Sparrows Part 29

"One 'ud think I played outside pubs," grumbled Mr Cheadle.

"Now, if only Mr Baffy would come, you artistes could get to work,"

remarked Mr Poulter pleasantly.

"Let's start without him," suggested Cheadle, who seemed pleased at being referred to as an artiste.

A move was made to the platform at the further end of the hall; when this was reached, a little old man staggered into the hall, bearing on his shoulders a ba.s.s viol.

"Here's Baffy!" cried the three musicians together.

When the man disentangled himself from his burden, Mavis saw that the ba.s.s viol player was short, unkempt, greyhaired and bearded; he stared straight before him with vacant, watery eyes; his mouth was always agape; he neither greeted nor spoke to anyone present.

In obedience to Mr Poulter's instructions, two of the band brought a big screen from a side-room; this was set up by the piano, at which instrument Mavis took her seat. The screen was arranged so that she and Cheadle, the cornet-player, would be in full sight of the dancers; the three musicians not in evening dress were hidden behind the screen.

They commenced a waltz. Mr Baffy did not start with the others; he was set going by a kick from Mr Cheadle. He played without music, seemingly at random, vilely, unconcernedly. Mr Baffy seemed to be ignorant of when a figure was ended, as he went on sc.r.a.ping after the others had ceased, and only stopped after receiving a further kick from Cheadle; he then stared feebly before him, till again set going by a forcible hint from the cornet-player.

Mavis acquitted herself to the grudging satisfaction of Cheadle. A few minutes before the doors were open, Miss Nippett approached her, wearing, besides her usual shawl, a coquettish cap and ap.r.o.n.

"Have you come to the dance?" asked Mavis.

"I'm 'ladies cloak-room' to-night? What do you think of Baffy?"

"I don't know what to think."

"No cla.s.s, is 'e?"

"Do you know anything about him?"

"I don't 'old with the feller. 'Is presence is a disgrace to the academy," replied the "ladies' cloak-room."

A few minutes later, the first of Mr Poulter's patrons self-consciously entered the room; soon after, dancing commenced.

As if to give Mavis heart for her unaccustomed task, Mr Poulter kept an eye upon her; he encouraged her with smiles whenever she looked in his direction. Mavis's playing was much jeopardised by the conduct of the other musicians; they did not give the least attention to what they were at, but performed as if their efforts were second nature. Soon after the dancing started, Mr Cheadle brought from a pocket a greasy pack of cards, at which he and the two musicians who had arrived with him began to play at farthing "Nap," a game which the most difficult pa.s.sages of their performance did not interrupt, each card-player somehow contriving to play almost directly it came to his turn. Mr Cheadle, playing the cornet, had one hand always free; he shuffled the cards, dealt them, and put down the winnings. When Mavis became more used to the vagaries of their instrumental playing, she was amused at the way in which they combined business with diversion. Mr Baffy, also, interested her; he still continued to stare before him, as he played with watery, purposeless eyes, and with mouth agape.

Halfway through the programme, there was an interval for refreshments.

Mavis was conducted by Mr Poulter to a table set apart for the artistes in the room in which the lightest of light refreshments were served to his patrons.

Mavis sat down to a plateful of what looked uncommonly like her old friend, brisket of beef; she was now so hungry that she was glad to get anything so substantial.

"'Ow are you gettin' on?" asked a familiar voice over her shoulder.

Mavis looked up, to see Miss Nippett, who had discarded her cap and ap.r.o.n; she was now in her usual rusty frock, with her shawl upon her narrow, stooping shoulders.

"All right, thank you. Why don't you have some?"

"No, thank you. I can't spare the time. I'm 'light refreshments.'"

"But they're all eaten!" remarked Mavis, as her eye ranged along a length of table-cloth innocent of food or decoration.

"'Poulter's' ain't such a fool as to stick nothink out; it would all be 'wolfed' in a second. Let 'em ask."

"Some people mightn't like to."

"That's their look-out," snapped Miss Nippett, who had a heart of stone where the interests of anything antagonistic to "Poulter's" were concerned.

At the conclusion of the evening, the band was paid.

Mr Baffy got a shilling for his services, which he held in his hand and looked stupidly before him, till he got a cut with a bow from the second violinist, at which he put the money in his pocket. He then shouldered his ba.s.s viol and plunged out into the darkness.

Mavis's heart went out to Mr Baffy. She wondered where and how he lived; how he pa.s.sed his time; what had reduced him to his present condition.

She spoke of him to Mr Poulter, who looked perplexed before replying:

"Ah, my dear young lady, it's as well for such as you not to inquire too closely into the lives of we who are artistes."

When Mavis had put on her hat and cloak, and was leaving the Athenaeum, Miss Nippett called out:

"It's all right; you can sleep sound; 'e's pleased with you."

"Who?" asked Mavis.

"Mr Poulter. Who else d'ye think I meant?"

Three days later, Mavis severed her connection with "Poulter's." Upon her going, Mr Poulter presented her with a signed photograph of himself in full war-paint, an eulogistically worded testimonial, also, an honorarium (this was his word) of five shillings. Mavis was loth to take it; but seeing the dancing-master's distress at her hesitation, she reluctantly pocketed the money.

Miss Nippett also gave her a specially taken photograph of herself.

"Where's your shawl?" asked Mavis, who missed this familiar adjunct from the photograph.

"I took it off to show off me figure. See?" replied Miss Nippett confidentially.

Mr Poulter asked Mavis if she had further employment in view. She knew how poor he was; also, that if she told him she was workless, he would probably insist on retaining her services, although he could not afford to do so. Mavis fibbed to Mr Poulter; she hoped that her consideration for his poverty would atone for the lie.

For five weeks Mavis vainly tried to get work. She soon discovered how, when possible employers considered her application, the mere mention of her being at "Dawes'" was enough to spoil her chances of securing an engagement.

She had spent all her money; she was now living on the sum she had received from a p.a.w.nbroker in exchange for two of her least prized trinkets. Going out in all weathers to look for employment had not improved her clothes; her best pair of boots let in water; she was jaded, heartsick, dispirited. As with others in a like plight, she dared not look into the immediate future, this holding only terrifying probabilities of disaster; the present moment was all sufficient; little else mattered, and, although to-morrow promised actual want, there was yet hope that a sudden turn of fortune's wheel would remove the dread menace of impending ruin. One evening, Mavis, dazed with disappointment at failing to secure an all but promised berth, wandered aimlessly from the city in a westerly direction. She scarcely knew where she was going or what quarter of London she had reached. She was only aware that she was surrounded by every evidence of well-being and riches. The pallid, worried faces of the frequenters of the city were now succeeded by the well-fed, contented looks of those who appeared as if they did not know the meaning of the word care. Splendid carriages, costly motor cars pa.s.sed in never-ending procession. As Mavis glanced at the expensive dresses of the women, the wind-tanned faces of the men, she thought how, but for a wholly unlooked-for reverse of fortune, these would be the people with whom she would be a.s.sociating on equal terms. The thought embittered her; she quickened her steps in order to leave behind her the opulent surroundings so different from her own, A little crowd, consisting of those entering and waiting about the door of a tea-shop, obstructed her. An idea suddenly possessed her.

Confronted with want, she wondered if she had enough money to s.n.a.t.c.h a brief half-hour's respite from her troubles. She looked in her purse, to find it contained three shillings. The next moment, she was moving in the direction of the tea-room, her habitual husbandry making a poor fight against the over-mastering desire possessing her.

She walked up a steep, narrow flight of carpeted stairs; this terminated in a long, low room, the walls of which were of black oak, and which was nearly filled with a gaily dressed crowd of men and women. The sensuous music of a string band fell on her ear; the smell of tea and the indefinable odour of women were borne to her nostrils. A card was put in her hand, telling her that a palmist could be consulted on the next floor. In and out among the tables, attendants, clad in the garb of sixteenth century Flemish peasant women, moved noiselessly.

Mavis got a table to herself in a corner by a window which overlooked the street. She ordered tea and toast. When it was brought, she did her best to put her extremity out of sight; she tried hard to believe that she, too, led a happy, b.u.t.terfly existence, without anxious thought for the morrow, without a care in the world. The effort was scarcely a success, but was, perhaps, worth the making. As she sat, she noticed a kindly-looking old gentlewoman who was pointing her out to a companion; for all the old woman's somewhat dowdy garb, she had rich woman stamped all over her. The old lady kept on looking at Mavis; once or twice, when the latter caught her eye, the elder woman smiled. When she rose to go, she came over to Mavis and said:

"Forgive me, my dear, but your hair looks wonderful against that imitation oak."

"Does it? But it isn't imitation too," replied Mavis.

"Forgive me, won't you?"

"Of course."