Sparrows Part 34

"How did you know?"

"I didn't; I guessed."

"Wherever they are, I don't see so much of them as I should."

"How considerate of you!"

"Isn't it? But they're a bit too formidable even for one of my sober tastes."

"I see. They're interesting and clever."

"If Low Church and frumpy clothes are cleverness, they're geniuses," he remarked.

"Of course, you prefer High Church and low bodices," retorted Mavis.

Soon after, Mrs Hamilton and Mavis left the men and went upstairs to the drawing-room. The girl was uneasy in her mind as to how Mrs Hamilton would take the fact of her having considerably eclipsed her employer at table; now that they were alone together, she feared some token of Mrs Hamilton's displeasure.

To her surprise and delight, this person said:

"You're an absolute treasure."

"You think so?"

"I don't think; I know. But then, I never make a mistake."

"I'm glad you're pleased."

"I'm not pleased; delighted is more the word. You're worth your weight in gold."

"I wish I were."

"But you will be, if you follow my advice. At first, I thought you a bit of a mug. I don't mind telling you, now I see how smart you are."

Mavis looked puzzled; the extravagant eulogy of her conduct seemed scarcely to be justified.

"You can see Williams is head over ears in love with you. So far, he's been beastly stand-offish to anyone I put him on to," continued Mrs Hamilton.

"Indeed!" said Mavis coldly. She disliked Mrs Hamilton's coa.r.s.e manner of expressing herself.

Mrs Hamilton did not notice the frown on the girl's forehead, but went on:

"As for that idea of drinking water, it was a stroke of genius."

"What?"

"My heart went out to you when you insisted on having it, although I pretended to mind."

Mavis was about to protest her absolute sincerity in the matter, when Parkins, the maid who had dressed her, came into the room. She whispered to her mistress, at which Mrs Hamilton rose hurriedly and said:

"I must leave you for a little time on important business."

"What would you like me to do?" asked Mavis.

"Particularly one thing: don't leave this room."

"Why should I?"

"Quite so. But I want someone here when Mr Williams comes upstairs."

"I'll stick at my post," laughed Mavis, at which Mrs Hamilton and the comely-looking maid left the room.

Left alone, Mavis surrendered herself to the feeling of uneasiness which had been called into being, not only by her employer's strange words, but, also, by the fact of Mr Williams having been addressed by the other man as Windebank. The more she thought of it, the more convinced was she that Mr Ellis had not made a mistake in calling the other man by a different name to the one by which she had been introduced to him. The fact of his having admitted that his home was in Wiltshire, together with the sense of familiarity in his company, seemingly begotten of old acquaintance, tended to strengthen this conviction. On the other hand, if he were indeed the old friend of her childhood, there seemed a purposed coincidence in the fact of their having met again. She did not forget how her presence in Mrs Hamilton's house was the result of an appeal to her Heavenly Father, who, she firmly believed, would not let a human sparrow such as she fall to the ground. She was curious to discover the result of this seemingly preordained meeting. The sentimental speculation engendered a dreamy languor which was suddenly interrupted by a sense of acute disquiet.

She was always a girl of abnormal susceptibility to what was going on about her; to such an extent was this sensibility developed, that she had learned to put implicit faith in the intuitions that possessed her.

Now, she was certain that something was going on in the house, something that was hideous, unnatural, unholy, the conviction of which seemed to freeze her soul. She had not the slightest doubt on the matter: she felt it in the marrow of her bones.

She placed her hand on her eyes, as if to shut out the horrid certainty; the temporary deprivation of sight but increased the acuteness of her impression, consequently, her uneasiness. She felt the need of s.p.a.ce, of good, clean air. The fine drawing-room seemed to confine her being; she hurried to the door in order to escape. Directly she opened it, she found Parkins, the over-dressed maid, outside, who, directly she saw Mavis, barred her further progress.

"What is it, miss?" she asked.

"Mrs Hamilton! I must see her."

"You can't, miss."

"I must. I must. There's something going on. I must see her."

A fearsome expression came over the maid's face as she said:

"I was coming to remind you from madam of your promise to her not to leave the drawing-room."

"I must. I must."

"If I may say so, miss, it will be as much as your place is worth to disobey madam."

These words brought a cold shock of reason to Mavis's fevered excitement.

She looked blankly at the servant for a moment or two, before saying:

"Thank you, Parkins; I will wait inside."

If her many weeks of looking for employment had taught her nothing else, they now told her how worse than foolish it would be to shatter at one blow Mrs Hamilton's good opinion of her. In compliance with her employer's request, she returned to the drawing-room, her nerves all on edge.

Although more convinced than before of the presence of some abomination, she made a supreme effort to divert her thoughts into channels promising relief from her present tension of mind.

She caught up and eagerly examined the first thing that came to hand.

It was a large, morocco-bound, gold-edged photograph alb.u.m; almost before she was aware of it, she was engrossed in its contents. It was full from cover to cover of coloured photographs of women. There were dark girls, fair girls, auburn girls, every type of womanhood to be met with under Northern skies; they ranged from slim girls in their teens to over-ripe beauties, whose princ.i.p.al attraction was the redundance of their figures. For all the immense profusion of varied beauty which the women displayed, they had certainly two qualities in common--they all wore elaborate evening dress; they were all photographed to display to the utmost advantage their physical attractions. Otherwise, thought Mavis, there was surely nothing to differentiate them from the usual run of comely womanhood. Always a lover of beauty, Mavis eagerly scanned the photographs in the book. To her tense imagination, it was like wandering in a highly cultivated garden, where there were flowers of every hue, from the timid shrinking violet and the rosebud, to the over-blown peony, to greet the senses. It was as if she wandered from one to the next, admiring and drinking in the distinctive beauty of each. There were supple, fair-petalled daffodils, white-robed daisies, scarlet-lipped poppies, and black pansies, instinct with pa.s.sion, all waiting to be culled. It seemed as if a paradise of glad loveliness had been gathered for her delight. They were all dew-bespangled, sun-worshipping, wind-free, as if their only purpose was to languish for some thirsty bee to come and sip greedily of their sweetness. As Mavis looked, another quality, which had previously eluded her, seemed to attach itself to each and all of the flowers, a quality that their calculated shyness now made only the more apparent. It was as if at some time in their lives their petals had been one and all ravaged by some relentless wind; as if, in consequence, they had all dedicated themselves to decorate the altars raised to the honour and glory of love.

Mavis, also, noticed that beneath each photograph was written a number in big figures. Then the book repelled her. She put it down, not before she noticed that, scattered about the room, were other alb.u.ms filled presumably in the same way as was the other. She had no mind to look at these, being already surfeited with beauty; also, she was more than ever aware of the sense of disquiet which had troubled her before. To escape once more from this, she walked to the piano, opened it, and let her fingers stray over the keys. She had not touched a piano for many weeks, consequently her fingers were stiff and awkward; but in a few minutes they got back something of their old proficiency: almost unconsciously, she strayed into an Andante of Chopin's.

The strange, appealing, almost unearthly beauty of the movement soothed her jangled nerves; before she was aware of it, she was enrapt with the morbid majesty of the music. Although she was dimly conscious that someone had come into the room, she went on playing.