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.
Mavis sank helplessly on her bed: she felt as if her heart had been
struck a merciless blow. She was a little consoled by Perigal's letter,
but, in her heart of hearts, something told her that, despite his brave
words, the marriage was indefinitely postponed; indeed, it was more
than doubtful if it would ever take place at all. She suffered, dumbly,
despairingly; her torments were the more poignant because she realised
that the man she loved beyond anything in the world must be acutely
distressed at this unexpected confounding of his hopes. Her head
throbbed with dull pains which gradually increased in intensity; these,
at last, became so violent that she wondered if it were going to burst.
She felt the need of action, of doing anything that might momentarily
ease her mind of the torments afflicting it. Her wedding frock
attracted her attention. Mavis, with a lump in her throat, took off and
folded this, and put it out of sight in a trunk; then, with red eyes
and face the colour of lead, she flung on her work-a-day clothes, to
walk mechanically to the office. The whole day she tried to come to
terms with the calamity that had so suddenly befallen her; a heavy,
persistent pressure on the top of her head mercifully dulled her
perceptions; but at the back of her mind a resolution was momentarily
gaining strength--a resolution that was to the effect that it was her
duty to the man she loved to insist upon his falling in with his
father's wishes. It gave her a certain dim pleasure to think that her
suffering meant that, some day, Perigal would be grateful to her for
her abnegation of self.
Perigal, looking middle-aged and careworn, was impatiently awaiting her
arrival by the river. Her heart ached to see his altered appearance.
"My Mavis!" he cried, as he took her hand.
She tried to speak, but a little sob caught in her throat. They walked
for some moments in silence.
"I told him all about it; I thought it better," said Perigal presently.
"But I never thought he'd cut up rough."
"Is there any chance of his changing his mind?"
"Not the remotest. If he once gets a thing into his head, as he has
this, nothing on earth will move him."
"I won't let it make any difference to you," she declared.
"What do you mean?" he asked quickly.
"That nothing, nothing will persuade me to marry you on Thursday."
"What?"
"I mean it. I have made up my mind."
"But I've set my mind on it, darling."
"I'm doing it for your good."
He argued, threatened, cajoled, pleaded for the best part of two hours,
but nothing would shake her resolution. To all of his arguments, she
would reply in a tone admitting no doubt of the unalterable nature of
her determination:
"I'm doing it for your good, beloved."
Shadows grew apace; light clouds laced the west; a hush was in the air,
as if trees, bushes, and flowers were listening intently for a message
which had evaded them all the day.
Perigal's distress wrung Mavis' heart.
"I can bear it no longer," she presently cried.
"Bear what, sweetheart?"
"Your pain. My heart isn't made of stone. I almost wish it were.
Listen. You want me?"
"What a question!"
"Then you shall have me."
He looked at her quickly. She went on:
"We will not get married. But I give you myself."
"Mavis!"
"Yes; I give you myself."
Perigal was silent for some minutes; he was, evidently, in deep
thought. When he spoke, it was to say with deliberation:
"No, no, little Mavis. I may be bad; but I'm not up to that form--not
yet."
"I love you all the more for saying that," she murmured.
"Since I can't move you, I'll go to Wales tomorrow," he said.
"Then that means--"
"Wait, wait, little Mavis; wait and hope."
"I shall never love anyone else."
"Not even Windebank?"
She cried out in agony of spirit.
"Forgive me, darling," he said. "I will keep faithful too."
They walked for some moments in silence.
"Do one thing for me," pleaded Mavis.
"And that?"
"We are near my nook--at least I call it that. Let us sit there for
just three minutes and think Thursday was--was going to be our--" She
could not trust her voice to complete the sentence.
"If you wish it."
"Only--"
"Only what?"
"Promise--promise you won't kiss me."
"But--"
"I'm not myself. Promise."
He promised. They repaired to Mavis' nook, where they sat in silence,
while night enwrapped them in gloom. Instinctively, their hands
clasped. Mavis had realised that she was with her lover perhaps for the
last time. She wished to snatch a moment of counterfeit joy by
believing that the immense happiness which had been hers was to
continue indefinitely. But her imaginative effort was a dismal failure.
Her mind was a blank with the promise of unending pain in the
background.
Perigal felt the pressure of Mavis's hand instinctively tighten on his;
it gripped as if she could never let him go: tears fell from her eyes
on to his fingers. With an effort he freed himself and, without saying
a word, walked quickly away. With all her soul, she listened to his
retreating steps. It seemed as if her life were departing, leaving
behind the cold shell of the Mavis she knew, who was now dead to
everything but pain. His consideration for her helplessness illumined
her suffering. The next moment, she was on her knees, her heart welling
with love, gratitude, concern for the man who had left her.
"Bless him! Bless him, oh God! He's good; he's good; he's good! He's
proved it to a poor, weak girl like me!"
Thus she prayed, all unconscious that Perigal's consideration in
leaving her was the high-water mark of his regard for her welfare.