Mavis was in love, consequently the world was transformed. All her
previous hesitations in surrendering to her incipient love for Perigal
were forgotten; the full, flowing current of her passion disregarded
the trifling obstacles which had once sought to obstruct its progress.
Life, nature, the aspect of things took on the abnormally adorable hues
of those who love and are beloved. Such was the rapture in her heart,
that days, hours, moments were all too fleeting for the enjoyment of
her newborn felicity. The radiant happiness which welled within her, in
seemingly inexhaustible volume, appeared to fill the universe. Often,
with small success, she would attempt to realise the joy that had come
into her life. At other times, when alone, she would softly shed
tears--tears with which shy, happy laughter mingled. She would go about
all day singing snatches of gay little songs. There was not a happier
girl in the world. As if, perhaps, to give an edge to her joy, the
summer sky of her gladness was troubled by occasional clouds. She would
wake in the night with a great presage of fear, which nothing she could
do would remove. At such times, she would clasp with both hands a ring
that her lover had given her, which at night she wore suspended from
her neck, so that it lay upon her heart. At other times, she would be
consumed by a passion for annihilating all thoughts and considerations
for self in her relations with Perigal; she was urged by every fibre in
her body to merge her being with his. When thus possessed, she would
sometimes, if she were at home when thus moved, go upon her knees to
pray long and fervently for the loved one's welfare; as likely as not
her thoughts would wander, when thus engaged, to be wholly concerned
with the man she adored.
Thus, she abandoned herself whole-heartedly, unreservedly to the
ecstasy of loving.
Mavis and Perigal were to be quietly married by special licence in
London, in five weeks' time, which would be in the early days of
September. Perigal urged Mavis not to speak to anyone of the wedding,
saying, as a reason for this silence, that his father had not yet quite
decided upon giving him the money he wanted, and the news of the
engagement and early marriage might cause him to harden his heart. The
honeymoon was to be spent in the retirement of Polperro, a Cornish
village, the beauty and seclusion of which Perigal never tired of
describing. As far as they could both see at present, Mavis was to keep
on with her work at the office (the honeymoon was to consist of her
fortnight's annual holiday), till such time as he could prepare a home
for her in Wales. Although not welcoming, she did not offer the least
objection to this arrangement, as she saw that it was all that could be
done under their present circumstances. She wrote out and placed over
her bed a list of dates, which culminated in the day on which she was
to throw in her lot with the loved one; every day, as soon as she
awoke, she crossed off one more of the slowly dwindling days. Nearly
every Saturday she took the train to Bathminster, where she spent a
considerable fraction of the forty pounds she had saved in buying a
humble equivalent for a trousseau.
As boxes and parcels of clothes began to arrive at her lodgings, she
would try on the most attractive of these, the while her eyes shone
with happiness. Those with whom she was commonly brought in contact
noticed the change in her demeanour. Mrs Farthing smiled mysteriously,
as if guessing the cause. Miss Hunter made many unsuccessful efforts to
worm confidences from Mavis; while plain Miss Toombs showed her
displeasure of the alteration that had occurred in her by scarcely ever
addressing her, and then only when compelled.
"You look like a bride," she remarked one day, when Mavis was glowing
with happiness.
Mavis saw something of Perigal pretty well every day. Sometimes, they
would meet quite early of a morning by the canal; if they did not see
each other then, they made a point of getting a few minutes together of
an evening, usually by the river. So that no hint of their intentions
should reach Major Perigal, the lovers met furtively, a proceeding
which enhanced the charm of their intercourse.
At all times, Mavis was moved by an abiding concern for his health.
There was much of the maternal in her love, leading her frequently to
ask if his linen were properly aired and if he were careful to avoid
getting damp feet; she also made him solemnly promise to tell her
immediately if he were not feeling in the best of health. Mavis, with a
great delight, could not help noticing the change that had taken place
in her lover ever since their betrothal. He, too, was conscious of the
difference, and was fond of talking about it.
"I never thought I'd grow young again!" he would remark.
"What about second childhood?" laughed the irrepressible Mavis.
"Seriously, I didn't. I always felt so old. And it's little Mavis who
has done it all."
"Really, sweetheart?"
"All, dear."
She rewarded him with a glance of love and tenderness.
He went on:
"The past is all over and done with. I made a fresh start from the day
you promised to throw in your exquisite self with me."
Thus he would talk, expressing, at the same time, boundless confidence
in the future, forgetful or ignorant of what has been well said, "That
the future is only entering the past by another gate."
One evening, when he had made bitter reference to the life that he had
led, before he had again met with her, she asked:
"What is this dreadful past you're always regretting so keenly?"
"You surely don't want to know?"
"Haven't I a right to?"
"No. Not that it's so very terrible. Far from it, it isn't. There's an
awful sameness about it. The pleasure of to day is the boredom of
tomorrow. It all spells inherent incapacity to succeed in either good
or evil."
"Good or evil?" she queried.
"It's going to be good now, since I've little Mavis and her glorious
hair to live for."
One evening, he brought a brick to show her, which was a sample of
those he intended manufacturing, should he get the assistance he now
daily expected from his father. She looked at it curiously, fondly, as
if it might prove the foundation stone of the beloved one's prosperity;
a little later, she begged it of him. She took it home, to wrap it
carefully in one of her silk handkerchiefs and put it away in her
trunk. From time to time, she would take the brick out, to have it
about her when she was at her lodgings. She also took an acute interest
in bricks that were either built into houses, or heaped upon the
roadside. She was proudly convinced there were no bricks that could
compare with the one she prized for finish or durability. Perigal was
much diverted and, perhaps, touched by her interest in his possible
source of success.
The clamourings of Mavis' ardent nature had been so long repressed,
that the disturbing influences of her passion for Perigal were more
than sufficient to loose her pent up instincts. Her lover's kisses
proved such a disturbing factor, that, one evening when he had been
unusually appreciative of her lips, she had not slept, having lain
awake, trembling, till it was time for her to get up. For the future,
she deemed it prudent to allow one kiss at meeting, and a further one
at parting.
Perigal protested against this arrangement, when he would say:
"I love to kiss you, little Mavis, because then such a wistful, faraway
look comes into your eyes, which is one of the most wonderful things
I've seen."
Mavis, with an effort, resisted Perigal's entreaties.
One August evening, when it was late enough for her to be conscious
that the nights were drawing in, she was returning from a happy hour
spent with her lover. It now wanted but a week to their marriage; their
hearts were delirious with happiness.
"Don't you miss all the bridesmaids and all the usual thing-uma-jigs of
a wedding?" he had asked her.
"Not a bit."
"Sure, darling?"
"Quite. I only want one thing. So long as I get that, nothing else can
possibly matter."
"And that?"
"You," she had replied, at which Perigal had said after a moment or two
of silence:
"I will, I really will do all I know to make my treasure of a little
Mavis happy."
Mavis was walking home with a light step and a lighter heart: more than
one red-cheeked, stolid, Wiltshire man and woman turned to look after
the trimly-built, winsome girl, who radiated distinction and happiness
as she walked.
A familiar voice sounded in Mavis's ear. "At last," it said heartfully.
She turned, to see Windebank standing before her, a Windebank stalwart
as ever, with his face burned to the colour of brick red, but looking
older and thinner than when she had last seen him. Mavis' heart sank.
"At last," he repeated. He looked as if he would say more, but he did
not speak. She wondered if he were moved at seeing her again.
Mavis, not knowing what to say, put out her hand, which he clasped.
"Aren't you glad to see me?" he asked.
"Of course."
"And you're not going to run away again?"
She looked at him inquiringly.
"I mean as you did before, into the fog!"
"There's no fog to run into," she remarked feebly.
"Little Mavis! Little Mavis! I'd no idea you could look so well and
wonderful as you do."
"Hadn't we better walk? People are staring at us already."
"I can't see you so well walking," he complained.
They strolled along; as they walked, Windebank half turned, so that his
eyes never left her face.
"What a beautiful girl you are!" he said.
"You mustn't say that."
"But it's true. And to think of you working for that outsider Devitt!"
"He means well. And I've been very happy there."
"You won't be there much longer! Do you know why?"
"Tell me about yourself," she said evasively, as she wondered if
talking to Windebank were unfair to Perigal.
"Do you remember this?" he asked, as he brought out a crumpled letter
for her inspection.
"It's my writing!" she cried.
"It's the foolish, dear letter you wrote to me."
She took it, to recall the dreary day at Mrs Bilkins's on which she had
penned the lines to Windebank, in which she had refused to hamper his
career by acceding to his request.
"Give it back," he demanded.
"You don't want it?"
"Don't I! A girl who can write a letter like that to a chap isn't
easily forgotten, I can tell you."
Mavis did not reply. Windebank, seeing how she was embarrassed, told
her of his more recent doings; how, after getting Perigal's letter, he
had set out for England as soon as he could start; how he had saved
three days by taking the overland route from Brindisi (such was his
anxiety to see his little Mavis, who had never been wholly out of his
thoughts), to arrive home before he was expected.
"I had an early feed and came out hoping to see you," he concluded.
Mavis did not speak. She was deliberating if she should tell Windebank
of her approaching marriage; if he cared seriously for her, it was only
fair that he should know her affections were bestowed.
"Aren't you glad to see me?" he asked.
"Of course, but--"
"There are no 'buts.' You're coming home with me."
"Home!"
"To meet my people again. They're just back from Switzerland. It isn't
your home--yet."
This decided her. She told him, first enjoining him to silence. To her
relief, also to her surprise, he took it very calmly. His face went a
shade whiter beneath his sun-tanned skin; he stood a trifle more erect
than before; and that was all.
"I congratulate you," he said. "But I congratulate him a jolly sight
more. Who is he?"
Mavis hesitated.
"You can tell me. It won't go any further."
"Charlie Perigal."
"Charlie Perigal?" he asked in some surprise.
"Why not?" she asked, with a note of defiance in her voice.
"But he's upside down with his father, and has been for a long time."
"What of that?"
"What are you going to live on?"
"Charlie is going to work."
"Charlie work!" The words slipped out before he could stop them. "Of
course, I'd forgotten that," he added.
"You're like a lot of other people, who can't say a good word for him,
because they're jealous of him," she cried.
He did not reply for a moment; when he did, it was to say very gravely:
"Naturally I am very, very jealous; it would be strange if it were
otherwise. I wish you every happiness from the bottom of my heart."
"Thank you," replied Mavis, mollified.
"And God bless you."
He took off his cap and left her. Mavis watched his tall form turn the
corner with a sad little feeling at her heart. But love is a selfish
passion, and when Mavis awoke three mornings later, when it wanted four
days to her marriage, she would have forgotten Windebank's existence,
but for the fact of his having sent her a costly, gold-mounted
dressing-case. This had arrived the previous evening, at the same time
as the frock that she proposed wearing at her wedding had come from
Bathminster. She looked once more at the dressing-case with its
sumptuous fittings, to turn to the wrappings enclosing her simple
wedding gown. She took it out reverently, tenderly, to kiss it before
locking the door and trying it on again. With quick, loving hands she
fastened it about her; she then looked at the reflection of her
adorable figure in the glass.
"Will he like me in it? Do you think he will love me in it?" she asked
Jill, who, blinking her brown eyes, was scarcely awake. She then took
Jill in her arms to murmur:
"Whatever happens, darling, I shall always love you."
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."