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When she definitely awoke, she determined on one thing, that, unless pressed by circumstances, she would not ask the Devitts for help. The old ladies were already down when she went in to breakfast. Miss Annie, directly she saw Mavis, took up a letter that she had laid beside her plate.
It was not so very long ago that her ambition was in some way bound up with the romantic fancies which she was then so fond of weaving. Now, the prospect of again having to fight for the privilege of bread-winning drove all thought from her mind beyond this one desire to keep afloat without exhibiting signals of distress to the Devitts.
"Scarcely a pure-minded girl," she said to herself, unconscious of the fact that there is nothing so improper as the thoughts implied by propriety. It was not a very pleasant time for Mavis. Although the luncheon was a good meal, and served in a manner to which she had been unaccustomed for many years, she did not feel at home with the Devitts.
Everyone at Melkbridge knew the Devitts: they lived in the new, pretentious-looking house, standing on the right, a few minutes after one left the town by the Bathminster road. It was a blustering, stare-one-in-the-face kind of house, which defied one to question the financial stability of its occupants.
The more Montague saw of her the more he disliked his son-in-law's share in the paternity of Mavis's dead child. Now and again he would discuss business worries with her, which established a community of interest between them. His friendship gave Mavis confidence in her endeavours to placate the female Devitts.
Mavis's audience were uncomfortable; it was an axiom of their existence to shy at any expression of emotion. The Devitts longed for the appearance of the fat butler, who would announce that dinner was served. But to-night his coming was delayed till Mavis had spoken. "Chance threw Harold in my way," she went on.
Mention of the name of Devitt was the spark that set alight a raging conflagration in her being. She had lost a happy married life with Windebank, to be as she now was, entirely owing to the Devitts. Now it was all plain enough so plain that she wondered how she had not seen it before.
Harold, alone among the Devitts, exhibited frank dismay at his wife's good fortune. "Aren't you glad, dearest?" asked Mavis. "For your sake." "Why not for yours?" "It's the thing most likely to separate us." "Separate us!" she cried in amazement. "Why not? This money will put you in the place in life you are entitled to fill." Mavis stared at him in astonishment.
It may be as well to state that Harold plays a considerable part in this story, which is chiefly concerned with a young woman, of whom the assembled Devitts were speaking in the interval between tea and dinner on a warm July day. Their efforts, so far, had only taken them to certain halfway houses on their road.
Mavis's confession to the Devitts temporarily eased her mind, but, as her husband's solicitude for her happiness redoubled, her torments recommenced with all their old-time persistency. Harold's declining health gave her innumerable anguished hours; she realised that, so long as he lived, she would suffer for the deception she had practised.
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