Sparrows Part 50

When Mavis had had tea and had settled herself comfortably by the fire with her book, she felt wholly contented and happy. Now and again, she put down Richard Feverel to look about her, and, with an immense satisfaction, to contrast the homely cleanliness of her surroundings with the dingy squalor of Mrs Bilkins's second floor back. It was one of the happiest evenings she ever spent. She often looked back to it with longing in her later stressful days.

About seven, she heard a knock at her door. She called out "Come in,"

at which, after much fumbling at the door handle, a big fair man, with wide-open blue eyes, stood in the doorway. He looked like a huge, even-tempered child; he carried two paper-covered books in his hand.

"I'm Farthing, miss," the man informed her.

"Good evening," said Mavis, who would scarcely have been surprised if Farthing had brought out a handful of marbles and started playing with them.

"The driver's out, miss, so--"

"The driver?" interrupted Mavis.

"Mrs Farthing, miss. I be only fireman when her be about," he humbly informed her.

"Won't you sit down?"

"I? No, thankee, miss. I thought you might want summat to read, so I brought you these."

Here Mr Farthing handed Mavis a Great Western Railway time table, together with "Places of Interest on the Great Western Railway."

"How kind of you! I shall be delighted to read them," declared Mavis untruthfully.

Then, as Mr Farthing was about to leave the room, she said:

"I'm afraid I'm in your bad books."

"Bad what, Miss?" he asked, perplexed.

"Books--that you're offended with me."

"I, miss?"

"For coming here as your lodger?"

Mr Farthing stared at her in round-eyed amazement.

"I understood from Mrs Farthing that you object to her taking lodgers,"

explained Mavis.

Mr Farthing's jaw dropped; he seemed dumbfounded.

"That you're complaining about Mrs Farthing overworking herself every minute you're at home," continued Mavis.

Mr Farthing backed to the door.

"And you tell her she's only killing herself by doing it."

Hopelessly bewildered, Mr Farthing clumped downstairs.

Mavis laughed long and softly at this refutation of Mrs Farthing's pretensions. Before she again settled down to the enjoyment of her book, she looked once more about the cleanly, comfortable room, which had an indefinable atmosphere of home.

"Yes, yes," thought Mavis, "it is--it is good to be alive."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SPRINGTIME

Days pa.s.sed swiftly for Mavis; weeks glided into months, months into seasons. When the anniversary of the day on which she had commenced work at the boot factory came round, she could not believe that she had been at Melkbridge a year. When she had padded the streets of London in quest of work, she had many times told herself that she had only to secure a weekly wage in order to be happy. Now this desire was attained, she found (as who has not?) that satisfaction in one direction breeds hunger in another. Although her twenty s.h.i.+llings a week had been increased to twenty-five, and she considerably augmented this sum by teaching music to pupils to whom Mr Medlicott recommended her, Mavis was by no means content. Her regular hours, the nature of her employment, the absence of friends.h.i.+p in the warm-hearted girl's life, all irked her; she fearfully wondered if she were doomed to spend her remaining days in commencing work at nine-thirty and leaving off at half-past four upon five days of the week, and one on Sat.u.r.days. If the fifty-two weeks spent in Melkbridge had not brought contentment to her mind, the good air of the place, together with Mrs Farthing's wholesome food, had wrought a wondrous change in her appearance. The tired girl with the hunted look in her eyes had developed into an amazingly attractive young woman. Her fair skin had taken on a dazzling whiteness; her hair was richer and more luxuriant than of yore; but it was her eyes in which the chief alteration had occurred. These now held an unfathomable depth of tenderness, together with a roguish fear that the former alluring quality might be discovered. If her figure were not as unduly stout as the skinny virgins of Melkbridge declared it to be, there was no denying the rude health apparent in the girl's face and carriage.

So far as her colleagues at the boot factory were concerned, Miss Toombs hardly took any notice of her, whilst Miss Hunter gave her the impression of being extremely insincere, all her words and actions being the result of pose rather than of conviction.

The only people Mavis was at all friendly with were Mr and Mrs Medlicott, whom she often visited on Sunday evenings, when they would all sing Moody and Sankey's hymns to the accompaniment of the cabinet piano.

When she had been some months at Melkbridge, a new interest had come into her life. One day, Mr Devitt, who, with his family, had showed no disposition to cultivate Mavis's acquaintance, sent for her and asked her if she would like to have a dog.

"Nothing I should like better," she replied.

"There's only one objection."

"One can't look gift dogs in the mouth."

"It's a she, a lady dog: there's risk of an occasional family."

"I'll gladly take that."

"She's rather a dear, but she's lately had pups, and some people might object to her appearance."

"I know I should love her."

"She's a c.o.c.ker spaniel--her name's Jill. She belongs to my boy, Harold. But as he's away--"

"Then we've already met. I saw her the day I came down to see you from London. You're right--she is a dear."

"My boy, who is still away for his health--"

"I am sorry," Mavis interrupted.

"Thanks. He wrote to say that, as we--some of us--appeared to find her a nuisance, we'd better try and find her a happy home."

"I'm sure she'd be happy with me."

"What about your landlady?"

"I'd forgotten her. I must ask."