Mavis never left the still, white body of her little one. She was
convinced that they were all mistaken, and that he must soon awaken
from the sleep into which he had fallen. She watched, with
never-wearying eyes, for the first signs of consciousness, which she
firmly believed could not long be delayed. Now and again she would hold
its cold form for an hour at a stretch to her heart, in the hope that
the warmth of her breasts would be communicated to her child. Once,
during her long watch, she fancied that she saw his lips twitch. She
excitedly called to Mrs Trivett, to whom, when she came upstairs, she
told the glad news. To humour the bereaved mother, Mrs Trivett waited
for further signs of animation, the absence of which by no means
diminished Mavis's confidence in their ultimate appearance. Her faith
in her baby's returning vitality, that never waned, that nothing could
disturb, was so unwaveringly steadfast, that, at last, Mrs Trivett
feared to approach her. Letters arrived from Miss Toombs, Perigal,
Windebank, and Montague Devitt, Mavis did not open them; they
accumulated on the table on which lay her untasted food. The funeral
had been fixed for some days later (Mavis was indifferent as to who
gave the orders), but, owing to the hot weather, it was necessary that
this dread event should take place two days earlier than had originally
been arranged. The night came when Mavis was compelled to take a last
farewell of her loved one.
She looked at his still form with greedy, dry eyes, which never
flinched. By and by, Mrs Trivett gently touched her arm, at which Mavis
went downstairs without saying a word. The change from the room
upstairs to the homely little parlour had the effect of making her, in
some measure, realise her loss: she looked about her with wide, fearful
eyes.
"My head! my head!" she suddenly cried.
"What is it, dear?" asked Mrs Trivett.
"Hold it! Hold it, someone! It's going to burst."
Mrs Trivett held the girl's burning head firmly in her hands.
"Tighter! tighter!" cried Mavis.
"Oh, deary, deary! Why isn't your husband here to comfort you?" sobbed
Mrs Trivett.
Mavis's face hardened. She repressed an inclination to laugh. Then she
became immersed in a stupor of despair. She knew that it would have
done her a world of good if she had been able to shed tears; but the
founts of emotion were dry within her. She felt as if her heart had
withered. Then, it seemed as if the walls and ceiling of the room were
closing in upon her; she had difficulty in breathing; she believed that
if she did not get some air she would choke. She got up without saying
a word, opened the door, and went out. Trivett, at a sign from his
wife, rose and followed.
The night was warm and still. Mavis soon began to feel relief from the
stifling sensations which had threatened her. But this relief only
increased her pain, her sensibilities being now only the more capable
of suffering. As Mavis walked up the deserted Broughton Road, her eyes
sought the sky, which to-night was bountifully spread with stars. It
occurred to her how it was just another such a night when she had
walked home from Llansallas Bay; then, she had fearfully and, at the
same time, tenderly held her lover's hand. The recollection neither
increased nor diminished her pain; she thought of that night with such
a supreme detachment of self that it seemed as if her heart were
utterly dead. She turned by the dye factory and stood on the stone
bridge which here crosses the Avon. The blurred reflection of the stars
in the slowly moving water caused her eyes again to seek the skies.
Thought Mavis: "Beyond those myriad lights was heaven, where now was
her beloved little one. At least, he was happy and free from pain, so
what cause had she, who loved him, to grieve, when it was written that
some day they would be reunited for ever and ever?"
Mavis looked questioningly at the stars. It would have helped her much
if they had been able to betray the slightest consciousness of her
longings. But they made no sign; they twinkled with aloof indifference
to the grief that wrung her being. Distraught with agonised despair,
and shadowed by Trivett, she walked up the principal street of the
town, now bereft of any sign of life. Unwittingly, her steps strayed in
the direction of the river. She walked the road lying between the
churchyard and the cemetery, opened the wicket gate by the church
school, and struck across the well-remembered meadows. When she came to
the river, she stood awhile on the bank and watched the endless
procession of water which flowed beneath her. The movement of the
stream seemed, in some measure, to assuage her grief, perhaps because
her mind, seeking any means of preservation, seized upon the moving
water, this providing the readiest distraction that offered.
Mavis walked along the bank (shadowed by the faithful Trivett) in the
direction of her nook. Still with the same detachment of mind which had
affected her when she had looked at the stars in the Broughton Road,
she paused at the spot where she had first seen Perigal parting the
rushes upon the river bank. Unknown to him, she had marked the spot
with three large stones, which, after much search, she had discovered
in the adjacent meadow. As of old, the stones were where she had placed
them. Something impelled her to kick them in the river, but she forbore
as she remembered that this glimpse of Perigal which they commemorated
was, in effect, the first breath which her boy had drawn within her.
And now---! Mavis was racked with pain. As if to escape from its
clutch, she ran across the meadows in the direction of Melkbridge,
closely followed by Trivett. Memories of the dead child's father
crowded upon her as she ran. It seemed that she was for ever alone,
separated from everything that made life tolerable by an impassable
barrier of pain. When she came to the road between the churchyard and
the cemetery, she felt as if she could go no further. She was bowed
with anguish; to such an extent did she suffer, that she leaned on the
low parapet of the cemetery for support. The ever-increasing colony of
the dead was spread before her eyes. She examined its characteristics
with an immense but dread curiosity. It seemed to Mavis that, even in
death, the hateful distinctions between rich and poor found expression.
The well-to-do had pretentious monuments which bordered the most
considerable avenue; their graves were trim, well-kept, filled with
expensive blooms, whilst all that testified to remembrance on the part
of the living on the resting-places of the poor were a few wild flowers
stuck in a gallipot. Away in a corner was the solid monument of the
deceased members of a county family. They appeared, even in death, to
shun companionship with those of their species they had avoided in
life. It, also, seemed as if most of the dead were as gregarious as the
living; well-to-do and poor appeared to want company; hence, the graves
were all huddled together. There were exceptions. Now and again, one
little outpost of death had invaded a level spread of turf, much in the
manner of human beings who dislike, and live remote from, their kind.
But it was the personal application of all she saw before her which
tugged at her heartstrings. It made her rage to think that the little
life to which her agony of body had given birth should be torn from the
warmth of her arms to sleep for ever in this unnatural solitude. It
could not be. She despairingly rebelled against the merciless fate
which had overridden her. In her agony, she beat the stones of the
parapet with her hands. Perhaps she believed that in so doing she would
awaken to find her sorrows to have been a horrid dream. The fact that
she did not start from sleep brought home the grim reality of her
griefs. There was no delusion: her baby lay dead at home; her lover, to
whom she had confided her very soul, was to be married to someone else.
There was no escape; biting sorrow held her in its grip. She was borne
down by an overwhelming torrent of suffering; she flung herself upon
the parapet and cried helplessly aloud. Someone touched her arm. She
turned, to see Trivett's homely form.
"I can't bear it: I can't, I can't!" she cried.
Trivett looked pitifully distressed for a few moments before saying:
"Would you like me to play?"
Mavis nodded.
"I don't know if the church is open; but, if it is, they've been
decorating it for--for--Would you very much mind?"
"Play to me: play to me!" cried Mavis.
The musician, whose whole appearance was eloquent of the soil, clumped
across the gravelled path of the churchyard, followed by Mavis. He
tried many doors, all of which were locked, till he came to a small
door in the tower; this was unfastened.
He admitted Mavis, and then struck a wax match to enable her to see.
The cold smell of the church at once took her mind back to when she had
entered it as a happy, careless child. With heart filled with dumb
despair, she sat in the first seat she came to. As she waited, the
gloom was slowly dissipated, to reveal the familiar outlines of the
church. At the same time, her nostrils were assailed by the pervading
and exotic smell of hot-house blooms.
The noise made by the opening of the organ shutters cracked above her
head and reverberated through the building. While she waited, none of
the sacred associations of the church spoke to her heart; her soul was
bruised with pain, rendering her incapable of being moved by the
ordinary suggestions of the place. Then Trivett played. Mavis's
highly-strung, distraught mind ever, when sick as now, seeking the way
of health, listened intently, devoutly, to the message of the music.
Sorrow was the musician's theme: not individual grief, but the travail
of an aged world. There had been, there was, such an immense
accumulation of anguish that, by comparison with the sum of this, her
own griefs now seemed infinitesimal. Then the organ became eloquent of
the majesty of sorrow. It was of no dumb, almost grateful, resignation
to the will of a Heavenly Father, who imposed suffering upon His erring
children for their ultimate good, of which it spoke. Rather was the
instrument eloquent of the power wielded by a pagan god of pain, before
whose throne was a vast aggregation of torment, to which every human
thing, and particularly loving women, were, by the conditions
consequent on their nature, condemned to contribute. In return for this
inevitable sacrifice, the god of pain bestowed a dignity of mind and
bearing upon his votaries, which set them apart, as though they were
remote from the thoughtless ruck.
While Trivett played, Mavis was eased of some of her pain, her mind
being ever receptive to any message that music might offer. When the
organ stopped, the cold outlines of the church chilled her to the
marrow. The snap occasioned by the shutting up of the instrument seemed
a signal on the part of some invisible inquisitor that her torments
were to recommence. Before Trivett joined her, the sound of the church
clock striking the hour smote her ear with its vibrant, insistent
notes. This reminder of the measuring of time recalled to Mavis the
swift flight, not only of the hours, but of the days and years. It
enabled her dimly to realise the infinitesimal speck upon the chart of
recorded time which even the most prolonged span of individual life
occupied. So fleeting was this stay, that it almost seemed as if it
were a matter of no moment if life should happen to be abbreviated by
untimely death. Whilst the girl's mind thus struggled to alleviate its
pain and to mend the gaps made by the slings and arrows of poignant
grief in its defences, Trivett stumbled downstairs and blundered
against the pews as he approached. Then the two walked home, where
Mavis resumed her lonely vigil beside the ark which contained all that
was mortal of her baby. No matter what further anguish this watch
inflicted, she could not suffer her boy to be alone during the last
night of his brief stay on earth.
The next afternoon, about two, when all Melkbridge was agog with
excitement at the wedding of Major Perigal's son to Victoria Devitt,
two funeral carriages might have been seen drawing up at a cottage in
the Broughton Road. Under the driver's seat of the first was quickly
placed a small coffin, which was smothered with wreaths, while a tall,
comely, fair young woman, clad in deep mourning, stepped into the
coach, the blinds of which were closely drawn. A homely, elderly man,
accompanied by his wife, got into the next, and the two carriages drove
off at a smart trot in the direction of the town. Soon after the little
procession had started, a black spaniel might have been seen escaping
into the road, where it followed the carriages with its nose to the
ground, much in the same way as it had been used to follow the Pimlico
'buses in which its mistress travelled when she had carried her baby.
Mavis, white and drawn, lay back in the carriage that was proceeding on
its relentless way. She did not know, she did not care, who had made
the arrangements for this dismal ride. All she knew was that all she
had left of life seemed confined in the glass case beneath the driver's
seat.
During the morning, Mrs Trivett had brought in wreaths of flowers from
Windebank, Miss Toombs, herself, and her husband. A last one had
arrived, which bore upon the attached card, "From C.P., with all
imaginable sympathy." Mavis, after glancing at the well-remembered
writing, had trodden the flowers underfoot and then had passionately
kicked the ruined wreath from the room.
He, at least, should have no part in her sorrowful lot. As she drove
into the town, she was now and again met by gay carriages which were
returning from setting down wedding guests at the church door. The
drivers of these wore wedding favours pinned to their coats, while
their whips were decorated with white satin ribbons. As each carriage
passed, Mavis felt a sharp tugging at her heart. She guessed that she
was not being driven to Melkbridge; she wondered with an almost
impersonal curiosity whither they were bound. She had been told, but
she had not listened. She had reached such depths of suffering--indeed,
she had quite touched bottom--that it now needed an event of
considerable moment to make the least impression on her mutilated
sensibilities. When they reached the market-place and bore to the
right, she gathered that they were going to Pennington.
The day was perfect--a day that in happier circumstances Mavis would
have loved. The sun reigned in a cloudless sky, the blue of which was
mellowed with a touch of autumn dignity. The grasses waved gladly by
the road-side, and along the ditches; patches of sunlight played
delightful games of hide-and-seek on hedge-rows and among the trees.
Most of the bushes were gay with song, while the birds seemed to laugh
in very defiance of winter when the sun was so warm. The unrestrained
joy and vivacity of the day emphasised the gloom that rilled the first
of the two funeral carriages. Mavis stared with dull surprise at the
rollicking gaiety of the afternoon: its callousness to her anguish
irked her. It made her think how unnecessary and altogether bootless
was the loss she had sustained. She tried to realise that God had
singled her out for suffering as a mark of His favour. But at the
bottom of her heart she nourished something in the nature of resentment
against the Most High. She knew that, if only life could be restored to
the child, she would be base enough to forfeit her chances of eternal
life in exchange for the boon. As she passed a by-lane, a smart cart,
containing a youngish man and a gaily-clad, handsome, happy-looking
girl, pulled up sharply in coming from this in order to avoid a
collision. Mavis saw the gladness fade from the faces of the occupants
of the cart as they realised the nature of the procession they had
encountered. The man took off his cap; the girl looked away with
frightened eyes.
Five minutes later, the two carriages entered the gates of Pennington
Churchyard. The wind was blowing from Melkbridge, therefore she had not
heard before the measured tolling of the bell, which now seemed, every
time it struck, to stab her soul to the quick. The carriage pulled up
at the door of the tiny church. After waiting a few moments, Mavis got
out.
Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she walked up the church, to sit
in a pew near the top. Although she never took her eyes from the
flower-covered coffin, she was aware that Windebank was sitting at the
back, whilst, a few moments later, Miss Toombs strolled into the church
with the manner of one who had got there by the merest chance.
"Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live."
Mavis stood up directly those words were spoken; otherwise, she paid no
attention to the exquisite periods of the burial service: her heart was
with her boy. The present was as much as she could endure; she was
nerving herself for the time when she should leave the church. Till
now, she felt that her baby was part of this life and herself; then,
without further ado, he would be torn from her cognisance to be put out
of sight in the ground.
The inexorable minutes passed. Mavis stood before the open grave. Miss
Toombs, ashamed of her earlier timidity, stood beside her. Windebank,
erect and bare-headed, was a little behind. As the box containing her
baby disappeared, Mavis felt as if the life were being mercilessly
drawn from her. It was as if she stood there for untold ages. Then it
seemed as if her heart were torn out by the roots. Blinded with pain,
she found herself being led by Miss Toombs towards the carriage in
which she had been driven from Melkbridge. But Mavis would not get into
this. Followed by her friend, she struck into a by-path which led into
a lane. Here she walked dry-eyed, numbed with pain, in a world that was
hatefully strange. Then Miss Toombs made brave efforts to talk
commonplaces, while tears streamed from her eyes. The top of Mavis's
head seemed both hot and cold at the same time; she wondered if it
would burst. Then, with a sharp bark of delight, Jill sprang from the
hedge to jump delightedly about her mistress. Mavis knelt down and
pressed her lips to her faithful friend's nose. At the same moment, the
wind carried certain sounds to her ears from the direction of
Melkbridge. Mavis looked up. The expression of fear which Miss Toombs's
face wore confirmed her suspicions. Suddenly, Miss Toombs flung herself
upon Mavis, and clapped her hands against the suffering woman's ears.
"Don't listen! don't listen!" screamed Miss Toombs.
But Mavis thrust aside the other woman's arms, to hear the sound of
wedding bells, which were borne to her by the wind.
Mavis listened intently for some moments, the while Miss Toombs
fearfully watched her. Then, Mavis placed her hands to her head, and
laughed and laughed and laughed, till Miss Toombs thought that she was
never going to stop.