"Will you let me drive you home?"
"No, thank you."
"Then you must let me walk with you."
"There's no necessity."
"I insist. London, at this time of night, isn't the place for a plain little girl like Mavis."
"Now you're talking sense."
"I wish I thought it," he remarked bitterly.
He paid the cabman and piloted Mavis through the fog to the other side of Regent Street; they then made for Piccadilly.
"Am I going right?" he asked.
"At present," she replied, to ask, after a moment or two, "Why are you so extravagant?"
"I'm not."
"That supper and keeping that cab waiting! It must have run into pounds."
"Eh! What if it did?"
"It's wicked. Just think of the good you could have done with it."
"Good? Who to?" he asked blankly.
"You've only to look about you. Don't you know of all the misery there is in the world?"
"To tell you the truth, I've never thought very much about it."
"Then you ought to."
"You think so?"
"Most certainly."
"Then I'll have to."
They were now in Piccadilly. The pavement on which they walked was crowded with women of all ages; some walked in pairs, others, singly. Whatever their age and appearance, all these women had two qualities in common—artificial complexions and bold, inviting eyes. It was the nightly market of the women of the town. This mart has much in common with any other market existing for the buying or selling of staple commodities. Amongst this assembly of women of all ages and conditions (many of whom were married), there were regular frequenters, who had been there almost from time immemorial; occasional dabblers; chance hucksterers: most were there compelled by the supreme necessity of earning a living; others displayed their wares in order to provide luxuries; whilst a few were present merely for the fun of an infrequent bargain. As at other marts, there were those who represented the interests of sellers, and extracted a commission for their pains on all sales effected by their principals. Also, most of the chaffering was negotiated over drink, to obtain which adjournment was made to the handiest bar.
This exchange was as subject to economic laws as ruthlessly as are all other markets. There were fat times, when money was plentiful; lean nights, when buyers were scarce or sellers suffered from over-supply. To complete the resemblance, this mart was sensibly affected by world events, political happenings, the robustness or weakness of other markets of industry.
Men of all ages swarmed on the pavement; some were buyers, others were attracted by the fun of the fair. The family parties which were occasionally to be met with, as they scurried home to remote suburbs, seemed sadly out of place in this seething collection of vicious men and women.
An over-dressed black woman was there, as if to prove, if proof were needed, the universality of sin.
As the procession of painted faces loomed out of the fog, it seemed to Mavis as if they were lost souls in the spume of the pit.
She drew closer to the man at her side. London, life itself, seemed to the girl's jangled nerves to be a concentrated horror, from which, so it now appeared, the man beside her was her only safeguard. He had certainly insulted her, she reflected; but his conduct was, perhaps, excusable under the circumstances in which he had found her. Directly he had learned his mistake, he had rescued her from further contact with infamy, and had been gentle with her. In return, she had been scarcely civil to him, and had told him a lie when he had asked her if she were his old playmate.
As she walked with him, she bitterly reproached herself for her falsehood; she also tried to hide from herself that her rudeness had been largely assumed in order to conceal her growing regard for him. It would seem another world when he was not at her side to protect her from possible harm.
As they passed Burlington House, a beggar whined his tale of woe in their ears. Mavis saw Windebank give the man something, the handsomeness of which made the recipient open his eyes. A flower-seller, who had witnessed the generous act, immediately pestered Windebank to buy of her wares, an example at once followed by others of her calling. He gave them all money, at which some of them forced their wired flowers upon him, whilst others overwhelmed him with thanks.
"Don't thank me," he protested, as he glanced towards Mavis, who was the recipient of countless blessings, mechanically uttered.
Beggars and loafers, with their keen scent for prey, were about him in less time than it takes to tell. He gave largely, generously; he was soon the centre of a struggling, unsavoury crowd, which was growing larger every minute.
"Whatever are you doing?" protested Mavis.
"Wasn't it your wish?" he asked.
"Not this. Please, please get me out and away."
The next moment, Windebank, dragging Mavis after him, was vigorously making a passage through those who surrounded them. Once he saw his way clear, he ran forward, still keeping hold of her, and dragged her up Bond Street. They were still followed by the more persistent of the loafers, but a friendly policeman came to their aid, enabling them to pursue their unmolested way down Piccadilly.
"It is good of you to let me stay with you all this time," he said presently.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"I'll see. Why, I've lost my watch!"
"Not really?"
"I suppose it was stolen just now."
"Stolen?"
"Yes, you can see where the chain is snapped."
"Can't we do something?"
"What's the use?"
"But it must be got back. If it isn't, I shall feel it's all my doing."
"How can that be? Don't talk rot."
"I talked you into giving money away, and—"
"If you say any more, I'll be very angry," he interrupted. "What's a watch!"
Although she made no further reference to the matter, she thought the more of the loss he had sustained, which was owing to the representations she had made upon his duty to the needy. His indifference to the theft of his property the more inclined her in his favour.
As they walked, he was full of kindly anxiety for her present and future welfare. His ardent sincerity filled her with self-reproaches, the while he continued to express concern for her well-being. Presently, when they were passing St George's Hospital, she said:
"I wish you wouldn't talk so much about myself."
"It's so interesting," he pleaded.
"Why not talk more about yourself?"
"Never mind me."
"But I do. What on earth time will you get to bed?"
"Any time. It doesn't matter."
"Won't you be tired in the morning?"
"I shouldn't notice. I should be thinking of you."
"Nonsense; you'll be thinking about breakfast. Where do you sleep?"
"When I'm up like this, at a hotel in Jermyn Street."
"Are you comfortable there?"
"I only sleep there. I breakfast at the club."
"Where's that?"
"We passed it on the way down."
"How you must have wanted to get away! Your coat's undone."
"What of it?"
"Do it up."
"But—"
"You'll take cold. Do it up or I'll leave you at once."
"Don't be so considerate," he said, as he obeyed her behest. "It isn't kind."
"Why not?"
"It makes me fonder—I mean like you ever so much."
When they reached Sloane Street, he remarked:
"Do let me drive you. It's a shame to make you walk. You must be quite tired out."
"I'll leave you and get a 'bus," she replied.
"And you won't give me your address?"
"No."
Although heavily laden 'buses were constantly passing, she made no pretence of stopping one; not because she had no money: she had forgotten for the time being that she was penniless. Her mind was a welter of emotion. She regretted her sudden tenderness in the matter of his unbuttoned overcoat; she reproached herself for not leaving him directly she had got away from Mrs Hamilton's; she knew she would never forgive him for having insulted her; the fact of his having kissed her lips seemed in some mysterious way to bind them together; she hated herself for having denied that she was Mavis Keeves. The many leanings of her mind struggled for precedence; very soon, concern for the lie that she had told the man, who it was now evident wished her well, possessed her to the exclusion of all else. She suffered tortures of self-reproach, which became all but unendurable.
Windebank, who had been walking between her and the curb, suddenly moved so that she was on the outside.
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"The wind. Little Mavis might take cold."
She could bear it no longer.
"Stop!" she cried.
He looked at her in surprise.
"I've something to tell you. I can't go on like this."
"What is it?" he asked, all concern.
"When you know, you'll never forgive me. I lied to you."
"Lied?"
"Yes, lied, lied, lied. But I can't let it go on. I hate myself for doing it. Why was I so wicked?"
"Give it up."
"My name. I told you a lie about it."
"Is that all?"
"Isn't that enough? I am Mavis Keeves. I am—"
"What?" he interrupted.
"I didn't like to confess it before. Don't, please don't think very badly of me."
"YOU—little Mavis after all?"
"Yes," she answered softly.
"What wonderful, wonderful luck! I can't believe it even now. You little Mavis! How did it all come about?"
"It's simple enough."
"Simple!" He laughed excitedly. "You call it simple?"
"Let me tell you. I was very miserable to-day and I prayed and—and—"
She could say no more; her overcharged feelings were such that they got the better of her self-control. Careless of what he might think, she leaned against him, as if for protection—leaned against him to weep bitter-sweet, unrestrained tears upon his shoulder.
"Poor little girl! Poor little Mavis!" he murmured.
The remark reinforced her tears.
The fog again enveloped them and seemed to cut them off from the observation of passers-by. It was as if their tenderness for each other had found an oasis in the wilderness of London's heartlessness.
Mavis wept unrestrainedly, contentedly, as if secure or sympathetic understanding. Although he spoke, she gave small heed to his words. She revelled in the unaccustomed luxury of friendship expressed by a man for whom she, already, had something in the nature of an affectionate regard.
Presently, when she became calmer, she gave more attention to what he was saying.
"You must give me your address and I'll write to my people at once," he said. "The mater will be no end of glad to see you again, and you must come down. I'll be down often and—and—Oh, little Mavis, won't it be wonderful, if all our lives we were to bless the day we met again?"
Although her sobs had ceased, she did not reply.
Two obsessions occupied her thoughts: one was an instinct of abasement before the man who had such a tender concern for her future; the other, a fierce pride, which revolted at the thought of her being under a possibly lifelong obligation to the man with whom, in the far-off days of her childhood, she had been on terms of economic equality. He produced his handkerchief and gently wiped her eyes. She did not know whether to be grateful for, or enraged at, this attention. The two conflicting emotions surged within her; their impulsion was a cause which threatened to exert a common effect, inasmuch as they urged her to leave Windebank.
This sentiment was strengthened by the reflection that she was unworthy of his regard. She had, of set purpose, lied to him, denied that she was the friend of his early youth. True, he had previously insulted her, but, considering the circumstances, he had every excuse for his behaviour. He certainly led a fast life, but, if anything, Mavis the more admired him for this symptom of virility; she also dimly believed that such conduct qualified him to win a wife who, in every respect, was above reproach. She was poor and friendless, she again reflected. Above all, she had lied to him. She was hopelessly unworthy of one who, in obedience to the sentimental whim she had inspired, seemed contemptuous of his future. She would be worse than she already was, if she countenanced a course of action full of such baleful possibilities for himself. Almost before she knew what she was doing, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, and snatched the violets he was wearing in his coat, before slipping away, to lose herself in the fog.
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