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.
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