Chapter II: Concerning Miss Dawson

MRS. GREY received a letter from her brother-in-law by return of post, in which, as she had anticipated would be the case, he expressed his willingness to make a home for Mavis for as long as she should need it.

"My wife bids me say she will do her best for your little girl," he wrote, "and I am sure she will not be lonely with Rose and Bob for playfellows. Bob goes to the village school; but Rose attends a private school for girls, kept by a Miss Matthews, and I suggest that Mavis should accompany her. Why not come and spend a few days with Mavis at W— before you leave England? It would give us much pleasure to welcome you to the Mill House."

"I should like to go," Mrs. Grey said, smiling at her little daughter, to whom she had been reading extracts from her brother-in-law's letter, "and I will try to manage it. I think I must go and see Miss Dawson to-day, and ascertain if her father has decided by which vessel she is to travel. Would you like to accompany me—to Camden Square, I mean, where the Dawsons live?"

"Indeed I should, mother," Mavis answered.

"I have told Miss Dawson about you, and she expressed a desire to see you. I think she will like to talk to you, Mavis, and you must try not to be shy with her, for she is little more than a child herself. She is exceedingly low-spirited at the prospect of leaving her father, to whom she is most devotedly attached."

"She's very rich, didn't you say, mother?" said Mavis.

"Rich as far as money goes, but she cannot enjoy life, like most girls of her age, because she is in such poor health."

"I suppose she'll get well, won't she?"

"I cannot say, my dear. God alone knows that."

Mavis' interest in Miss Dawson was increasing, and she was now all eagerness to see her. She and her mother started for Camden Square shortly after their midday dinner, but it was nearly four o'clock by the time they reached their destination.

Never before had the little girl been in such a luxuriously furnished house as Mr. Dawson's, and she made good use of her eyes as she crossed the hall in the wake of the servant who ushered her mother and herself into a large, lofty drawing-room. How soft was the thick velvet pile carpet, with its pattern of moss and pale pink rosebuds! It was almost too handsome to step on, Mavis thought, and she looked at her boots anxiously, to make sure they were not muddy.

"Oh, mother, this is a lovely room," she whispered as the servant, who had informed them that her master was not at home, but that he was expected shortly, went to tell Miss Dawson of their arrival; "but if it was mine I should be afraid to use it, I am sure. It is far, far handsomer than Miss Tompkins' front drawing-room."

Miss Tompkins' front drawing-room, which that worthy lady let at half a guinea a week, had hitherto been Mavis' idea of what a drawing-room should be, but now she relegated it to a second place in her estimation.

In a very short while, the servant returned, and said that Miss Dawson was ready to receive them, and they were shown upstairs. The servant drew back a heavy crimson plush curtain hanging before a door which she opened, and announced—"Mrs. Grey, if you please, Miss Laura."

"I'm so glad to see you've brought your little girl with you, Mrs. Grey," said a soft musical voice. "How do you do? It's rather chilly, isn't it? At least, I find it so."

Mavis looked at the speaker with an interest she did not strive to conceal. Miss Dawson lay on a sofa, but she certainly did not appear ill to an inexperienced observer, for there was a beautiful flush in her cheeks, and her blue eyes were extremely brilliant. Mrs. Grey would not permit her to rise, but drew a chair near to her sofa, and, having duly introduced Mavis to her, questioned her concerning her health.

"Oh, I don't believe I'm half so bad as the doctors try to make out," the young girl declared, "and I wouldn't consent to go to Australia but for father. He was so unhappy when, at first, I refused to go. And you, you poor little thing," she proceeded, turning her attention to Mavis, "you greatly dislike the idea of parting from your mother, do you not?"

"Yes," Mavis was obliged to admit.

"How you must hate me, because I'm going to be the cause of your separation! But, since the doctors are bent on exiling me from England, I'm glad your mother is going with me, because—Oh, come in!" she cried, as there was a tap at the door.

It was the servant who had shown Mavis and her mother upstairs, come to say that Mr. Dawson had returned, and would like to see Mrs. Grey.

"There, now everything will be settled," Miss Dawson remarked, as Mrs. Grey left the room. "I consider you and I are companions in misfortune, in one way, for you are to be separated from your mother and I from my father. It's a great nuisance my lungs are so delicate."

"I am very sorry," Mavis said gently.

"But I won't believe that I am very bad; sometimes I don't feel ill at all. Where are you going to live whilst your mother is away?"

Mavis told her, adding that she did not know her aunt and cousins, and that she would miss her mother dreadfully. Her brown eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

"Poor little thing!" murmured Miss Dawson, in a tone of such deep sympathy, that the tears overflowed and ran down her companion's cheeks. "I have no doubt you begrudge your mother to me," she continued, after a brief pause, "but please do try not to. I really am ill, you know, though I like to pretend I'm not sometimes, and—by the way, you have not told me your name?"

"It is Mavis."

"Mavis?"

"Yes. My father chose it for me. A mavis is a thrush—a bird which sings."

"And do you sing?" Miss Dawson inquired, with a smile.

"Yes," Mavis replied, drying her eyes and smiling too. "I used to sing when I was quite a little girl."

Miss Dawson laughed; but the laugh brought on a fit of coughing which lasted several minutes. When it had passed, she seemed quite exhausted, and lay back on the sofa with her eyes shut, panting. Mavis was rather frightened, and wished her mother would return, but presently Miss Dawson opened her eyes and smiled at her, remarking apologetically—

"I hope I have not alarmed you; this wretched cough takes all my strength away. There, I'm all right again. I wish you would sing to me."

"Do you mean now?" Mavis inquired, dubiously.

"Yes, unless you would rather not."

The little girl coloured nervously; but she feared to appear disobliging, so she sang one or two simple ditties very prettily. Miss Dawson was charmed, and Mavis felt gratified at being able to give her pleasure.

"You have a very sweet voice," Miss Dawson said by-and-by, at the conclusion of the last song. "Do—please do sing something more."

"I'm afraid I don't know any more songs," Mavis replied, "but I will sing a hymn, if you like. I know! I will give you mother's favourite psalm."

She commenced forthwith to sing an old version of the twenty-third psalm—

"The Lord is only my support, and He that doth me feed;
How can I then lack anything whereof I stand in need?
In pastures green He feedeth me, where I do safely lie;
And after leads me to the streams which run most pleasantly."

"And when I find myself near lost, then doth He me home take;
Conducting me in His right paths, e'en for His own Name's sake.
And though I were e'en at death's door, yet would I fear no ill;
For both Thy rod and shepherd's crook afford me comfort still."

"Thou hast my table richly spread in presence of my foe,
Thou hast my head with balm refresht, my cup doth overflow—"

Mavis stopped suddenly, for, much to her consternation, she saw that Miss Dawson was struggling to subdue an emotion which threatened to overpower her, and that her blue eyes were swimming in tears. There was silence for a few minutes.

"I am very foolish," the sick girl said, at length, in a tremulous tone, "and you mustn't think I don't like your singing, for I do, especially that psalm, it's—it's so comforting—"

"And when I find myself near lost, then doth He me home take."

"I shall think of that when I'm ever so far away from England, and—and I shall try to fear no ill, and remember that the Good Shepherd is with me. I am so glad you came with your mother to-day, Mavis; I would not have missed knowing you for a great deal. You must come to see me again."

Mavis, immensely flattered, flushed rosy red. After that, they talked quite confidentially, until Mrs. Grey re-entered the room. Miss Dawson told her in what manner Mavis had been entertaining her, and that her company had done her a vast deal of good.

"I must see more of her," she declared.

Then, with a sudden change of tone, she asked anxiously, "What has been decided?"

"That we are to sail from Plymouth, by the 'Nineveh,' on Thursday week," Mrs. Grey replied. "So we have only a short while in which to make our final arrangements. I am afraid I shall have no opportunity of bringing Mavis to see you again."

"Oh, mother!" cried Mavis, regretfully.

"I am sorry," said Miss Dawson, with a disappointed sigh. She took a fine gold chain, from which was suspended a little heart-shaped locket, from her neck as she spoke and called Mavis to her. "There, dear," she said, as she clasped the chain around the little girl's neck, "I give you that as a keepsake, for I want you to remember me, and—pray for me. You need not mind taking it, for I bought it with my own money."

"Oh!" cried Mavis, delightedly. "Oh, how kind of you! Mother, may I have it? Yes. Oh, thank you, thank you!" She threw her arms around Miss Dawson's neck and kissed her warmly. "I shall never forget you," she proceeded, her voice very earnest; "and I will pray for you, be very sure of that. I hope you will soon get quite, quite well, and come home again. Mother will take great care of you; she really is a capital nurse. Oh, she is ready to go, and I must say good-bye."

"Good-bye," Miss Dawson said, with a bright smile. "We shall meet again some day. I am glad you like the locket and chain."

"How I wish I had something to give you!" Mavis exclaimed.

"You have given me a great deal," Miss Dawson replied, in a low tone.

Then, as Mavis regarded her with wondering, questioning eyes, she said, "You have given me comfort, and reminded me that I am not setting out on a long journey without support from God. I shall remember that, I hope, now, and I'd nearly forgotten it. Good-bye, Mavis—little song-bird."

"Good-bye," Mavis responded, quite huskily.

She was surprised that she should feel so sad at saying good-bye to one who had been a stranger to her a short hour before; but it was so, and her eyes were dim with unshed tears as she followed her mother out of the room. In the hall, they met Mr. Dawson—a gentleman with rather an anxious-looking face—who spoke to Mavis very kindly and accompanied them to the door, where his private carriage was waiting to take them home.

"Remember Thursday week," he said impressively, as he closed the carriage door upon Mrs. Grey and Mavis.

Then he stood back, and the carriage moved off.

"Oh, mother!" cried Mavis. "Thursday week! And it's Tuesday now! Oh, it will be dreadfully soon!"