Thus it would seem as if fate wished to make amends for the sorry
tricks it had played Mavis. Her first impressions after hearing the
news were of such a contradictory nature that she was quite bewildered.
Those present at the reading of the will, together with Montague
Devitt, who had accompanied her, hastened to offer their
congratulations (those of Devitt being chastened by the reflection of
how much his daughter Victoria suffered from Mavis's good fortune),
but, even while these were talking and shaking her hand, two salient
emotions were already emerging from the welter in Mavis's mind. One of
these was an immeasurable, passionate regret for her child's untimely
death. If he had lived, she would now have been able to devote her
sudden enrichment to providing him, not only with the comforts that
wealth can secure, but also with a career when he should come to man's
estate. The other emotion possessing her was the inevitable effect of
unexpected good fortune on a great and persistent remorse: more than
ever, she suffered tortures of self-reproach for having set out to
marry her husband from motives of revenge against his family. Whilst
thus occupied with her thoughts, she became conscious that someone was
watching her; she turned in the direction from which she believed she
was being regarded, to see Charlie Perigal with his eyes fixed on her.
She looked him full in the eyes, the while she was relieved to find
that his presence did not affect the beating of her heart. Seeing that
she did not avoid his glance, he came over to her.
"I congratulate you," he said.
"Thank you," she replied indifferently.
"I have also to congratulate you on your marriage--that is, if you are
happy."
"I am very happy," she declared with conviction.
"That's more than I am."
"Indeed!" she remarked carelessly.
"Although, in some respects, I deserve all I've got--I'm bad and mean
right through."
"Indeed!" said Mavis, as before.
"But there's something to be said for me. To begin with, no one can
help being what they are. There's no more merit in your being good than
there is demerit in my being what I am."
"Did I ever lay claim to goodness?"
"Because you didn't, it goes nearer to making you good and admirable
than anything else you could do. Directly virtue becomes
self-conscious, it is vulgar."
Mavis began to wonder if it would ease the pain at her heart if she
were to confess her duplicity to her husband.
Perigal continued:
"An act is judged by its results; it is considered either virtuous or
vicious according as its results are harmful or helpful to the person
affected."
"Indeed!" said Mavis absently.
"Once upon a time, there was no right and no wrong, till one man in the
human tribe got more than his fair share of arrow-heads--then, his wish
to keep them without fighting for them led to the begetting of vice and
virtue as we know it."
"How was that?" asked Mavis, striving to escape from her distracting
emotions by following what Perigal was saying.
"The man with the arrow-heads hired a chap with a gift of the gab to
tell the others how wrong it was to want things someone else had
collared. That was the first lesson in morality, and the preacher,
seeing there was money in the game, started the first priesthood. Yes,
morality owes its existence to the fact of the well-to-do requiring to
be confirmed in their possessions without having to defend them by
force."
Mavis was now paying no attention to Perigal's talk: mind and heart
were in Pennington Churchyard. Perigal, thinking he was interesting
Mavis, went on:
"You mayn't think it, but a bad egg like me does no end of a lot of
good in the world, although downright criminals do more. If it weren't
for people who interfered with others' belongings, the race would get
slack and deteriorate. It's having to look after one's property which
keeps people alert and up to the mark, and, therefore, those who're the
cause of this fitness have their uses. No, my dear Mavis, evil is a
necessary ingredient of the body politic, and if it were abolished
to-morrow the race would go to 'pot.'"
Perigal said more to the same effect. Mavis was, presently, moved to
remark:
"You take the loss of the money you expected very calmly."
"No wonder!"
"No wonder?" she queried, without expressing any surprise in her voice.
"To begin with, you have it. Then I've seen you."
Mavis thought for a moment before saying:
"I suppose, as I'm another man's wife, I ought to be angry at that
remark."
"Aren't you?" he asked eagerly.
She did not reply directly; perhaps some recognition of the coldness
with which she regarded him penetrated his understanding, for he added
pleadingly:
"Don't say you don't mind because you're absolutely indifferent to me!"
"Why not?"
"Anything but that," he said, while a distressed look crept into his
eyes. "But then, if you speak the truth, you couldn't say that after
all that has--
"I'm going to speak the truth," she interrupted. "It doesn't interest
me to say anything else."
"Well?" he exclaimed anxiously.
"I don't in the least mind what you said. And I'm not in the least
offended, because, whatever you might ever say or do, it would never
interest me."
He stared at her helplessly for a few moments before saying:
"Serve me jolly well right."
Mavis did not say any more, at which Perigal got up to leave her.
"I've been a precious fool," he muttered, after glancing at Mavis's
face before moving away.
Devitt scarcely spoke whilst driving Mavis home; consequently, her
thoughts had free play. It would certainly ease her mind, she
reflected, if she made full confession to her husband of the reasons
that impelled her to make his acquaintance and accept his offer of
marriage; but it then occurred to her that this tranquillity of soul
would be bought at the price, not only of his implicit faith in her,
but of his happiness. Therefore, whatever pangs of remorse it was
destined for her to suffer, he must never know; she being the offender,
it was not meet that she should shift the burden of pain from her
shoulders to his. Her sufferings were her punishment for her wrongdoing.
Mrs Devitt and Miss Spraggs were silent when they learned of Mavis's
good fortune; they were torn between enhanced respect for Harold's wife
and concern for Victoria, who had married a penniless man. Mavis could
not gauge the effect of the news on Victoria, as she had gone back to
London after Major Perigal's funeral, her husband remaining at
Melkbridge for the reading of the will. Harold, alone among the
Devitts, exhibited frank dismay at his wife's good fortune.
"Aren't you glad, dearest?" asked Mavis.
"For your sake."
"Why not for yours?"
"It's the thing most likely to separate us."
"Separate us!" she cried in amazement.
"Why not? This money will put you in the place in life you are entitled
to fill."
Mavis stared at him in astonishment.
"With your appearance and talents you should be a great social success
with the people who matter," he continued.
"Nonsense!"
"You undervalue your wonderful self. I should never have been so
selfish as to marry you."
"You don't regret it?"
"For the great happiness it has brought me--no. But when I think how
you might have made a great marriage and had a real home--"
"Aren't we going to have a real home?" she interrupted.
"Are we?"
"If it's love that makes the home, we have one whatever our condition,"
declared Mavis.
"Thank you for saying that. But what I meant was that children are
wanted to make the perfect home."
Mavis's face fell.
"You, with your rare nature, must want to have a child," he continued.
"I don't know which must be worse: for a childless woman to long for a
child or to have one and lose it."
Mavis grasped the arm of the chair for support.
"What's the matter?" he asked, alarmed.
"What you said. Don't, don't say I'm dissatisfied any more."
Thus Mavis and those nearest to her learned of the alteration in her
fortunes.
Mavis was not long in discovering that the command of money provided
her with a means of escape from the prepossessions afflicting her mind.
The first thing she did was to summon the most renowned nerve
specialists to Melkbridge, where they held a lengthy consultation in
respect of Harold's physical condition. Mavis was anxious to know if
anything could be done to strengthen the slender thread of his life;
she was much distressed to learn that the specialists' united skill
could do nothing to stay the pitiless course of his disease. This
verdict provided a further sorrow for Mavis, which she had to keep
resolutely to herself, inasmuch as she told Harold that the doctors had
spoken most favourably of the chances of his obtaining considerable
alleviation of his physical distresses.
"And then you regret my coming into all this money, when it can do so
much for you," she said, with a fine assumption of cheerfulness.
To get some distraction from her many troubles, Mavis next set about
seeking out all the people who had ever been kind to her in order that
they should benefit from her good fortune.
It did not take her long to discover that Miss Annie Mee was dead; but
for all she and her solicitors were able to do, they could find no
trace of 'Melia. Mavis paid Mr Poulter's debts, gave him a present of a
hundred pounds (endowing the academy he called it), and, in memory of
Miss Nippett, she gave "Turpsichor" two fine new coats of paint. Mavis
also discovered where Miss Nippett was buried, and, finding that the
grave had no headstone, she ordered one. To Mrs Scatchard and her niece
she made handsome presents, and gave Mr Napper a finely bound edition
of the hundred best books; whilst Mr and Mrs Trivett were made
comfortable for life. Mavis was unable to find two people she was
anxious to help. These were the "Permanent" and the "Lil" of Halverton
Street days. One day, clad in shabby garments, she went to Mrs Gowler's
address at New Cross to get news of the former. But the house of evil
remembrance was to let; a woman at the next door house told Mavis that
Mrs Gowler had been arrested and had got ten years for the misdeeds
which the police had at last been able to prove. Mavis went on a
similar errand to Halverton Street, to find that Lil had long since
left and that there was no one in the house who knew of her
whereabouts. She had been lost in one of the many foul undercurrents of
London life. The one remaining person Mavis wished to benefit was Miss
Toombs. For a long time, this independent-minded young woman resisted
the offers that Mavis made her. One day, however, when Miss Toombs was
laid up with acute indigestion, Mavis prevailed on her to accept a
handsome cheque which would enable her to do what she pleased for the
rest of her life, without endangering the happiness she derived from
tea, buttered toast, and hot-water bottles in winter.
"It was unkind of you not to take it before," said Mavis.
Miss Toombs looked stupidly at her benefactor.
"Now I know you want to thank me. Good night," said Mavis, as she put
out her hand.
Miss Toombs took it, gripped it, and then turned round with her face to
the wall. The next morning, Mavis received a letter from her in pencil.
In this, she told Mavis that the desire of her life had been for
independence; but that she had held out against taking the money
because she had latterly become jealous of Mavis, owing to Windebank's
lifelong infatuation for her.
In addition to these benefactions, Mavis insisted on repaying Windebank
for all the expense he had been put to for her illness, her child's
funeral, and for her long stay at Swanage.
Thus, Mavis's first concern was to benefit those who had shown her
kindness; whether or not she added to the sum of their individual
happiness is another matter. Mr Poulter, doubtless, thought that dear
Mrs Harold Devitt, while she was about it, might just as well have
gilded "Turpsichor's" head and face. Mrs Scatchard, and particularly
Miss Meakin, were probably resentful that Mavis did not ask them to mix
with her swell friends; whilst Miss Toombs had plenty of time on her
hands in which to indulge in vain regrets because she was not as
attractive and finely formed as Mavis.
Beyond these gifts, it was a long time before Mavis could get into the
habit of spending her substance freely, and without thought of whether
she could really afford to part with money; the reason being that, for
so many years in her life, she had had to consider so carefully every
penny she spent, that she found it difficult to break away from these
habits of economy. Late in the year, she moved up from her Melkbridge
place (which she had long since gone into) to the house in town which
Major Perigal had been in the habit of letting, or, if a tenant were
not forthcoming, shutting up.
When she got there with Harold and Jill, she welcomed the distractions
that London life offered, and in which her husband joined so far as his
physical disability would permit. Windebank, to whom Harold took a
great liking, and Lady Ludlow introduced Mavis to their many
acquaintances. In a very short time, Mavis had more dear, devoted
friends than she knew what to do with. The women, who praised her and
her devotion "to a perfect dear of a husband" to her face, would, after
enjoying her hospitality, go away to discuss openly how soon she would
elope with Windebank, or any other man they fancied was paying her
attention.
Mavis was not a little surprised by the almost uniform behaviour of the
men who frequented her house. Old or young, rich or impecunious,
directly they perceived how comely Mavis was, and that her husband was
an invalid, did not hesitate to consider her fair game to be bagged as
soon as may be. Looks, manners, veiled words, betrayed their thoughts;
but, somehow, even the hardiest veteran amongst them did not get so far
as a declaration of love. Something in Mavis's demeanour suggested a
dispassionate summing up of their desires and limitations, in which the
latter made the former appear a trifle ridiculous, and restrained the
words that were ever on their tongues. This propensity on the part of
men who, Mavis thought, ought to know better, occasioned her much
disquiet. She confided these tribulations to Lady Ludlow's ear.
"Men are all alike all the world over," remarked the latter, on hearing
Mavis's complaint. "You can't trust 'em further than you can see 'em."
"Not all, surely," replied Mavis, thinking of the innocuous young men,
indigenous to Shepherd's Bush, whom she had so often danced with at
"Poulter's."
"Anyhow, men in our class of life are all at one on that point.
Directly they see a pretty woman, their one idea is to get hold of her."
"I wouldn't believe it, unless I'd seen for myself the truth of it."
"It's a great pity all of our sex didn't realise it; but then it would
make the untempted more morally righteous than ever," declared Lady
Ludlow.
"But if a man really and truly loves a woman--"
"That's another story altogether. A woman is always safe with the man
who loves her."
"Because his love is her best protection?"
"Assuredly."
The sudden reflection that Perigal had never really loved her produced,
strangely enough, in Mavis a sharp but short-lived revulsion of feeling
in his favour. On the whole, Mavis's, heart inclined to social gaiety.
To begin with, the constant change afforded by a succession of events
which, although all of a piece, were to her unseasoned senses ever
varying, provided some relief from the remorse and suffering that were
always more or less in possession of her heart. Also, having for all
her life been cut off from the gaieties natural to her age and kind,
her present innocent dissipations were a satisfaction of this long
repressed social instinct.
But, at all times, Windebank's conduct was a puzzle. Although he had
the run of the house, although scarcely a day passed without Mavis
seeing a good deal of him, he never betrayed by word or look the love
which Miss Toombs declared burned within him for Mavis. He had left the
service in order to devote more time to his Wiltshire property, but his
duties seemed to consist chiefly in making himself useful to Mavis or
her husband. Womanlike, Mavis would sometimes try to discover her power
over him, but although no trouble was too great for him to take in
order to oblige her, Mavis's most provoking moods neither weakened his
allegiance nor made him other than his calm, collected self.
"No! Miss Toombs is mistaken," thought Mavis. "He doesn't love me; he
but understands and pities me."
A week before Christmas, Mavis and her husband returned to Melkbridge.
Christmas Day that year fell on a Sunday. Upon the preceding Saturday,
she bade her many Melkbridge acquaintances to the feast. When this was
over, she wished her guests good night and a happy Christmas. After
seeing her husband safely abed and asleep, she set about making
preparations for a project that she had long had in her mind. Going to
her room, she put on the plainest and most inconspicuous hat she could
find; she also donned a long cloak and concealed face and hair in a
thick veil. Unlocking a box, she got out a cross made of holly, which
she concealed under her cloak. Then, after listening to see if the
house were quiet, she went downstairs in her stockings, and carrying
the thick boots she purposed wearing. Arrived at the front door, the
bolts and bars of which she had secretly oiled, she opened this after
putting on her boots, and let herself out into the night. Vigorous
clouds now and again obscured the stars: the world seemed full of a
great peace. Mavis waited to satisfy herself that she had not awakened
anyone in the house; she then struck out in the direction of
Pennington. It was only on the rarest occasions that Mavis could visit
her boy's grave, when she had to employ the greatest circumspection to
avoid being seen. Although since her translation from insignificance to
affluence and local importance, she was remarkably well known in and
about Melkbridge, and although her lightest acts were subjects of
common gossip, she could not let Christmas go by without taking the
risk that a visit to the churchyard at Pennington would entail. Her
greatest fear of detection was in going through the town, but she kept
well under the shadows of the town hall side of the market-place, so
that the policeman, who was there on duty, walking-stick in hand, would
not see her. Once in the comparative security of the Pennington road,
she hurried past dark inanimate cottages and farmsteads, whilst
overhead familiar constellations sprawled in a now clear sky. Several
times on her progress, she fancied that she heard footsteps striking
the hard, firm road behind her, but, whenever she stopped to listen,
she could not hear a sound. Just as she reached the brewery at
Pennington, clouds obscured the stars; she had some difficulty in
picking her way in the darkness. When she got to the churchyard gate,
happily unlocked, it was still so dark that she had to light matches in
order to avoid stumbling on the graves. Even with the help of matches,
it was as much as she could do to find her way to the plain white stone
on which only the initials of her boy and the dates of his birth and
death were recorded. When she got to the grave, the wind had blown out
so many of her matches that she had only four left. One of these she
lit in order to place the holly cross on the grave; she had just time
to put it where she wanted it to lie, when the match went out. She
knelt on the ground, while her heart went out to what was lying so many
feet beneath.
"Oh, my dear! my dear!" she cried, but the sound of her own voice
startled her into silence. The cry of her heart was:
"What is all that I have worth without you! How gladly would I give up
my all, if only I could hold you warm and breathing in my arms!"
Then she fell to thinking what a joyous time would be hers at this
season of the year, were her boy alive and if they were going to spend
Christmas together. Pain possessed her; its operation seemed to isolate
her from the world that she had lately known. She breathed an
atmosphere of anguish; the mourning that the presence of those in the
churchyard had caused their loved ones seemed to find expression in her
heart, till, happily, tears eased her pain.
Then she became conscious of the physical discomfort occasioned by
kneeling on the ground in the cold night air.
She got up. In order to take a last look at the grave, she lit another
match. This burned steadily, enabling her to glance about her to see
what companionship her boy possessed on this drear December night. The
feeble match flame intensified the gloom and emphasised the deep, black
quietude of the place. This hamlet of the dead was amazingly remote
from all suggestions of life. It appeared to hug itself for its
complete detachment from human interests. It seemed desolate, alone,
forgotten by the world. As Mavis left its stillness, she thought:
"At least he's found a great peace."
Before Mavis left the churchyard, the stars enabled her to discern her
path. She hastened in the direction of Melkbridge, wondering if her
absence had been discovered. As before, she believed that she was
followed, but strove to think that the footsteps she was all but
certain she heard were the echo of her own. As she hurried through the
town, this impression became a conviction. She was alarmed, and
resolved to find out who it was who had elected to spy upon her
actions. When she came to the place where the road branched off to her
house, she concealed herself in the shadow of the wall. She had not
long to wait. Very soon, the tall upright figure of a man swung into
the road in which she was standing. One glance was enough to tell her
that it was Windebank. As he was about to pass her, he paused as if to
listen.
"Who are you looking for?" asked Mavis, who was anxious to discover
what he was doing out of doors.
"Let me see you home," he said coldly.
"If anyone sees us, they will think--" she began.
"We shan't meet anyone. It's not safe for you to be out."
They walked in silence. As he did not express the least surprise at
finding her out alone in the small hours of the morning, Mavis believed
that he had divined her intention of going to Pennington and had hung
about the house till she had come out, when he had followed, all the
way to and from her destination, in order to protect her from harm.
"Good night," he said, as he stopped just before they reached the
nearest lodge gates of her grounds.
"Good night and thank you," replied Mavis.
"I won't wish you a very happy Christmas."
"May I wish you one?"
"Good night," he answered curtly.