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Updated: June 20, 2025
Later, when they walked in the direction of Melkbridge, it seemed to Mavis as if she were talking to a friend of many years; he seemed to comprehend her so intimately that she felt wholly at home with him. He had changed into his flannel suit, which had been dried before the inn kitchen fire. He walked with his careless stride, his cap thrust into his pocket.
Memories of the long-drawn agony which had followed upon her boy's death crowded into her mind. Mavis hardened her heart. Upon a day on which the trees and hedges were again frocked in spring finery in honour of approaching summer, Mrs Devitt was sitting with her sister in the drawing-room of Melkbridge House.
"Let me hear about your romance and all the Melkbridge news," said Mavis, as she stopped her friend from pouring more cream upon her plate of strawberries. "Blow Melkbridge!" exclaimed Miss Toombs, her face hardening. "But I love it. I'm always thinking about it, and I'd give anything to go back there." "Eh!" "I said I'd give anything to be back there." "Rot!" "Why rot?"
This matter being settled, she asked for notepaper and envelope, on which she wrote to Mrs Farthing, asking her to be so good as to send Jill at once, and to be sure to let her know by what train she would arrive at Paddington. Mavis was careful to head the notepaper with the address of the academy; she did not wish anyone at Melkbridge to know her actual address.
Conversely, when she did not hear from Melkbridge for some days, she would be cheerful and light-hearted, when she would spend glad half-hours in reading the advertisements of houses to let and deciding which would suit her when she was married to Perigal.
"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."
Three weeks later was Whit Monday, a day which, being a holiday, she was able to devote to her own uses. She had planned to walk to the village of Preen, an ancient hamlet set upon a hill that overlooked Salisbury Plain, which was distant some five miles from Melkbridge; but, at the last moment, her distress of mind was such that she abandoned the excursion.
Then, in imagination, she found her way to a nook by the Avon at Melkbridge, a spot endeared to her heart by memories that she would never forget. As a child, she loved to steal there with her picture book; later, as a little girl, she would go there all alone, and, lying on her back, would dream, while her eyes followed the sun.
The man looked at her in surprise, at which Mavis explained how she had come from Melkbridge the day before. "At least you can give us your husband's address." "He's abroad," declared Mavis, with as much resolution as she could muster. "Then you might give me the address of your friends in Melkbridge." "To write to?" asked Mavis. "In case it should be necessary."
I, also, gather that your sudden departure from Melkbridge was in connection with this visit. As a strict moral rectitude is a sine qua non amongst those I employ, I must ask you to be good enough to resign your appointment. I enclose cheque for present and next week's salary. Truly yours, The faces about her faded from her view; the room seemed as if it were going round.
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