Four days later, Mavis spent the late afternoon with her baby and Jill in the grounds of Chelsea Hospital. She then took a 'bus to Ebury Bridge (Jill running behind), to get out here and walk to her lodging. As she went up Halverton Street, she noticed, in the failing light, a tall, soldierly looking man standing on the other side of the road. But the presence of men of military bearing, even in Halverton Street, was not sufficiently infrequent to call for remark. Mavis opened her door with the key and went to her room. Here, she fed her baby and ate something herself. When her boy fell asleep, Mavis left him in charge of Jill and went out to do some shopping. She had not gone far when she heard footsteps behind her, as if seeking to overtake her. Mavis, who was well used to being accosted by night prowlers, quickened her steps, but to no purpose: a moment or two later, someone touched her arm. She turned angrily, to see Windebank beside her. Her expression relaxed, to become very hard.
"Don't you know me?" he asked huskily.
She stopped, but did not reply. She recalled the man she had seen standing on the other side of the road, and whom she now believed to have been Windebank. If it were he, and he had been waiting to see her, he had undoubtedly seen her baby. Rage, self-pity at the realisation of her helplessness, defiance, desire to protect the good name of the loved one, filled her being. She walked for some moments in silence, he following.
"Are you very angry?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
The deep note of sincerity in his voice might have arrested her wrath. If anything, his emotion stimulated her anger.
"Why do, you take pleasure in spying on me?" she cried. "I always knew you were a beast."
"Eh! Oh, rot!" he replied.
"Why can't you leave me alone? You would if you knew how I hated you."
"Do you mean that?" he asked quietly.
"You shouldn't have spied on me."
"Don't be angry: at least not very. You wouldn't if you knew how I've longed to see you again, to find out what's become of you."
"You know now!" she exclaimed defiantly.
"And since I know, what is the use of your getting angry?"
"I hate meanness," cried Mavis.
"Eh!"
"Spying's meanness. It's hateful: hateful."
"So are fools," he cried, with a vehemence approaching hers.
She looked at him, surprised. He went on:
"I hate fools, and much, much as I think of you and much as you will always be to me, I can't help telling you what a fool you've been."
"Not so loud," urged Mavis. They had now reached the corner of much-frequented Lupus Street, where the man's emphatic voice would attract attention.
"I'll say what I please. And if I choose to tell you I think you a precious fool, nothing on earth shall stop me."
"That's right: insult me," remarked Mavis, who was secretly pleased at his unrestrained anger.
"'Insult' be hanged! You're an arrant, downright fool! You'd only to say the word to have been my wife."
"What an honour!" laughed Mavis, saying the first words which came into her head. The next moment she would have given much to have been able to recall them.
"For me," said Windebank gravely. "And I know I'd have made you happy."
"I believe you would," admitted Mavis, wishing to atone for her thoughtless remark.
As if moved by a common impulse, they crossed Lupus Street and sought the first quiet thoroughfare which presented itself. This happened to be Cambridge Street, along the shabby pretentiousness of which they walked for some minutes in silence, each occupied with their thoughts.
"How did you find out where I was?" she asked.
"Miss Toombs."
"You've seen her?"
"She sent me 'Halverton Street' written on a piece of paper. I guessed what it meant."
"You spoke to her before about me?"
"Yes. I was anxious to know what had become of you."
"You needn't have bothered."
"I couldn't help myself."
"You really, really cared?"
"A bit. And now I see what a fool you've been—-"
"It won't make any difference," she interrupted.
"What do you mean?" he asked quickly.
"It won't make any difference to me. I'm to be married any day now."
"What's that?" he asked quickly.
Mavis repeated her statement.
"To whom?"
"The man I love; whom else?"
"Are you counting on that?"
"Of course," she answered, surprised at the question.
She wondered what he could mean, but she could get no enlightenment from his face, which preserved a sphinx-like impenetrability.
"What are you thinking of?" she asked.
"How best to help you."
"I'm not in need of help: besides, I can take care of myself."
"H'm! Where were you going when I met you?"
"Shopping."
"May I come too?"
"It wouldn't interest you."
"How long can you spare?"
"Not long. Why?"
They had now reached the Wilton Road. By way of reply to her question, he elbowed her into one of the pretentious restaurants which lined the side of the thoroughfare on which they walked.
"I'm not hungry," she protested.
"Do as you're told," he replied, urging her to a table.
He called the waiter and ordered an elaborate meal to be brought with all dispatch. He then took off the light overcoat covering his evening clothes before joining Mavis, who was surprised to see how much older he was looking.
"What are you staring at?" he asked.
"You. Have you had trouble?"
"Yes," he replied, looking her hard in the eyes.
"I'm sorry," she remarked, dropping hers.
As if to leaven her previous ungraciousness, Mavis ate as much of the food as she could. She noticed, however, that, beyond sipping his wine, Windebank merely made pretence of eating: but for all his remissness with regard to his own needs, he was full of tender concern for her comfort.
"You're eating nothing," she presently remarked.
"Like our other meal in Regent Street."
She nodded reminiscently.
"You hadn't forgotten?"
"It was the night I left you in the fog."
"Like the little fool you were!"
She did not make any reply. He seemed preoccupied for the remainder of the meal, an absent-mindedness which was now and again interrupted by sparks of forced gaiety.
She wondered if he had anything on his mind. She had previously resolved to wish him good-bye when they left the restaurant; but, somehow, when they went out together, she made no objection to his accompanying her in the direction of Halverton Street, the reason being that she felt wholly at home with him; he seemed so potent to protect her; he was so concerned for her happiness and well-being. She revelled in the unaccustomed security which his presence inspired.
"What are you going to buy?" he asked, as they again approached Lupus Street.
"Odds and ends."
"You must let me carry them."
She smiled a little sadly, but otherwise made no reply to Windebank's suggestion. She was bent on enjoying to the full her new-found sensation of security. When they reached Lupus Street, she went into the mean shops to order or get (in either case to pay for) the simple things she needed. These comprised bovril, tea, bacon, sugar, methylated spirit, bread, milk, a chop, a cauliflower, six bottles of stout, and three pounds of potatoes. Whatever shop she entered, Windebank insisted on accompanying her, and, in most cases, quadrupled her order; in others, bought all kinds of things which he thought she might want. In any other locality, the sight of a man in evening dress, with prosperity written all over him, accompanying a shabbily-dressed girl, as Mavis then was, in her shopping, would have excited comment; but in Pimlico, anything of this nature was not considered at all out of the way.
Windebank, loaded with parcels, accompanied Mavis to the door of her lodging. Here, she opened the door, and in three or four journeys to her room relieved Windebank of his burdens. She was loth to let him go. Seeing that her baby was sleeping peacefully, she said to Windebank, when she joined him outside:
"I'll walk a little way with you."
"It's very good of you."
As they walked towards Victoria, neither of them seemed eager for speech. They were both oppressed by the realisation of the inevitable roads to which life's travellers are bound, despite the personal predilections of the wayfarers.
"Little Mavis! little Mavis! what is going to happen?" he presently asked.
"I'm going to be married and live happily ever after," she answered.
"I've had shocking luck. I mean with regard to you," he continued.
Mavis making no reply to this remark, he went on:
"But what I can't understand is, why you ran away that night when I got you out of Mrs Hamilton's."
"I escaped in the fog."
"But why? Why? Little Mavis! little Mavis! these things are much too sacred to play the fool with."
"I ran away out of consideration for you."
"Eh?"
"Why else should I? I didn't want you to burden your life with a nobody like me."
"Are you serious?"
She laughed bitterly.
"Well, I'm hanged!" he cried.
"It's no use worrying now."
"One can't altogether help it. Why hadn't you a better sense of your value? I'd have married you; I'd have lived for you, and I swear I'd have made you happy."
"I know you would," she assented.
"And now I find you like this."
"I'll be going back now."
"I'll turn with you if I may."
"You'll be late."
"I'll chance that," he laughed. "Months before I met you at Mrs Hamilton's, I heard about you from Devitt."
"What did he say?"
"It was just before you were going down to see him, from some school you were at, about taking a governess's billet. He told me of this, and I sent you a message."
"I never had it."
"Not really?"
"A fact. What was it?"
"I said that my people and myself were no end of keen on seeing you again and that we wanted you to come down and stay."
"You told him that?"
"One day in the market-place at Melkbridge. Afterwards, I often asked about you, if he knew your address and all that; but I never got anything out of him."
"But he knew all the time where I was. I don't understand."
"Little Mavis is very young."
"That's right: insult me," she laughed.
"Those sort of people with a marriageable daughter aren't going to handicap their chances by having sweet Mavis about the house."
"People aren't really like that!"
"Not a bit; they're as artless as you. My dear little Mavis, one 'ud think you'd never left the nursery."
"But I have."
"Curse it, you have! Why did you? Oh! why did you?"
"Do as I've done?"
"Yes. Why did you?"
"I loved him."
"Eh?"
"The only possible reason—I loved him."
"And if you'd loved me, you'd have done the same for me?"
"If you'd asked me."
"For me? For me?"
"If I loved you, and if you asked me."
"But that's just it. If a chap truly loves a girl, he'd rather die than injure a hair of her head. And if you loved me, my one idea would be to protect my darling little Mavis from all harm. Why—-"
He stopped. Mavis's face was drawn as if she were in great pain.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"How dare you? Oh, how dare you?"
"Dare I what?" he asked, much perplexed at her sudden anger.
"Insult the man I love. If what you say is true, it would mean he didn't truly love me. You lie! I tell you he does! You lie—you lie!"
"You're right," assented Windebank sadly, after a moment's thought. "You're quite right. I made a mistake. I ask everyone's pardon. How could any man fail to appreciate you?"
Much to his surprise, her anger soon abated. A not too convincing light-heartedness took the place of this stormy ebullition. If Windebank had been more skilled in the mechanism of a woman's heart, he would have promptly divined the girl's gaiety had been wilfully assumed, in order to conceal from herself the anxiety that Windebank's words, with reference to the proper conduct of a true lover, had inspired. By the time they had reached her door, she had expended her fund of forced gaiety; she was again the subdued Mavis whom trouble had fashioned. She thanked Windebank many times for his kindness; although she was tired, she was in no mood to leave him. She liked the restfulness that she discovered in his company; also, she dreaded to-night the society of her own thoughts.
They were now standing in the street immediately outside the door of her lodging. They had been silent for some moments. Mavis regretfully realised that he must soon leave her.
"Will you do me a favour?" he asked suddenly.
She looked up inquiringly.
"May I see—-?" he continued softly. "May I see—-?"
"My boy?" she asked, divining his wish.
She thought for a moment before slipping into the house. A little later, she came out carrying the sleeping baby in her arms. Mavis's heart inclined to Windebank for his request; at the same time, she knew well that, were she a man, and in his present situation, she would not be the least interested in the loved woman's child, whose father was a successful rival.
Windebank uncovered the little one's face. He looked at it intently for a while. He then bent down to kiss the baby's forehead.
"God bless you, little boy!" he murmured. "God bless you and your beautiful mother!"
He then covered the baby's face, and walked quickly away in the direction of Victoria.
That night, Mavis saw dawn touch the eastern sky with light before she slept. She lay awake, wondering at and trying to resolve into coherence the many things which had gone to the shaping of her life. What impressed her most was that so many events of moment had been brought about by trivial incidents to which she had attached no importance at the time of their happening. Strive as she might, she could not hide from herself how much happier would have been her lot if she had loved and married Windebank. It also seemed to her as if fate had done much to bring them together. She recalled, in this connection, how she again met this friend of her early youth at Mrs Hamilton's, of all places, where he had not only told her of the nature of the house into which she had been decoyed, but had set her free of the place. Then had followed the revelation of her hitherto concealed identity, a confession which had called into being all his old-time, boyish infatuation for her. To prevent possible developments of this passion for a portionless girl from interfering with his career, she had left him, to lose herself in the fog. If her present situation were a misfortune, it had arisen from her abnormal, and, as it had turned out, mischievous consideration for his welfare. But scruples of the nature which she had displayed were assuredly numbered amongst the virtues, and to arrive at the conclusion that evil had arisen from the practice of virtue was unthinkable. Such a sorry sequence could not be; God would not permit it.
Mavis's head ached. Life to her seemed an inexplicable tangle, from which one fact stood out with insistent prominence. This, that although Windebank's thoughtless words about the safety of a woman with the man who truly loved her had awakened considerable apprehension in her heart, she realised how necessary it was to trust Perigal even more (if that were possible) than she had ever done before. He was her life, her love, her all. She trusted and believed in him implicitly. She was sure that she would love him till the last moment of her life. With this thought in her heart, with his name on her lips, the while she clutched Perigal's ring, which Miss Toombs's generosity had enabled her to get out of pawn, she fell asleep.
The first post brought two letters. One was from Miss Toombs's business acquaintance, offering her a berth at twenty-eight shillings a week; the other was from Montague Devitt, confirming the offer he had made Mavis at Paddington. Devitt's letter told her that she could resume work on the following Monday fortnight. It did not take Mavis the fraction of a second to decide which of the two offers she would accept. She sat down and wrote to Mr Devitt to thank him for his letter; she said that the would be pleased to commence her duties at the time suggested. The question of where and how she was to lodge her baby at Melkbridge, and, at the same time, avoid all possible risk of its identity being discovered, she left for future consideration. She was coming back from posting the letter, when she was overtaken by Windebank, who was driving a superb motor car. He pulled up by the kerb of the pavement on which she was walking.
"Good morning," he cried cheerily. "I was coming to take you out."
"Shopping?" she asked.
"To have a day in the country. Jump in and we'll drive back for the youngster."
"It's very kind of you, but—-"
"There are no 'buts.' I insist."
"I really mustn't go," said Mavis, thinking longingly of the peace of the country.
"But you must. Remember you've someone else to think of besides yourself."
"You?"
"The youngster. A change to country air would do him no end of good."
"Do you really think it would?" asked Mavis, hesitating before accepting his offer.
"Think! I know. If you don't want to come, it's your duty to sacrifice yourself for the boy's health."
This decided Mavis. Less than an hour later, they were driving in the cool of Surrey lanes, where the sweet air and the novelty of the motion brought colour to Mavis's cheeks.
They lunched at a wayside inn, to sit, when the simple meal was over, in the garden where the air was musical with bees.
"This is peace," exclaimed Mavis, who was entranced with the change from dirty, mean Pimlico.
"As your life should always be, little Mavis."
"It is going to be."
"But what are you going to do till this marriage comes off?"
Mavis told him how it was arranged that she was soon to commence work at Melkbridge. Much to her surprise and considerably to her mind's disquiet, Windebank hotly attempted to dissuade her from this course. He urged a variety of reasons, the chief of which was the risk she ran of the fact of her motherhood being discovered. But he might as well have talked to Jill, who accompanied the party. Mavis's mind was made up. The obstacles he sought to put in her way, if anything, strengthened her determination. One concession, however, he wrung from her—this, that if ever she were in trouble she would not hesitate to seek his aid. On the return home in the cool of the evening, Windebank asked if he could secure her better accommodation than where she now lived until she left for Wiltshire. Mavis would not hear of it, till Windebank pointed out that her child's health might be permanently injured by further residence in unwholesome Halverton Street. Before Mavis fell in with his request, she stipulated that she was not to pay more than a pound a week for any rooms she might engage. When she got back, she was overwhelmed with inquiries from Lil, the girl upstairs, with reference to "the mug" whom she (Mavis) had captured. But Mavis scarcely listened to the girl's questions; she was wondering why, first of all, Miss Toombs and then Windebank should be against her going to Melkbridge. Her renewed faith in Perigal prevented her from believing that any act of his was responsible for their anxiety in the matter. She could only conclude that they believed that in journeying to Melkbridge, as she purposed, she ran a great risk of her motherhood being discovered.
The next morning, Mavis set about looking for the new rooms which she had promised Windebank to get. Now she could afford to pay a reasonable price for accommodation, she was enabled to insist upon good value for the money. The neat appearance of a house in Cambridge Street, which announced that lodgings were to let, attracted her. A clean, white-capped servant showed her two comfortably furnished rooms, which were to let at the price Mavis was prepared to pay. She learned that the landlady was a Mrs Taylor. Upon asking to see her, a woman, whose face still displayed considerable beauty, glided into the room.
Mrs Taylor spoke in a low, sweet voice; she would like to accommodate Mavis, but she had to be very, very particular: one had to be so careful nowadays. Could Mavis furnish references; failing that, would Mavis tell her what place of worship she attended? Mavis referred Mrs Taylor to Miss Toombs at Melkbridge and Mrs Scatchard at North Kensington, which satisfied the landlady. When, twenty-four hours later, Mavis moved in, she found that Windebank had already sent in a profusion of wines, meats, fruit and flowers for her use. She was wishing she could send them back, when Mrs Taylor came into her sitting-room with her hands to her head.
Upon Mavis asking what was amiss, she learned that Mrs Taylor had a violent headache and the only thing that did her any good was champagne, which she could not possibly afford. Mavis hastened to offer Mrs Taylor a bottle of the two dozen of champagne which were among the things that Windebank had sent in.
Under the influence of champagne, Mrs Taylor became expansive. She had already noted the abundance with which Mavis was surrounded.
"Have you a gentleman friend, dear?" she presently asked in her soft, caressing voice.
"I have one very dear friend," remarked Mavis, thinking of Windebank.
"I hope you're very careful," remarked Mrs Taylor.
"What do you mean?"
"Excuse my mentioning it, but gentlemen will be gentlemen where a pretty girl is concerned."
"Thank you, but I am quite, quite safe," replied Mavis hotly. "And do you know why?"
Mrs Taylor shook her auburn head.
"I'll tell you. It's because he loves me more than anything else in the world. And, therefore, I'm safe," she declared proudly.
On the following Sunday fortnight, Mavis left the train at Dippenham quite late in the evening. She purposed driving with her baby and Jill in a fly the seven miles necessary to take her to Melkbridge. She choose this means of locomotion in order to secure the privacy which might not be hers if she took the train to her destination.
During the last few days, her boy had not enjoyed his usual health; he had lost appetite and could not sleep for any length of time. Mavis believed the stuffy atmosphere of Pimlico to be responsible for her baby's ailing; she had great hopes of the Melkbridge air effecting an improvement in his health.
She had travelled down in a reserved first-class compartment, which Windebank, who had seen her off at Paddington, had secured. He had only been a few minutes on the platform, as he had to catch the boat train at Charing Cross, he being due at Breslau the following day, to witness the German army manoeuvres on a special commission from the War Office.
Mavis had seen much of him during her stay at Mrs Taylor's. At all times, he had urged upon Mavis the inadvisability of going to Melkbridge. He was so against this contemplated proceeding that he had vainly offered to settle money on her if only it would induce her to forego her intention. Miss Toombs had by letter joined her entreaties to Windebank's. She pointed out that if Mavis brought her child to Melkbridge, as she purposed doing, it was pretty certain that its identity would be discovered. But Windebank pleaded and Miss Toombs wrote to no purpose. Before Windebank had said good-bye at Paddington, he again made Mavis promise that she would not hesitate to communicate at once with him should she meet with further trouble.
The gravity with which he made this request awakened disquiet in her mind, which diminished as her proximity to Melkbridge increased. Impatient to lessen the distance that separated her from her destination, she quickly selected a fly. A porter helped the driver with her luggage; she settled herself with her baby and Jill, and very soon they were lumbering down the ill-paved street. Her mind was so intent on the fact of her increasing nearness to the loved one, that she gave but a passing remembrance to the occasion of her last visit to Dippenham, when she had met Perigal after letting him know that she was about to become a mother. Her eyes strained eagerly from the window of the fly in the direction of Melkbridge. She was blind, deaf, indifferent to anything, other than her approaching meeting with her lover, which she was sure could not long be delayed now she had come to live so near his home. She was to lodge with her old friend Mrs Trivett, who had moved into a cottage on the Broughton Road.
Mavis had written to tell Mrs Trivett the old story of her fictitious marriage; she had, also, stated that for the present she wished this fact, together with the parentage of her child, to be kept a strict secret. Mavis little recked the risk she ran of discovery. She was obsessed by the desire to breathe the Melkbridge air. She believed that her presence there would in some way or other make straight the tangle into which she had got her life. The fly had left Dippenham well behind, and was ambling up and down the inclines of the road. Mavis looked out at the stone walls which, in these parts, take the place of hedgerows: she recognised with delight this reminder that she was again in Wiltshire. Four miles further, she would pass a lodge gate and the grounds of Major Perigal's place. She might even catch a glimpse of the house amongst the trees as she passed. As the miles were wearily surmounted and the dwelling of the loved one came ever nearer, Mavis's heart beat fast with excitement. She continually craned her neck from the window to see if the spot she longed to feast her eyes upon were in sight. When it ultimately crept into view, she could scarcely contain herself for joy. She caught up her baby from the seat to hold him as high as it was possible in order that he might catch a glimpse of his darling daddy's home.
The baby arms were hot and dry to the touch, but Mavis was too intent on looking eagerly across the expanse of park to notice this just now. Many lights flashed in her eyes, to be hidden immediately behind trees. Her lover's home was unusually illuminated to-night—unusually, because, at other times, when she had passed it, only one or two lights had been visible, Major Perigal living the life of a recluse who disliked intercourse with his species. Half an hour later, Mavis was putting her baby to bed at Mrs Trivett's. His face was flushed, his eyes staring and wide awake; but Mavis put down these manifestations to the trying journey from town. She went downstairs to eat a few mouthfuls with Mr and Mrs Trivett before returning to his side. She found them much altered; they had aged considerably and were weighted with care. Music teaching in Melkbridge was a sorry crutch on which to lean for support. During the short meal, neither husband nor wife said much. Mavis wondered if this taciturnity were due to any suspicions they might entertain of Mavis's unwedded state. But when Mrs Trivett came upstairs with her, she sat on the bed and burst into tears.
Upon Mavis asking what was amiss, Mrs Trivett told her that they were overwhelmed with debt and consequent difficulties to such an extent, that they did not know from one day to another if they would continue to have a roof over their heads. She also told Mavis that her coming as a lodger had been in the nature of a godsend, and that she had returned to Melkbridge upon the anniversary of the day on which her husband had commenced his disastrous tenancy of Pennington Farm.
Mavis slept little that night. Her baby was restless and wailed fitfully throughout the long hours, during which the anxious mother did her best to comfort him. Mavis made up her mind to call in a doctor if he were not better in the morning. When she was dressing, the baby seemed calmer and more inclined to sleep, therefore she had small compunction in leaving him in Mrs Trivett's motherly arms when, some two hours later, she left the Broughton Road for the boot factory. Miss Toombs was already at the office when she got there. Mavis scarcely recognised her friend, so altered was she in appearance. Dark rings encircled her eyes; her skin was even more pasty than was its wont. Mavis noticed that when her friend kissed her, she was trembling.
"What's the matter, dear?" asked Mavis.
"Indigestion. It's nothing at all."
The two friends talked quickly and quietly till Miss Hunter joined them. Beyond giving Mavis the curtest of nods, this young person took no notice of her.
Mavis was more grateful than otherwise for Miss Hunter's indifference; she had feared a series of searching questions with regard to all that had happened since she had been away from Melkbridge.
Miss Toombs's appearance and conduct at meeting with Mavis was not the only strange behaviour which she displayed. When anyone came into the office, she seemed in a fever of apprehension; also, when anyone spoke to Mavis, her friend would at once approach and speak in such a manner as to send them about their business as soon as possible. Mavis wondered what it could mean.
Her boy did not seem quite so well when she got back to Mrs Trivett's for the midday meal. During the afternoon's work, her anxiety was such that she could scarcely concentrate her attention on what she was doing. When she hurried home in the evening, the boy was decidedly worse; there was no gainsaying the seriousness of his symptoms. Every time Mavis tried to make him take nourishment, he would cry out as if it hurt him to swallow.
Mrs Trivett, who had had much experience with the ailments of a sister's big family, feared that the baby was sickening for something. Mavis would have sent for a doctor at once, but Mrs Trivett pointed out that doctors could do next to nothing for sick babies beyond ordering them to be kept warm and to have nourishment in the shape of two drops of brandy in water every two hours; also, that if it were necessary to have skilled advice, the doctor had better be sent for when Mavis was at the boot factory; otherwise, he might ask questions bearing on matters which, just now, Mavis would prefer not to make public. Mrs Trivett had much trouble in making the distraught mother appreciate the wisdom of this advice. She only fell in with the woman's views when she reflected, quite without cause, that the doctor's inevitable questioning might, in some remote way, compromise her lover. Late in the evening, when it was dark, Miss Toombs came round to see how matters were going.
"It's all your fault, foolish Mavis, for coming to Melkbridge," she remarked, when Mavis had told her of her perplexities.
"But how was I to know?"
"The only way to have guarded against complications was to keep away altogether. I suppose you wouldn't go even now?"
"He's much too ill to move. Besides—-"
"Will you go when he's better, if I tell you something?"
"What?" asked Mavis, seriously alarmed by the deadly earnestness of her friend's manner.
"Miss Hunter!"
"What of her?"
"First tell me, where was it you went for your—your honeymoon?"
"Polperro. Why?"
"That's one of the places she's been to."
"And you think—-?"
"Her manner's so funny. And you wondered why I was so jolly keen on your not coming to Melkbridge!"
"I thought—I hoped my troubles were at an end," murmured Mavis.
"Whatever happens, you can rely on me till the death—when it's after dark."
"What do you mean?" asked Mavis.
"Why, that much, much as I love you, I'm not going to risk the loss of my winter fire, hot-water bottles, and books, for getting mixed up in any scrape pretty Mavis gets herself into."
The next morning Mavis went to business in a state bordering on distraction. The baby was not one whit better, and even hopeful Mrs Trivett had shaken her head sadly. But she had pointed out that Mavis could not help matters by remaining at home; she also promised to send for a doctor should the baby's health not improve in the course of the morning. Mavis was so distraught that she stared wildly at the one or two people she chanced to meet, who, knowing her, seemed disposed to stop and speak. She wondered if she should let her lover know the disquieting state of his son's health. So far, she had not told him of her coming to Melkbridge, wishing the inevitable meeting to come as a delightful surprise. When she got to the office, she found a long letter from Windebank, which she scarcely read, so greatly was her mind disturbed. She only noted the request on which he was always insisting, namely, that she was at once to communicate with him should she find herself in trouble.
When she got back at midday, she found that, the baby being no better, Mrs Trivett had sent her husband for a doctor who had recently come to Melkbridge; also, that he had promised to call directly after lunch. With this information, Mavis had to possess herself in patience till she learned the doctor's report. That afternoon, the moments were weighted with leaden feet. Three o'clock came; Mavis was beginning to congratulate herself that, if the doctor had pronounced anything seriously amiss with her child, Mrs Trivett would not have failed to communicate with her, when a boy came into the office to ask for Miss Keeves.
She jumped up excitedly, and the boy put a note into her hand. A faintness overwhelmed her so that she could hardly find strength with which to tear open the missive. When she finally did so, she read: "Come at once, much trouble," scrawled in Mrs Trivett's writing.
Mavis, scarcely knowing what she was doing, reached for her hat, the while Miss Toombs watched her with sympathetic eyes. At the same time, one of the factory foremen came into the office and put an envelope into Mavis's hand. She paid no attention to this last beyond stuffing it into a pocket of her frock. Her one concern was to reach the Broughton Road with as little delay as possible. Once outside the factory, she closely questioned the boy as he ran beside her, but he could tell her nothing beyond that Mrs Trivett had given him a penny to bring Mavis the note. When Mavis, breathless and faint, arrived at Mrs Trivett's gate, she saw two or three people staring curiously at the cottage. She all but fell against the door, and was at once admitted by Mrs Trivett.
"The worst! Let me know the worst!" gasped the terror-stricken girl.
Mavis was told that her baby was ill with diphtheria; also, that a broker's man was in possession at Mrs Trivett's.
"Will he get over it?" was Mavis's next question.
"It's for a lot of money. It's just on thirty pounds."
"I mean my boy."
"The doctor has hopes. He's coming in again presently."
Mavis hurried to the stairs leading to her bedroom. As she went up these, she brushed against a surly-looking man who was coming down. She rightly judged him to be the man in possession. She found the little sufferer stretched upon his bed of pain with wildly dilating eyes; it wrung Mavis's heart to see what difficulty he had with his breathing. If she could only have done something to ease her baby's sufferings, she would have been better able to bear the intolerable suspense. She realised that she could do nothing till the doctor paid his next visit. But she had forgotten; one thing she could do: she could pray for divine assistance to the Heavenly Father who was able to heal all earthly ills. This she did. Mavis prayed long and earnestly, with words that came from her heart. She told Him how she had endured pain, sorrow, countless debasing indignities without murmuring; if only in consideration of these, she begged that the life of her little one might be spared.
Whilst thus engaged, Mavis heard a tap at the door. She got up impatiently as she called to whomsoever it might be to enter.
Mrs Trivett came in with many apologies for disturbing Mavis. She then told her lodger that the broker's man was aware of the illness from which Mavis's baby was suffering; also that, as he was a family man, he objected to being in a house where there was a contagious disease, and that, if the child were not removed to the local fever hospital by the evening, he would inform the authorities. Mrs Trivett's information spelt further trouble for Mavis. Apart from her natural disinclination to confide her dearly loved child to the care of strangers, she saw a direct menace to herself should the man carry out his threat of insisting on the removal of the child. Montague Devitt was much bound up with the town's municipal authorities. In this capacity, it was conceivable that he might discover the identity of the child's mother; failing this, her visits to the hospital to learn the child's progress would probably excite comment, which, in a small town like Melkbridge, could easily be translated into gossip that must reach the ears of the Devitt family. The cloud of trouble hung heavily over Mavis.
"Can't—can't anything be done?" she asked desperately.
"It's either the hospital or paying the broker."
"How much is it?"
"Twenty-nine pounds sixteen."
"That's easily got," remarked Mavis. "At once?" asked Mrs Trivett, as her worn face brightened.
"I don't suppose I could get it till the morrow. It would be then too late?"
"But if you're sure of getting it, something might be arranged."
"Would the man take my word?"
"No. But he might know someone who would lend the money in a way that would be convenient."
"See him at once. Find out if anything can be done," urged the distracted mother.
Five minutes later, whilst Mavis was waiting in suspense, Mrs Trivett came up to say that the doctor had come again. Mavis had no time to ask her landlady what she had done with the broker's man, as the doctor came into the room directly after he had been announced. He was quite a young doctor, on whom the manners of an elderly man sat incongruously. He glanced keenly at Mavis as he bowed to her; then, without saying a word, he fell to examining the child's throat.
"Well?" asked Mavis breathlessly, when he had satisfied himself of its condition.
"I must ask you a few questions," replied the doctor.
"What do you wish to know?" she asked with anxious heart.
He asked her much about the baby's place of birth, subsequent health and diet.
When Mavis told him of the Pimlico supplied milk, which she had sterilised herself, he shook his head.
"That accounts for the whole trouble," he remarked. "You should have fed him yourself."
"It didn't agree with him, and then it went away," Mavis told him.
"Ah, you had worry?"
"A bit. Do you think he'll pull through?"
"I'll tell you more to-night," he informed her.
Mavis attracted men. The doctor, not being blind to her fascinations, was not indisposed to linger for a moment's conversation, after he had treated the baby's throat, during which Mavis thought it necessary to tell him the old story of the husband in America who was preparing a home for her.
"Some chap's been low enough to land that charming girl with that baby," thought the doctor as he walked home. "She's as innocent as they make 'em, otherwise she wouldn't have told me that silly husband yarn. If she were an old hand, she'd have kept her mouth shut."
Meanwhile, Mavis had been summoned downstairs to a conference, in which the broker's man (his name was Gunner), Mrs Trivett, and a man named Hutton, whom Mr Trivett had fetched, took part.
Mavis was informed that Mr Hutton would lend her the money needed to get rid of Mr Gunner's embarrassing presence, for which she was to pay two pounds interest, if repaid in a month, and eight pounds interest a year during which the capital sum was being repaid by monthly instalments.
"I will telegraph to Germany," said Mavis. "You shall have the money next week at latest."
Mr Hutton wanted guarantees; failing these, was Mavis in any kind of employment?
Mavis told him how she was employed by Mr Devitt.
The man opened his eyes. Had the lady proof of this statement?
Mavis thrust her hand into her pocket, believing she might find the letter which Montague Devitt had written to Pimlico. She brought out, instead, the letter the foreman had put into her hand when she was leaving in reply to Mrs Trivett's summons. The envelope of this was addressed in Mr Devitt's hand.
"Here's a letter from him here," declared Mavis, as she tore it open to glance at its contents before passing it on to Hutton.
But the glance hardened into a look of deadly seriousness as her eyes fell on what was written. She re-read the letter two or three times before she grasped its import.