Mavis spoke truly. She loved her husband, although with a different
love from that which she had known for Perigal. She had adored the
father of her child with her soul and with her body, but in her
affection for her husband there was no trace of physical passion, of
which she had no small share. This new-born love was, in truth, an
immense maternal devotion which seemed to satisfy an insistent longing
of her being.
Upon the day of their wedding, Mavis was already wondering if she were
beginning to love Harold; but for all this uncertainty, she believed
that if the marriage were to be a physical as well as a civil union,
she would have confessed before the ceremony took place her previous
intimacy with Perigal. After the marriage, the holy fervour with which
Harold had regarded Mavis bewildered her. The more his nature was
revealed to her, the better she was enabled to realise the cold-blooded
brutality with which the supreme Power (Mavis's thoughts did not run so
easily in the direction of a Heavenly Father as was once their wont)
had permanently mutilated Harold's life, which had been of the rarest
promise. Still ignorant of her real sentiments for her husband, she had
persuaded him, for no apparent reason, to delay acquainting his family
with the news of their marriage. Truth soon illumined Mavis's mind.
Directly she realised how devotedly she loved her husband (the maternal
aspect of her love did not occur to her), her punishment for her
previous duplicity began. She was constantly overwhelmed with bitter
reproaches because of her having set out to marry her husband from
motives of revenge against his family.
Mavis's confession to the Devitts temporarily eased her mind, but, as
her husband's solicitude for her happiness redoubled, her torments
recommenced with all their old-time persistency. Harold's declining
health gave her innumerable anguished hours; she realised that, so long
as he lived, she would suffer for the deception she had practised. She
believed that, if she survived him, her remaining days would be filled
with grief.
Whichever way she looked, trouble confronted her with hard, unbending
features.
She was enmeshed in a net of sorrow from which there was no escape.
In order to stifle any hints or rumours which might have got about
Melkbridge of Mavis having been a mother without being a wife, she was
pressed by the Devitts to make a stay of some length at Melkbridge
House. Guessing the reason of this invitation, she accepted, although
she, as well as her husband, were eager to get into a quaint,
weather-beaten farmhouse which Harold had bought in the neighbourhood.
To make her stay as tolerable as possible, Mavis set herself to win the
hearts of the Devitt family, the feminine members of which, she was
convinced, were bitterly hostile to her. The men of the household, to
the scarcely concealed dismay of the women, quickly came over to her
side. Lowther she appreciated at his worth; her studied indifference to
him went a long way towards securing that youth's approval, which was
not unmingled with admiration for her person. Montague she was
beginning to like. For his part, he was quickly sensible of the
feminine distinction which Mavis's presence bestowed upon his home. The
fine figure she cut in evening dress at dinner parties, when the
Devitts feasted their world; her conversation in the drawing-room
afterwards; the emotion she put into her playing and singing (it was
the only expression Mavis could give to the abiding griefs gnawing at
her heart), were social assets of no small value, which Devitt was the
first to appreciate. Mrs Harold Devitt's appearance and parts gave to
his assemblies a piquancy which was sadly lacking when his friends
repaid his hospitality. Mavis, also, pointed out to Devitt the
advisability of rescuing from the lumber rooms several fine old pieces
of furniture which were hidden away in disgrace, largely because they
had belonged to Montague's humble grandfather. The handiwork of
Chippendale and Hepplewhite was furbished up and put about the house,
replacing Tottenham Court Road monstrosities. When the old furniture
epidemic presently seized upon Melkbridge, the Devitts could flatter
themselves that they had done much to influence local fashion in the
matter.
Montague came to take pleasure in Mavis's society, when he would drop
his blustering manner to become his kindly self. They had many long
talks together, which enabled Mavis to realise the loneliness of the
man's life. The more Montague saw of her the more he disliked his
son-in-law's share in the paternity of Mavis's dead child.
Now and again he would discuss business worries with her, which
established a community of interest between them. His friendship gave
Mavis confidence in her endeavours to placate the female Devitts. This
latter was uphill work: Mrs Devitt and her sister entrenched themselves
in a civil reserve which resisted Mavis's most strenuous assaults. With
Victoria, Mavis believed, at first, that she had better luck, Mrs
Charlie Perigal's sentiments and manner of expressing them being all
that the most exigent fancy might desire; but as time wore on, Mavis
got no further with her sister-in-law; she could never feel that she
and Victoria had a single heart beat in common.
As with so many others, Mavis began by liking but ended by being
repelled by Victoria's inhuman flawlessness.
Thus Mavis lived for the weeks she stayed at Melkbridge House. But at
all times, no matter what she might be doing, she was liable to be
attacked by bitter, heart-rending grief at the loss of her child. Mavis
had already suffered so much that she was now able to distinguish the
pains peculiar to the different varieties of sorrow. This particular
grief took the shape of a piteous, persistent heart hunger which
nothing could stay. Joined to this was a ceaseless longing for the lost
one, which cast drear shadows upon the bright hues of life. The way in
which she was compelled to isolate her pain from all human sympathy did
not diminish its violence.
One night, when the Devitts were entertaining their kind, the
conversation at dinner touched upon a local petty sessions case, in
which the nursemaid of one of those present had been punished for
concealing the birth of an illegitimate child, who had since died.
"It was a great worry to me," complained the nurse's mistress. "She was
such a perfect nurse."
"I hope you'll do something for her when she comes out," urged Harold.
The woman stared at Harold in astonishment.
"Think how the poor girl's suffered," he continued.
"Do you really think so?" asked the woman.
"She's lost her child."
"But I always understood that those who lose children out of wedlock
cannot possible grieve like married women who have the same loss."
In a moment Mavis's thoughts flew to Pennington Churchyard, where her
heart seemed buried deep below the grass; certain of her facial nerves
twitched, while tears filled her eyes. Devitt's voice recalled her to
her surroundings; she looked up, to catch his eyes looking kindly into
hers. Although she made an effort to join in the talk, she was mentally
bowing her head, the while her being ached with anguish. She did not
recover her spirits for the rest of the evening.
There came a day when one of the big guns of the financial world was
expected to dinner. Mavis had many times met at Melkbridge House some
of the lesser artillery of successful business men, when she had been
surprised to discover what dull, uninteresting folk they were; apart
from their devotion to the cult of money-getting, they did not seem to
have another interest in life, the ceaseless quest for gold absorbing
all their vitality. This big gun was a Sir Frederick Buntz, whose
interest Devitt, as he told Mavis, was anxious to secure in one of his
company-promoting schemes. In order to do Devitt a good turn, Mavis
laid herself out to please the elderly Sir Frederick, who happened to
have an eye for an attractive woman. Sir Frederick scarcely spoke to
anyone else but Mavis throughout dinner; at the end of the evening, he
asked her if she advised him to join Devitt's venture.
Mavis's behaviour formed the subject of a complaint made by Mrs Devitt
when alone with Montague in their bedroom.
"Didn't you notice the shameless way she behaved?" asked Mrs Devitt.
"Nonsense!" replied her well-pleased lord.
"Everyone noticed it. She's rapidly going from bad to worse."
"Anyway, it's as good as put five thousand in my pocket, if not more."
"What do you mean?"
Montague's explanation modified his wife's ill opinion of Mavis. The
next morning, when Devitt thanked his daughter-in-law for influencing
Sir Frederick in the way she had done, Mavis said:
"I want something in return."
"Some shares for yourself?"
"A rise of a pound a week for Miss Toombs."
"That plain, unhealthy little woman at the boot factory!"
"She's a heart of gold. I know you'll do it for me," said Mavis, who
was now conscious of her power over Devitt.
Having won her way, Mavis set out to intercept Miss Toombs, who about
this time would be on her way to business. They had not met since
Mavis's marriage to Harold, Miss Toombs refusing to answer Mavis's many
letters and always being out when her old friend called.
Mavis ran against Miss Toombs by the market-place; her friend looked in
worse health than when she had last seen her.
"Good morning," said Mavis.
"Don't talk to me," cried Miss Toombs. "I hate the sight of you."
"No, you don't. And I've done you a good turn."
"I'm sorry to hear it. I wish you good morning."
"What have I done to upset you?" asked Mavis.
"Don't pretend you don't know."
"But I don't."
"What! Then I'll tell you. You've married young Devitt, when there's a
man worth all the women who ever lived eating his heart out for you."
Mavis stopped, amazed at the other woman's vehemence.
"A man who you've treated like the beast you are," continued Miss
Toombs hotly. "After all that's happened, he longed to marry you, and
that's more than most men would have done."
"You don't know--you can't understand," faltered Mavis.
"Yes, I do. You're not really bad; you're only a precious big fool and
don't know when you've got a good thing."
"I--I love my husband."
"Rot! You may think you do, but you don't. You're much too hot-blooded
to stick that kind of marriage long. I know I wouldn't. And it serves
you right if you ever make a mess of it."
"I thought Sir Archibald only pitied me," said Mavis, in extenuation of
her marriage.
"Pity! pity! He's a man, not a bloodless nincompoop," said Miss Toombs.
"And it's you I have to thank for seeing him so often," she added, as
her anger again flamed up.
"Sir Archibald?" asked Mavis.
"He sees me to talk about you," said Miss Toombs sorrowfully. "And he
never looks twice at me. He doesn't even like me enough to ask me to go
away for a week-end with him. I'm simply nothing to him, and that's the
truth."
"I think you a dear, anyway. And I've got you a rise of a pound a week."
"What?"
Mavis repeated her information.
"That'll buy me some summer muslins I've long had my eye on, and one or
two bits of jewellery. Then, perhaps, he'll look at me," declared Miss
Toombs.
The next moment she caught sight of her reflection in Perrott's (the
grocer's) window, at which she cried:
"Just look at me! What on earth could ever make that attractive?"
"Your kind nature," replied Mavis. "You're much too fond of
under-valuing your appearance."
"It's all damned unfair!" cried Miss Toombs passionately. "What use are
your looks to you? What fun do you get out of life? Why--oh why haven't
I your face and figure?"
"What would you do with it?" asked Mavis.
"Get him, get him somehow. If he wouldn't marry me I'd manage to
'live.' And he's not a cad like Charlie Perigal," cried Miss Toombs, as
she hurried off to work.
When Mavis got back, she learned that the morning post had brought an
invitation for the Devitts and herself for a dinner that Major Perigal
was giving in two weeks' time. Major Perigal, also, wrote privately to
Mavis, urging her to give him the honour of her company; he assured her
that his son would not be present.
Little else but the approaching dinner was discussed by the Devitts for
the rest of the day. As if to palliate their interest in the matter,
they explained to Mavis how the proffered hospitality was alien to the
ways of the giver of the feast. At heart they were greatly pleased with
the invitation; it promised a meeting with county folk on equal terms,
together with a termination to the aloofness with which Major Perigal
had treated the Devitts since his son's marriage to Victoria. They
accepted with alacrity. Mavis, alone, hesitated.
Her husband urged her to go, although his physical disability would
prevent him from accompanying her.
"I want my dearest to go," he said. "It will give me so much pleasure
to know how wonderful you looked, and how everyone admired you."
Mavis decided to accept the invitation, largely because it was her
husband's wish; a little, because she had the curiosity to meet those
who would have been acquaintances and friends had her father been
alive. Her lot had been thrown so much among those who worked for daily
bread, that she was not a little eager to mix, if it were only for a
few hours, with her own social kind.
Mavis, again at Harold's wish, reluctantly ordered an expensive frock
for the dinner. It was of grey taffetas embroidered upon bodice and
skirt with black velvet butterflies. The night of the dinner, when
Mavis was ready to go, she showed herself to her husband before setting
out. He looked at her long and intently before saying:
"I shall always remember you like this."
"What do you mean?" she asked, a little afraid.
"It isn't what I expect. It's what I deserve for marrying a glorious
young creature like you."
"Am I discontented?" she asked proudly.
"God bless you. You're as good as you're beautiful," he replied.
As she stooped to kiss him, the prayer of her heart was:
"May he never know why I married him."
His eyes, alight with love, followed her as she left the room.
Major Perigal received his guests in the drawing-room. The first person
whom Mavis encountered after she had greeted her host was Windebank.
She recalled that she had not seen him since her illness at Mrs
Trivett's, He had written to congratulate her on her marriage when she
had come to stay with the Devitts; since then, she had not heard from
him.
Although Mavis knew that she might see him to-night, she was so taken
aback at meeting him that she could think of nothing to say. He
relieved her embarrassment by talking commonplace.
"Here's someone who much wishes to meet you," he said presently. "It's
Sir William Ludlow; he served with your father in India."
Mavis knew the name of Sir William Ludlow as that of a general with a
long record of distinguished service.
When he was introduced by Windebank, Mavis saw that he had soldier
written all over his wiry, spare person; she congratulated herself upon
meeting a man who might talk of the stirring events in which he had
taken so prominent a part. He had only time to tell Mavis how she more
resembled her mother than her father when a move was made for the
dining-room. Mavis was taken down by Windebank.
"Thank you," she said in an undertone, when they had reached the
landing.
"What for?"
"All you've done."
He turned on her such a look of pain that she did not say any more.
Windebank sat on her right; General Sir William Ludlow on her left.
Directly opposite was a little pasty-faced woman with small, bright
eyes. Victoria, by virtue of her relationship to Major Perigal, faced
her father-in-law at the bottom of the table; upon her right sat the
most distinguished-looking man Mavis had ever seen. Tall, finely
proportioned, with noble, regular features, surmounted by grey hair, he
suggested to Mavis a fighting bishop of the middle ages: she wondered
who he was. The soldier on her left talked incessantly, but, to Mavis's
surprise, he made no mention of his campaigns; he spoke of nothing else
but rose culture, his persistent ill-luck at flower shows, the
unfairness of the judging. The meal was long and, even to Mavis, to
whom a dinner party was in the nature of an experience, tedious.
Infrequent relief was supplied by the pasty-faced woman opposite, who
was the General's wife; she did her best to shock the susceptibilities
of those present by being in perpetual opposition to their stolid views.
An elderly woman, whose face showed the ravages of time upon what must
have been considerable beauty (somehow she looked rather disreputable),
had referred to visits she had paid, when in London for the season, to
a sister who lived in Eccleston Square.
"Such a dreadful neighbourhood!" she complained. "It made me quite ill
to go there."
"I love it," declared Lady Ludlow.
"That part of London!" exclaimed the faded beauty.
"Why not? Whatever life may be there, it is honest in its
unconcealment. And to be genuine is to be noble."
"You're joking, Kate," protested the faded beauty.
"I'm doing nothing of the kind. Give me Pimlico," declared Lady Ludlow
emphatically.
At mention of Pimlico, Mavis and Windebank involuntarily glanced into
each other's eyes; the name of this district recalled many memories to
their minds.
When dinner was over, Mavis had hardly reached the drawing-room with
the women-folk, when Lady Ludlow pounced upon her.
"I've been so anxious to meet you," she declared. "You're one of the
lucky ones."
"Since when am I lucky?" asked Mavis.
"Since your father died and you had to earn your living till you were
married. Old Jimmy Perigal told me all about it. You're to be envied."
"I fail to see why."
"You've mixed with the world and have escaped living with all these
stuffy bores."
"They don't know how lucky they are," remarked Mavis with conviction.
"Nonsense! Give me life and the lower orders. What did my husband talk
about during dinner?"
"Roses."
"Of course. When he was at his wars, I had some peace. Now I'm bored to
death with flowers."
"Who was that distinguished-looking man who sat on Mrs Charles
Perigal's right?" asked Mavis.
"That's Lord Robert Keevil, whose brother is the great tin-god 'Seend.'"
"The Marquis of Seend?" queried Mavis.
"That's it: he was foreign minister in the last Government. But Bobbie
Keevil is adorable till he's foolish enough to open his mouth. Then he
gives the game away."
"What do you mean?"
"He's the complete fool. If he would only hold his tongue, he might be
a success. His wife is over there. Her eyes are always weeping for the
loss of her beauty. Your father wanted to marry her in his youth. But
give me people who don't bother about such tiresome conventionalities
as marriage."
Mavis looked curiously at the woman whom her father had loved.
Doubtless, she was comely in her youth, but now Mavis saw pouched eyes,
thin hair, a care-lined face not altogether innocent of paint and
powder. And it was those cracked lips her father had longed to kiss;
those dim eyes, the thought of which had, perhaps, shortened his hours
of rest! The sight of the faded beauty brought home to Mavis the vanity
of earthly love, till she reflected that, had the one-time desire of
her father's heart been gratified, the sorrow they would have shared in
common would ever endear her to his heart, and keep her the fairest
woman the earth possessed, for all the defacement time might make in
her appearance.
When the men came up from the dining-room, there was intermittent music
in which Mavis took part. The sincerity of her voice, together with its
message of tears, awoke genuine approval in her audience.
"An artiste, my dear," declared Lady Ludlow. "Artistes have always a
touch of vulgarity in their natures, or they wouldn't make their
appeal. We must be great friends. I'm sick to death of correct people."
For the rest of the evening, Mavis noticed how she herself was
constantly watched by Windebank and Major Perigal, the former of whom
dropped his eyes when he saw that Mavis perceived the direction of his
glance. As the evening wore on, Mavis was faintly bored and not a
little troubled. She reflected that it was in these very rooms that
Charlie Perigal had read her piteous little letters from London, and
from where he probably penned his lying replies. Mavis would have liked
to have been alone so that she could try to appreciate the whys and
wherefores of the most significant events in her life. The conditions
of her last stay in London and those of her present life were as the
poles apart so far as material well-being was concerned; her mind ached
to fasten upon some explanation that would reconcile the tragic events
in her life with her one-time implicit faith in the certain protection
extended by a Heavenly Father to His trusting children. Perhaps it was
as well that Mavis was again asked to sing; the effort of remembering
her words put all such thoughts from her mind.
Whatever clouds may have gathered about Mavis's appreciation of the
evening, there was no doubt of the enjoyment of those Devitts who were
present. The dinner was, to them, an event of social moment in their
lives. Although they looked as if they had got into the dignified
atmosphere of Major Perigal's drawing-room by mistake, they were
greatly delighted with their evening; afterwards, they did not fail to
make copious references to those they had met at dinner to their
Melkbridge friends.
A month after the dinner, Major Perigal died suddenly in his chair. Two
days after he was buried, Mavis received an intimation from his
solicitors, which requested her presence at the reading of his will.
Wondering what was toward, Mavis made an appointment. To her boundless
astonishment, she learned that Major Perigal, "on account of the esteem
in which he held the daughter of his old friend, Colonel Keeves," had
left Mavis all his worldly goods, with the exception of bequests to
servants and five hundred pounds to his son Charles.