Enid was away again, staying for a few days with some friends or friends of the Salters; and during her absence her mother suffered from an unusual depression of spirits. In the shop it was noticed that Mrs. Thompson seemed, if not irritable, at least rather difficult to please; but all understood that she felt lonely while deprived of the young woman's society, and all sympathised with her. Assistants, who happened to meet her after closing time, taking a solitary walk outside the boundaries of the town, were especially sympathetic, and perhaps ventured to think that fashionable Miss Enid left her too much alone.

One evening after a blazing airless day, Dick Marsden, very carefully dressed in his neat blue serge, with his straw hat jauntily cocked, came swaggering through St. Saviour's Court, and attracted, as he passed, many feminine glances of admiration. The pretty housemaid from Adelaide Crescent ogled and languished; but he merely bowed and passed by. He could not waste his time with her to-night. There was bigger game on foot.

At the bottom of Frederick Street he hurried down the walled passage that leads to the railway embankment; thence through the vaultlike tunnel under the line, past the gas-works; over the iron bridge that spans the black water of the canal, and out into the open meadows.

These meadows, a broad flat between the canal and the river, belonged to the railway company; and almost every gate and post reminded one of their legal owners. Notices in metal frames somewhat churlishly announced that, "This gate will be closed and locked on one day in each year"; "There is no right of way here"; "The public, who are only admitted as visitors, will kindly act as visitors and refrain from damage, or the privilege will be withdrawn." The public, enjoying the privilege freely but not arrogantly, ranged about the pleasant fields, played foot-ball in winter, picked buttercups and daisies in spring, and even provided themselves with Corporation seats—to be removed at a moment's notice if the Corporation should be bidden to remove them. On warm summer evenings like this, the public were principally represented by lovers strolling in linked pairs, looking into each other's eyes, and making of the railway fields a road through dreamland to paradise.

Marsden walked swiftly across the parched grass, moving with strong light tread, and gazing here and there with clear keen vision. As he moved thus lightly and swiftly, looking so strong and yet so agile, he seemed a personification of masculine youth and vigour, the coarse male animal in its pride of brutal health. Or, if one merely noticed the catlike tread, so springy and easy in its muscular power, he might suggest the graceful yet fierce beast of prey who paces through failing sunlight and falling shadows in search of the inoffensive creature that he will surely destroy.

A solitary figure moving slowly between the trees by the river—Mr. Marsden hurried on.

"Good evening, Mrs. Thompson."—He took off his hat, and bowed very respectfully.

"Oh! Good evening, Mr. Marsden."

"You don't often come this way?"

"Oh, yes, I do," said Mrs. Thompson rather stiffly. "It is a favourite walk of mine."

"I venture to applaud your taste." And he pointed in the direction of the town. "Old Mallingbridge looks quite romantic from along here.... But the gas-works spoil the picture, don't they?"

The town looked pretty enough in the mellow evening glow. Beyond the railway embankment, where signal lamps began to show as spots of faint red and green, the clustered roofs mingled into solid sharp-edged masses, and the two church towers appeared strangely high and ponderous against the infinitely pure depths of a cloudless sky. Soon a soft greyness would rise from the horizon; indistinctness, vagueness, mystery would creep over the town and the fields, blotting out the ugly gas-works, hiding the common works of men, giving the world back to nature; but there would be no real night. In these, the longest days of the year, the light never quite died.

The colour of her blue dress and of the pink roses in her toque was clearly visible, as Mrs. Thompson and the young man walked on side by side. For a minute she politely made conversation.

"I have often wondered," she said, with brisk business-like tones, "what use the railway company will eventually make of all this land."

"Ah! I wonder."

"They would not have bought it unless they had some remote object in view; and they would not have held it if the object had vanished. Sensible people don't keep two hundred acres of land lying idle unless they have a purpose."

"No."

"It has often occurred to me—from what I have heard—that they will one day convert it into some sort of depot. There is nothing in the levels to prevent their doing so. The embankment is no height."

"I should think you have made a very shrewd guess."

"If that were to happen, the question would arise, Will it prove an injury or a benefit to the town?"

Then Mrs. Thompson ceased to make conversation; her manner became very dignified and reserved; and she carried herself stiffly—perhaps wishing to indicate by the slight change of deportment that the interview was now at an end.

But Marsden did not take the hint. He walked by her side, and soon began to talk about himself. An effort was made to check him when he entered on the subject of the great benefits that a kind hand had showered upon him, but presently Mrs. Thompson was listening without remonstrance to his voice. And her own voice, when in turn she spoke, was curiously soft and gentle.

"As this chance has come," he said humbly, "I avail myself of it. Though I could never thank you sufficiently, I have been longing for an opportunity to thank you somehow for the confidence you have reposed in me."

"I'm sure you'll justify it, Mr. Marsden."

"I don't know. I'm afraid you'll think not—when you hear the dreadful confession that I have to make."

Mrs. Thompson drew in her breath, and stopped short on the footpath.

"Mr. Marsden"—she spoke quite gently and kindly—"You really must not tell me about your private affairs. Unless your confession concerns business matters—something to do with the shop—I cannot listen to it."

"Oh, it only amounts to this—but I know it will sound ungrateful ... Mrs. Thompson, in spite of everything, of all you have done for me, I am not very happy down here."

"Indeed?" She had drawn in her breath again, and she walked on while she spoke. "Does that mean that you are thinking of leaving us?"

"Yes, I sometimes think of that."

"To better yourself?"

"Oh, no—I should never find such another situation."

"Then why are you discontented in this one?"

With the permission conveyed by her question, he described at length his queer state of mind—a man on whom fortune had smiled, a man with work that he liked, yet feeling restless and unhappy, feeling alone in the midst of a crowd, longing for sympathy, yearning for companionship.

"That's how I feel," he said sadly, after a long explanation.

Mrs. Thompson had been looking away from him, staring across the river. She held herself rigidly erect, and she spoke now in another voice, with a tone of hardness and coldness.

"I think I recognize the symptoms, Mr. Marsden. When a young man talks like this, the riddle is easy to guess."

"Then guess it."

"Well," she said coldly, "you force me to the only supposition. You are telling me that you have fallen in love."

"Yes."

She winced almost as if he had struck her; and then the parted lips closed, her whole face assumed a stonelike dignity.

"Tell me all about it, Mr. Marsden—since you seem to wish to."

"Love is a great crisis in a man's life. It generally makes him or breaks him forever."

"I hope that fate will read kindly—in your case."

"He either fears his fate too much or his deserts are small—But, Mrs. Thompson, I do fear my fate. It isn't plain-sailing for me. There are difficulties, barriers—it's all darkness before me."

"I hope you haven't made an injudicious choice."

"Yes, I have—in one way. Shall we sit down here? It is still very warm."

It was as though the heated earth panted for breath; no evening breeze stirred the leaves; the air was heavy and languorous. Mrs. Thompson seemed glad to sit upon the Corporation bench. She sank down wearily, leaned her back against the wooden support, and stared at the darkly flowing water.

"So difficult," he murmured. "So many difficulties." He looked behind him at the empty meadows, and up and down the empty path. Then he took off his hat, laid it on the seat beside him; and, bringing a silk handkerchief from his sleeve, wiped his forehead. "There are almost insurmountable barriers between us."

"Have you given your heart to some married woman? Is she not free to respond to your affections?"

"No, she was married, but she's free now.... And I think it amuses her to encourage me—and make me suffer." He had taken one of the hands that lay listlessly in the wide lap. "She is you."

Mrs. Thompson snatched her hand away, sprang up from the seat, and spoke indignantly.

"Mr. Marsden, have you gone out of your senses?"

"Yes, I think I have. And who's to blame? Who's driven me out of them?" He was standing close in front of her, barring the path. "Oh, I can't go on with all this deception. I lied to you just now. I knew you were coming here,—and I followed you. I felt I must once for all be with you alone."

"Not another word. I will not listen.... Oh!"

Suddenly he had seized her. Roughly and fiercely he flung his arms round her, forced her to him, and kissed her.

"Mr. Marsden!... Shame!... How dare you?... Let me go."

She was struggling in his arms, her head down, her two hands trying to keep him off. Her broad bosom panted, her big shoulders heaved; but with remorseless brutal use of his strength he held her tightly and closely against him.

"There," he said. "Don't fight. You'll have to go through it now.... You women think you can play the fool with a man—set all his blood on fire, and then tell him to behave himself."

"Mr. Marsden, let me go—or I shall die of shame."

"No you won't. Rot. D'you hear? Rot. You're a woman all through: and that face was made to be kissed—like this—like this.... There, this is my hour—"

"Will you let me go?"

"Yes, in a minute.... You'll dismiss me to-morrow, won't you? I'd better pack to-night. But I shall always go on loving you.... Oh, my goodness, what is my life to be without you?"

And suddenly he released her, dropped upon the seat, and buried his face in his hands.

She walked fast away—and then slowly returned. He was still sitting, with his head down, motionless.

"Mr. Marsden!... You have insulted me in the most outrageous manner—and the only possible excuse would be the absolute sincerity of the feelings that you have expressed so brutally. If I could for a moment believe—"

"Why can't you believe?"

"Because it is too absurd. I am no longer young—the mother of a girl old enough herself to marry."

"I don't want any pasty-faced girls. I want you."

He spoke without looking up at her, and his face remained hidden by his hands.

"If I sit down and talk to you quietly, will you promise that you won't begin again?"

"Yes."

"You give me your word of honour that you won't—won't touch me?"

"Oh, yes," he said dejectedly, "I promise."

"When you began just now, you implied—you accused me as if you thought I had been—encouraging you. But, Mr. Marsden, you must know that such an accusation is unjust and untrue."

"Is it? I don't think you women much care how you lead people on."

"But indeed I do care. I should be bitterly ashamed of myself if I was not certain that I had never given you the slightest encouragement."

"Oh, never mind. What does it matter? I have made a fool of myself—that's all. Love blinds a man to plain facts."

He had raised his head again, and was looking at her. They sat side by side, and the dusk began to envelope them so that their faces were white and vague.

"At the first," he went on, "I could see that it was hopeless. If social position didn't interfere, the money would prove a barrier there'd be no getting round. You are rich, and I am poor. At the first I saw how unhappy it was going to make me. I saw it was hopeless—most of all, because I'm not a man who could consent to pose as the pensioner of a rich wife.... But then I forgot—and I began to hope. Yes, I did really hope."

"What is it you hoped for?"

"Why, that chance would turn up lucky—that somehow I might be put more on an equality. Or that you would marry me in spite of all—that you'd come to think money isn't everything in this world, and love counts most of all."

"But, Mr. Marsden, how can I for one moment of time credit you with—with the love you will go on talking about?"

"Haven't I shown it to you?"

"I think—I am quite sure you are deceiving yourself. But nothing can deceive me. You mistake the chivalrous romantic feelings of youth for something far different."

"No, I don't mistake."

"The disparity in our years renders such a thing impossible. Between you and me, love—the real love—is out of the question."

"Yes, you can say that easily—because no doubt it's true on your side. If you felt for me what I feel for you—then it would be another story."

"But suppose I had been foolish enough to be taken with you, to let myself be carried away by your eloquence—which I believe was all acting!"

"Acting? That's good—that's devilish good."

"I say, suppose I had believed you—and yielded one day, don't you know very well that all the world would laugh at me?"

"Why?"

"Why—because, my dear boy, I'm almost old enough to be your mother—and I have done with love, and all that sort of thing."

"No, you haven't. You're just ripe for love—I felt that when I was kissing you."

Mrs. Thompson rose abruptly.

"I must go home.... Come;" and they walked side by side through the summer dusk towards the lamp-light of the town.

"This must never be spoken of again," she said firmly; and before they reached the last field gate, she had told him many times that her rejection of his suit was final and irrevocable. Hers was a flat deliberate refusal, and nothing could ever modify it.

"Yes," he said sadly, "it's hopeless. I knew it all along, in my secret heart—quite hopeless."

But she told him that if he promised never to think of it again, she would allow him to remain in the shop.

"Frankly, I would much rather you should go—But that would be a pity. It might break your career—or at least throw you too much on your own resources at a critical point. Stay—at any rate until you get a suitable opening."

"Your word is my law."

"Now leave me. I do not wish anyone to see us walking together."

He obeyed her; and she walked on without an escort, through the dark tunnel and into the lamp-light of Frederick Street.

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