Sparrows Part 85

When Jill was released, Mavis hugged her in her arms, careless of the attention her devotion attracted.

With her friend restored to her, that evening was the happiest she had spent for some time.

For many succeeding weeks, Mavis pa.s.sed her mornings with Jill, or Miss Nippett, or both; and most of her afternoons and all of her evenings at the academy. The long hours, together with the monotonous nature of the work, greatly taxed her energies, lessened as these were by the physical stress through which she was pa.s.sing.

She obtained infrequent distraction from the peculiarities of the pupils. One, in particular, who was a fat Jewess, named Miss Hyman, greatly amused her. This person was desperately anxious to learn waltzing, but was handicapped by bandy legs. As she spun round and round the room with Mr Poulter, or any other partner, she would close her eyes and continually repeat aloud, "One, two, three; one, two, three," the while her feet kept step with the music.

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 pa.s.s. 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 G.o.d'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 circ.u.mstances, he would wish her to do as she desired. Having no other money available, she was tempted to sell or p.a.w.n 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 circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances 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 inc.u.mbent 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 pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 pa.s.sage, 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 impa.s.sively 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'."