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Updated: May 24, 2025
He would have shown her into a room, but she preferred to wait in the hall, which, just now, was littered with trunks. "I think he's with Mr Harold," said the man, as he walked to a door at the further end of the hall. The trunk labels were written in a firm, bold hand, which caught Mavis's eye. "Harold Devitt, Esq., Homeleigh, Swanage, Dorset," was the apparent destination of the luggage.
With this advice Mrs Devitt had to be content, but for all the comfort it may have contained it was a long time before husband or wife fell asleep that night. But even the short period of twenty-four hours is enough to accustom people to trouble sufficiently to make it tolerable. When this time had passed, Mrs Devitt's mind was well used to the news which yesterday afternoon's post had brought.
Once upon a time, its name-plate had decorated the gates of a stately old mansion in the Fulham of many years ago; here it was that Mrs Devitt, then Miss Hilda Spraggs, had been educated.
It was an achievement to jump this stretch of water; Harold Devitt was renowned amongst the youth of the neighbourhood for the performance of this feat. He constantly repeated the effort, but did it once too often. One July morning, he miscalculated the distance and fell, to be picked up some while after, insensible. He had injured his spine.
She gave up her ticket, and looked about her, thinking that very likely she would be met, if not by a member of the Devitt family, by some conveyance; but, beyond the station 'bus and two or three farmers' gigs, there was nothing in the nature of cart or carriage.
"I did nothing of the kind, and you know it," she cried. "If you wish to know, I'm employed by Mr Devitt, and should probably have stayed here for years. If you can't see at a glance what I am, all I can say is that you've been used to a tenth-rate lot of lodgers." Mrs. Farthing capitulated. "Wouldn't you like to see the bedroom?" "If you don't ask any more silly questions."
"Harold had wired for him. I wondered if anythin' was up." "What should be 'up, as you call it, beyond his being either better or worse?" "That's what I want to know." "What do you mean?" "Why, that it was more from Pritchett's manner than from anything else that I gathered somethin' had happened." "So long as he's well, there's nothing to worry about," said Mrs Devitt reassuringly.
Letters arrived from Miss Toombs, Perigal, Windebank, and Montague Devitt, Mavis did not open them; they accumulated on the table on which lay her untasted food. The night came when Mavis was compelled to take a last farewell of her loved one. She looked at his still form with greedy, dry eyes, which never flinched.
"Mrs Devitt?" "Noa. Her." "The housekeeper?" "Noa. The trap. Mebbe your eyes hain't so 'peart' as mine." The grating of wheels called her attention to the fact that a smart, yellow-wheeled dogcart had been driven into the station yard by a man in livery. "Be you Miss Keeves, miss?" asked the servant. "Yes." "Then you're for Melkbridge House. Please get in, miss."
This big gun was a Sir Frederick Buntz, whose interest Devitt, as he told Mavis, was anxious to secure in one of his company-promoting schemes. In order to do Devitt a good turn, Mavis laid herself out to please the elderly Sir Frederick, who happened to have an eye for an attractive woman.
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