Mavis Argles
Vincy had the reputation of spending his fortune with elaborate yet
careful lavishness, buying nothing that he did not enjoy, and giving
away everything he did not want. At the same time his friends
occasionally wondered on what he _did_ spend both his time and his
money. He was immensely popular, quite sought after socially; but he
declined half his invitations and lived a rather quiet existence in the
small flat, with its Oriental decorations and violent post-impressions
and fierce Chinese weapons, high up in Victoria Street. Vincy really
concealed under an amiable and gentle exterior the kindest heart of any
man in London. There was 'more in him than met the eye,' as people say,
and, frank and confidential as he was to his really intimate friends,
at least one side of his life was lived in shadow. It was his secret
romance with a certain young girl artist, whom he saw rarely, for
sufficient reasons. He was not devoted to her in the way that he was to
Edith, for whom he had the wholehearted enthusiasm of a loyal friend,
and the idolising worship of a fanatic admirer. It was perhaps Vincy's
nature, a little, to sacrifice himself for anyone he was fond of. He
spent a great deal of time thinking out means of helping materially the
young art-student, and always he succeeded in this object by his
elaborate and tactful care. For he knew she was very, very poor, and
that her pride was of an old-fashioned order--she never said she was
hard up, as every modern person does, whether rich or poor, but he knew
that she really lacked what he considered very nearly--if not
quite--the necessities of life.
Vincy's feeling for her was a curious one. He had known her since she
was sixteen (she was now twenty-four). Yet he did not trust her, and
she troubled him. He had met her at a studio at a time when he had
thought of studying art seriously. Sometimes, something about her
worried and wearied him, yet he couldn't do without her for long. The
fact that he knew he was of great help to her fascinated him; he often
thought that if she had been rich and he poor he would never wish to
see her again. Certainly it was the touch of pathos in her life that
held him; also, of course, she was pretty, with a pale thin face, deep
blue eyes, and rich dark red frizzy hair that was always coming
down--the untidy hair of the art-student.
He was very much afraid of compromising her, and _she_ was very much
afraid of the elderly aunt with whom she lived. She had no parents,
which made her more pathetic, but no more free. He could not go and see
her, with any satisfaction to either of them, at _her_ home, though he
did so occasionally. This was why she first went to see him at his
flat. But these visits, as they were both placed, could, of course,
happen rarely.
Mavis Argles--this was the girl's extraordinary name--had a curious
fascination for him. He was rather fond of her, yet the greatest wish
he had in the world was to break it off. When with her he felt himself
to be at once a criminal and a benefactor, a sinner and a saint.
Theoretically, theatrically, and perhaps conventionally, his relations
with her constituted him the villain of the piece. Yet he behaved to
her more like Don Quixote than Don Juan....
* * * * *
One afternoon about four o'clock--he was expecting her--Vincy had
arranged an elaborate tea on his little green marble dining-table.
Everything was there that she liked. She was particularly attached to
scones; he also had cream-cakes, sandwiches, sweets, chocolate and
strawberries. As he heard the well-known slightly creaking step, his
heart began to beat loudly--quick beats. He changed colour, smiled, and
nervously went to the door.
'Here you are, Mavis!' He calmed her and himself by this banal welcome.
He made a movement to help her off with her coat, but she stopped him,
and he didn't insist, guessing that she supposed her blouse to be unfit
for publication.
She sat down on the sofa, and leaned back, looking at him with her
pretty, weary, dreary, young, blue eyes.
'It seems such a long time since I saw you,' said Vincy. 'You're tired;
I wish I had a lift.'
'I am tired,' she spoke in rather a hoarse voice always. 'And I ought
not to stop long.'
'Oh, stay a minute longer, won't you?' he asked.
'Well, I like that! I've only just this moment arrived!'
'Oh, Mavis, don't say that! Have some tea.'
He waited on her till she looked brighter.
'How is Aunt Jessie?'
'Aunt Jessie's been rather ill.'
'Still that nasty pain?' asked Vincy.
She stared at him, then laughed.
'As if you remember anything about it.'
'Oh, Mavis! I do remember it. I remember what was the matter with her
quite well.'
'I bet you don't. What was it?' she asked, with childish eagerness.
'It was that wind round the heart that she gets sometimes. She told me
about it. Nothing seems to shift it, either.'
Mavis laughed--hoarse, childlike laughter that brought tears to her
eyes.
'It's a shame to make fun of Aunt Jessie; she's a very, very good
sort.'
'Oh, good gracious, Mavis, if it comes to sorts, I'm sure she's quite
at the top of the tree. But don't let's bother about her now.'
'What _do_ you want to bother about?'
'Couldn't you come out and dine with me, Mavis? It would be a
change'--he was going to say 'for you', but altered it--'for me.'
'Oh no, Vincy; you can't take me out to dinner. I don't look up to the
mark.' She looked in a glass. 'My hat--it's a very good hat--it cost
more than you'd think--but it shows signs of wear.'
'Oh, that reminds me,' began Vincy. 'What _do_ you think happened the
other day? A cousin of mine who was up in London a little while bought
a hat--it didn't suit her, and she insisted on giving it to me! She
didn't know what to do to get rid of it! I'd given her something or
other, for her birthday, and _she_ declared she would give this to _me_
for _my_ birthday, and so--I've got it on my hands.'
'What a very queer thing! It doesn't sound true.'
'No; does it? Do have some more tea, Mavis darling.'
'No, thanks; I'll have another cake.'
'May I smoke?'
She laughed. 'Asking _me_! You do what you like in your own house.'
'It's yours,' he answered, 'when you're here. And when you're not, even
more,' he added as an afterthought.
He struck a match; she laughed and said: 'I don't believe I understand
you a bit.'
'Oh--I went to the play last night,' said Vincy. 'Oh, Mavis, it was
such a wearing play.'
'All about nothing, I suppose? They always are, now.'
'Oh no. It was all about everything. The people were _so_ clever; it
was something cruel how clever they were. One man _did_ lay down the
law! Oh, didn't he though! I don't hold with being bullied and lectured
from the stage, do you, Mavis? It seems so unfair when you can't answer
back.'
'Was it Bernard Shaw?' she asked.
'No; it wasn't; not this time; it was someone else. Oh, I do feel
sometimes when I'm sitting in my stall, so good and quiet, holding my
programme nicely and sitting up straight to the table, as it were, and
then a fellow lets me have it, tells me where I'm wrong and all that; I
_should_ like to stand up and give a back answer, wouldn't you?'
'No; I'd like to see _you_ do it! Er--what colour is that hat that your
cousin gave you?'
'Oh, colour?' he said thoughtfully, smoking. 'Let me see--what colour
was it? It doesn't seem to me that it was any particular colour. It was
a very curious colour. Sort of mole-colour. Or was it cerise? Or
violet?... You wouldn't like to see it, would you?'
'Why, yes, I'd like to see it; I wouldn't try it on of course.'
He opened the box.
'Why, what a jolly hat!' she exclaimed. 'You may not know it, but that
would just suit me; it would go with my dress, too.'
'Fancy.'
She took off her own hat, and touched up her hair with her fingers, and
tried on the other. Under it her eyes brightened in front of the glass;
her colour rose; she changed as one looked at her--she was sixteen
again--the child he had first met at the Art School.
'Don't you think it suits me?' she said, turning round.
'Yes, I think you look very charming in it. Shall I put it back?'
There was a pause.
'I sha'n't know what on earth to do with it,' he said discontentedly.
'It's so silly having a hat about in a place like this. Of course you
wouldn't dare to keep it, I suppose? It does suit you all right, you
know; it would be awfully kind of you.'
'What a funny person you are, Vincy. I _should_ like to keep it. What
could I tell Aunt Jessie?'
'Ah, well, you see, that's where it is! I suppose it wouldn't do for
you to tell her the truth.'
'What do you mean by the truth?'
'I mean what I told you--how my cousin, Cissie Cavanack,' he smiled a
little as he invented this name, 'came up to town, chose the wrong hat,
didn't know what to do with it--and, you know!'
'I could tell her all that, of course.'
'All right,' said Vincy, putting the other hat--the old one--in the
box.' Where shall we dine?'
'Oh, Vincy, I think you're very sweet to me, but how late dare I get
back to Ravenscourt Park?'
'Why not miss the eight-five train?--then you'll catch the quarter to
ten and get back at about eleven.'
'Which would you _rather_ I did?'
'Well, need you ask?'
'I don't know, Vincy. I have a curious feeling sometimes. I believe
you're rather glad when I've gone--relieved!'
'Well, my dear,' he answered, 'look how you worry all the time! If
you'd only have what I call a quiet set-down and a chat, without being
always on the fidget, always looking either at the glass or at the
clock, one might _not_ have that feeling.'
Her colour rose, and tears came to her eyes. 'Oh, then you _are_ glad
when I'm gone!' She pouted. 'You don't care for me a bit, Vincy,' she
said, in a plaintive voice.
He sat down next to her on the little striped sofa, and took her hand.
'Oh, give over, Mavis, do give over! I wish you wouldn't carry on like
that; you do carry on, Mavis dear, don't you? Some days you go on
something cruel, you do really. Reely, I mean. Now, cheer up and be
jolly. Give a kiss to the pretty gentleman, and look at all these
pretty good-conduct stripes on the sofa! There! That's better.'
'Don't speak as if I were a baby!'
'Do you mind telling me what we're quarrelling about, my dear? I only
ask for information.'
'Oh, we're _not_. You're awfully sweet. You know I love you, Vincy.'
'I thought, perhaps, it was really all right.'
'Sometimes I feel miserable and jealous.'
He smiled. 'Ah! What are you jealous of, Mavis?'
'Oh, everything--everyone--all the people you meet.'
'Is that all? Well, you're the only person I ever meet--by appointment,
at any rate.'
'Well--the Ottleys!'
His eye instinctively travelled to a photograph of Edith, all tulle and
roses; a rather fascinating portrait.
'What about _her_?' asked Mavis. 'What price Mrs Ottley?'
'Really, Mavis!--What price? No price. Nothing about her; she's just a
great friend of mine. I think I told you that before. ... What a
frightfully bright light there is in the room,' Vincy said. He got up
and drew the blind down. He came back to her.
'Your hair's coming down,' he remarked.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'But at the back it generally is.'
'Don't move--let me do it.'
Pretending to arrange it, he took all the hairpins out, and the cloud
of dark red hair fell down on her shoulders.
'I like your hair, Mavis.'
* * * * *
'It seems too awful I should have been with you such a long time this
afternoon,' she exclaimed.
'It _isn't_ long.'
'And sometimes it seems so dreadful to think I can't be with you
always.'
'Yes, doesn't it? Mavis dear, will you do up your hair and come out to
dinner?'
'Vincy dear, I think I'd better not, because of Aunt Jessie.'
'Oh, very well; all right. Then you will another time?'
'Oh, you don't want me to stay?'
'Yes, I do; do stay.'
'No, next time--next Tuesday.'
'Very well, very well.'
He took a dark red carnation out of one of the vases and pinned it on
to her coat.
'The next time I see you,' she said, 'I want to have a long, _long_
talk.'
'Oh yes; we must, mustn't we?'
He took her downstairs, put her into a cab. It was half-past six.
He felt something false, worrying, unreliable and incalculable in
Mavis. She didn't seem real.... He wished she were fortunate and happy;
but he wished even more that he were never going to see her again. And
still!...
He walked a little way, then got into a taxi and drove to see Edith.
When he was in this peculiar condition of mind--the odd mixture of
self-reproach, satisfaction, amusement and boredom that he felt now
--he always went to see Edith, throwing himself into the little affairs
of her life as if he had nothing else on his mind. He was a little
anxious about Edith. It seemed to him that since Aylmer had been away
she had altered a little.