West-end tradesman. She would walk into a shop in Bond Street or thereabouts, when the proprietor, taking her for a customer, would advance with cringing mien, wringing his hands the while. No sooner did he learn that the girl wanted him to buy something, than his manner immediately changed. Usually, in coa.r.s.e and brutal voice, he would order her from the shop; sometimes, if he were in a facetious mood, and if he had the time to spare, he would make fun of her and mock her before a crowd of grinning underlings. To this day, the sight of a West-end tradesman fills Mavis with unspeakable loathing; nothing would ever mitigate the horror which their treatment of her inspired at this period of her life.

Then Mavis, in reply to one of her many answers to advertis.e.m.e.nts, received a letter asking her to call at an office in Eastcheap, at a certain time. Arrived there, she learned how she could earn a pound a week by canva.s.sing, together with commission, if her sales were successful. She had eagerly accepted the offer, when she learned that she was to make house-to-house calls in certain London suburbs (she was to commence at Peckham), armed with a bottle of pickles and a bottle of sauce. She was furnished with a Peckham local directory and was instructed to make calls at every house in her district, when she was to ask for the mistress by name, in order to disarm suspicion on the part of whoever might open the door. When she was asked inside, she was to do her utmost to get orders for the pickles and the sauce, supplies of which were sent beforehand to a grocer in the neighbourhood. Mavis did not relish the job, but was driven by the goad of necessity. On her way home to tell Mrs. Ellis that she would be leaving immediately to live in Peckham, she slipped on a piece of banana skin and twisted her ankle, an accident which kept her indoors for the best part of a week.

When she had written to Eastcheap to say that she was well enough to commence work, she had received a letter which informed her that her place had been filled.

Now, she was sitting in her little bedroom in Kiva Street, a prey to despair; she had no one to comfort her, not even Mrs. Ellis, this person having gone out on a rare visit to an aunt.

Her little stock of money had sadly dwindled; eighteen shillings and her trinkets stood between her and want. She had fought and had been vanquished; there was nothing left for her to do but to write to Mrs Devitt and ask if the offer, that had been mentioned in her last letter to Miss Mee, still held good. During all these weeks of weary effort, Mavis had been largely kept up by the thought that she was a sparrow, who could not fall to the ground without the knowledge of the Most High. Now, it seemed to her that she could sustain her flight but a little while longer; yet, so far as she could see, there was no one to whom her extremity seemed to matter in the least.

Apart from her desire to earn a living, the girl had struggled resolutely in order that she should not seek work of the Devitts. She disliked the family; she had resolved to apply to them only as a last resource.

She had gone one day to Brandenburg College to call on her old employers, but she found that the name-plate had been removed, and that the house was to let. She had made inquiries, to learn that her old friend Miss Annie Mee had died suddenly at Worthing, and also that Miss Helen had sold the school for what it would fetch, and no one knew what had become of her. Mavis grieved at the loss of her friend, but not so deeply, or for so long, as she would if she had not been consumed with anxiety on her own account. She had not forgotten Mr Goss's offer of help: she had called at his house twice, to learn on each occasion that he was out of town. Presently, Mrs Ellis came in; finding Mavis moping, she asked her to the downstairs sitting-room for a cup of tea. The girl gladly went: she sat by the window watching the men working in the yard behind, while Mrs Ellis made tea in the kitchen. Mavis, wanting air, opened the window, although she remembered her landlady's liking for having this particular one shut. No sooner had she done so, than she heard a woman's voice raised in raucous anger, the while it made use of much bad language. It abused certain people for not having done their work. The bad language getting more forceful than before, Mavis moved from the window. Presently, the voice stopped. Soon after, Mrs Ellis, looking red and fl.u.s.tered, came into the room. When she saw that Mavis had opened the window, she became redder in the face, as she said:

"I'm sorry, miss; I couldn't help it."

"Help what?" asked Mavis.

"Talking to the men as I did. I always wanted the window down, so you shouldn't hear."

"It was you, then?"

"Didn't you know, miss?"

"Not altogether. It was something like your voice."

"If I were to talk to them ordinary, they wouldn't listen; so I've to talk to them in my 'usband's language, which is all they understand,"

said Mrs Ellis apologetically.

The contrast between Mrs Ellis's neat, una.s.suming respectability and her language to the men made Mavis smile.

"I'm glad you've taken it sensible," remarked her landlady. "Many's the good lodger I've lost through that there window being open."

Tea put fresh heart into Mavis. It was ten days since she had last called on Mr Goss: she resolved to make a further attempt. He was in, she learned from the maid-of-all-work, who opened the door of Mr Goss's house.

On asking to see him, she was shown into a double drawing-room, the front part of which was tolerably furnished; but Mavis could not help noticing that the back was quite shabby; unframed coloured prints, taken from Christmas numbers of periodicals, were fastened to the walls with tin tacks.

Mr Goss came into the room wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.

Mavis feared that she had interrupted a meal. Whether she had or not, he was glad to see her and asked if he could help her. Mavis told him how she was situated. In reply, he said that he had a friend who was a man of some importance in a West-end emporium. He asked her if she would like a letter of introduction to this person. Mavis jumped at the offer. When he had written the letter, Mavis asked after his daughter, to learn that she was staying at Margate with her mother. When Mavis thanked and said good-bye to Mr Goss, he warmly pressed the hand that she offered.

The next day, she presented herself at the great house of business where Mr Goss's friend was to be found. His name was Evans. It was only after delay that she was able to see him. He was a grave, kindly-looking man, who scanned Mavis with interest before he read Mr Goss's letter. Mavis could almost hear the beating of her heart while she waited to see if he could offer her anything.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he folded up the letter.

Mavis could not trust herself to speak.

"Very sorry I can't oblige you or Mr Goss," continued the man. "All our vacancies were filled last week. I've nothing at present."

Mavis turned to go.

"You want something to do at once?" said Mr Evans, as he noticed the girl's dismay.

Mavis nodded. The man went on: