Mavis was sick with happiness; she wondered what she had done to get so much allotted to her.  All her struggles to earn a living in London, the insults to which she had been subjected, the disquiet that had troubled her mind throughout the spring, were all as forgotten as if they had never been.  There was not a cloud upon the horizon of her joy.

As if to grasp her present ecstasy with both hands, she, with no inconsiderable effort, recalled all the more unhappy incidents in her life, to make believe that she was still enduring these, and that there was no prospect of escape from their defiling recurrence.  She then fell to imagining how envious she would be were she acquainted with a happy Mavis Keeves who, in three days’ time, was to belong, for all time, to the man of her choice.

It was with inexpressible joy that she presently permitted herself to realise that it was none other than she upon whom this great gift of happiness unspeakable had been bestowed.  The rapture born of this blissful realisation impelled her to seek expression in words.

“Life is great and noble,” she cried; “but love is greater.”

Every nerve in her body vibrated with ecstasy.  And in four days—­

Two letters, thrust beneath her door by Mrs Farthing, recalled her to the trivialities of everyday life.  She picked them up, to see that one was in the well-known writing of the man she loved; the other, a strange, unfamiliar scrawl, which bore the Melkbridge postmark.  Eager to open her lover’s letter, yet resolved to delay its perusal, so that she could look forward to the delight of reading it (Mavis was already something of an epicure in emotion), she tore open the other, to decipher its contents with difficulty.  She read as follows:—­

“Shaw house, Melkbridge.

“Madam,—­My son has told me of his intentions with regard to yourself.  This is to tell you that, if you persist in them, I shall withdraw the assistance I was on the point of furnishing in order to give him a new start in life.  It rests with you whether I do my utmost to make or mar his future.  For reasons I do not care to give, and which you may one day appreciate, I do what may seem to your unripe intelligence a meaningless act of cruelty.—­I remain, dear Madam, Your obedient servant,

“John VEZEY Perigal.”

The sun went out of Mavis’ heaven; the gorgeous hues faded from her life.  She felt as if the ground were cut from under her feet, and she was falling, falling, falling she knew not where.  To save herself, she seized and opened Perigal’s letter.

This told her that he knew the contents of his father’s note; that he was still eager to wed her as arranged; that they must meet by the river in the evening, when they could further discuss the situation which had arisen.