One morning, when Mavis was leaving Harold, she was recalled by one of
the nurses. He had signalled that he wished to see her again. Upon
Mavis hastening to his side, he tried to speak, but could not. His eyes
seemed to smile a last farewell till unconsciousness possessed him.
As before, Mavis called in the most expensive medical advice, which
told her that nothing could be done. It appeared that Harold's spine
had commenced to curve in such a manner that his lungs were seriously
affected. It was only a question of months before the slight thread, by
which his life hung, would be snapped. Mavis knew of many cases in
which enfeebled lungs had been bolstered up for quite a long time by a
change to suitable climates; she was eager to know if the same held
good in her husband's case.
"Oh yes," said the great specialist. "There were parts of South Africa
where the veld air was so rarefied that a patient with scarcely any
lung at all might live for several years. But--"
"But what?" asked Mavis.
"If I may say so, he will never be other than what he now is. Would it
be advisable to prolong--?"
The expression on Mavis's face stopped him short in the middle of his
question.
"Of course, if you've decided to send him, it's quite another matter,"
he went on. "In that case, you cannot be too careful in seeing he has
the most reliable attendants procurable."
Mavis hesitated the fraction of a second before replying:
"I should go with him."
It needed only that brief moment for Mavis to make up her mind. She
would do her utmost to prolong her husband's life; she would accompany
him wherever he went to obtain this end.
In making this last resolve, Mavis knew well the trials and discomforts
to which she would expose herself. Her well-ordered days, her present
existence, which seemed to run on oiled wheels, the friends and
refinements with which she had surrounded herself, the more
particularly appealed to her when contrasted with the lean years of her
earlier life. Her days of want, joined to her natural inclinations, had
created a hunger for the good things of the earth, which her present
opulence had not yet stayed. She still held out her hands to grasp the
beautiful, satisfying things which money, guided by a mind of some
force and a natural refinement, can buy. Therefore, it was a
considerable sacrifice for Mavis to give up the advantage she not only
possessed, but keenly appreciated, to tend a man who was a physical and
mental wreck, in a part of the world remote from civilising influences.
But, together with her grief for the loss of her boy, there lived in
her heart an immense and ineradicable remorse for having married her
husband from motives of revenge against his family.
Harold's living faith in her goodness kept these regrets green;
otherwise, the kindly hand of time would have rooted them from her
heart.
"Do you believe?" Mavis had once asked of her husband on a day when she
had been troubled by things of the spirit.
"In you," he had replied, which was all she could get from him on the
subject.
His reply was typical of the whole-hearted reverence with which he
regarded her.
Mavis believed that to tend her husband in the land where existence
might prolong his life would be some atonement for the deception she
had practised. When she got a further eminent medical opinion, which
confirmed the previous doctor's diagnosis, she set about making
preparations for the melancholy journey. These took her several times
to London; they proved to be of a greater magnitude than she had
believed to be possible.
When driving to a surgical appliance manufacturer on one of these
visits, she saw an acquaintance of her old days playing outside a
public house. It was Mr Baffy, the bass viol player, who was fiddling
his instrument as helplessly as ever, while he stared before him with
vacant eyes. Mavis stopped her cab, went up to his bent form and put a
sovereign into his hand as she said:
"Do you remember me?"
The vacant manner in which his eyes stared into hers told Mavis that he
had forgotten her.
When Mavis's friends learned of her resolution, they were unanimous in
urging her to reconsider what they called her Quixotic fancy. Lady
Ludlow was greatly concerned at losing her friend for an indefinite
period; she pointed out the uselessness of the proceeding; she
endeavoured to overwhelm Mavis's obstinacy in the matter with a torrent
of argument. She may as well have talked to the Jersey cows which
grazed about Mavis's house, for any impression she produced. After a
while, Mavis's friends, seeing, that she was determined, went their
several ways, leaving her to make her seemingly endless preparations in
peace.
Alone among her friends, Windebank had not contributed to the appeals
to Mavis with reference to her leaving England with her husband: for
all this forbearing to express an opinion, he made himself useful to
Mavis in the many preparations she was making for her departure and
stay in South Africa. So ungrudgingly did he give his time and
assistance, that Mavis undervalued his aid, taking it as a matter of
course.
Three days before it was arranged that Mavis should leave Southampton
with Harold, her resolution faltered. The prospect of leaving her home,
which she had grown to love, increased its attractions a thousand-fold.
The familiar objects about her, some of which she had purchased, had
enabled her to sustain her manifold griefs. Cattle in the stables (many
of which were her dear friends), with the passage of time had become
part and parcel of her lot. A maimed wild duck, which she had saved
from death, waited for her outside the front door, and followed her
with delighted quacks when she walked in the gardens. All of these
seemed to make their several appeals, as if beseeching her not to leave
them to the care of alien hands. Her dearly loved Jill she was taking
with her. Another deprivation that she would keenly feel would be the
music her soul loved. Whenever she was assailed by her remorseless
troubles in London, she would hasten, if it were possible, to either
the handiest and best orchestral concert, or a pianoforte recital where
Chopin was to be played. The loneliness, sorrowings, and longings of
which the master makers of music (and particularly the consumptive
Pole) were eloquent, found kinship with her own unquiet thoughts, and
companionship is a notorious assuager of griefs.
Physical, and particularly mental illness, was hateful to her. If the
truth be told, it was as much as she could do to overcome the
repugnance with which her husband's presence often inspired her,
despite the maternal instinct of which her love for Harold was, for the
most part, composed. In going with him abroad, she was, in truth,
atoning for any wrong she may have done him.
Two days later, Mavis occupied many hours in saying a last farewell to
her home. It was one of the October days which she loved, when
milk-white clouds sailed lazily across the hazy blue peculiar to the
robust ripe age of the year. This time of year appealed to Mavis,
because it seemed as if its mellow wisdom, born of experience,
corresponded to a like period in the life of her worldly knowledge. The
prize-bred Jersey cows grazed peacefully in the park grounds. Now and
again, she would encounter an assiduous bee, which was taking advantage
of the fineness of the day to pick up any odds and ends of honey which
had been overlooked by his less painstaking brethren. Mavis, with heavy
heart, visited stables, dairies, poultry-runs. These last were well at
the back of the house; beyond them, the fields were tipped up at all
angles; they sprawled over a hill as if each were anxious to see what
was going on in the meadow beneath it. Followed by Jill and Sally, her
lame duck, Mavis went to the first of the hill-fields, where geese,
scarcely out of their adolescence, clamoured about her hands with their
soothing, self-contented piping. Even the fierce old gander, which was
the terror of stray children and timid maid-servants, deigned to notice
her with a tolerant eye. Mavis sighed and went indoors.
Just before tea, she was standing at a window sorrowfully watching the
sun's early retirement. The angle of the house prevented her from
seeing her favourite cows, but she could hear the tearing sound their
teeth made as they seized the grass.
She had seen nothing of her friends (even including Windebank) for the
last few days. They had realised that she was not to be stopped from
going on what they considered to be her mad enterprise, and had given
her up as a bad job. No one seemed to care what became of her; it was
as if she were deserted by the world. A sullen anger raged within her;
she would not acknowledge to herself that much of it was due to
Windebank's latent defection. She longed to get away and have done with
it; the suspense of waiting till the morrow was becoming intolerable.
As the servants were bringing in tea, Mavis could no longer bear the
confinement of the house; she hurried past the two men to go out of the
front door.
She walked at random, going anywhere so long as she obeyed the passion
for movement which possessed her. Some way from the house, she chanced
upon Windebank, who was standing under a tree.
"Why are you here?" she asked, as she stood before him.
"I was making up my mind."
"What about?"
"If I should see you again."
"You needn't. Do you hear? You needn't," she said passionately. He
looked at her surprised. She went on:
"Everyone's forgotten me and doesn't care one bit what becomes of me.
You're the worst of all."
"I?"
"You. They're honest and stay away. You, in your heart, don't wish to
trouble to say good-bye, but you haven't the pluck to act up to your
wishes. I hate you!"
"But, Mavis--"
"Don't call me that. You haven't the courage of your convictions. I
hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I wish I'd never seen you. Be honest
and go away and leave me."
"No!" cried Windebank, as he seized her arm.
"That's right! Strike me!" cried Mavis, reckless of what she said.
"I'm going to be honest at last and tell you something," he declared.
"More insults!"
"It is an insult this time, but all the same you'll hear it."
Mavis was a little awed by the resolution in his face and manner. He
went on now a trifle hoarsely:
"Little Mavis, I love you more than I ever believed it possible for man
to love woman. I've tried to forget you, but I want you more and more."
"How--how dare you!" she cried.
"Because I love you. And because I do, I've fought against seeing you;
but as you've come to me and you're going away to-morrow, I must tell
you."
Mavis was less resentful of his words; she resisted an inclination to
tremble violently.
"Don't go," urged Windebank.
"Where?"
"Abroad. Don't go and leave me. I love you."
"How can you! Harold was your friend."
"My enemy. He took you from me when I was sure of you; my enemy, I tell
you. Oh, little Mavis, let me make you happy. You can do no good going
with him, so why not stay? I'd give my life to hold you in my arms, and
I know I'd make you happy."
"You mustn't; you mustn't," murmured Mavis, as she strove to believe
that his words and the grasp of his hand on her arm did not minister to
the repressed, but, none the less ardent longings of her being.
"I must. I tell you I haven't been near a woman since I struck you
again in Pimlico, and all for love of you. I've waited. Now, I'll get
you."
Windebank placed his arms about her and kissed her lips, eyes, and hair
many, many times. Then he held her at arm's length, while his eyes
looked fixedly into hers.
A delicious inertia stole over Mavis's senses. He had only to kiss her
again for her to fall helplessly into his arms.
Although she realised the enormity of his offence, something within her
seemed to impel her to wind her arm about his neck and draw his lips to
hers. Instead, she summoned all her resolution; striking him full in
the face, she freed herself to run quickly from him. As she ran, she
strove to hide from herself that, in her inmost heart, she was longing
for him to overtake her, seize her about the body, and carry her off,
as might some primeval man, to some lair of his own, where he would
defend her with his life against any who might seek to disturb her
peace.
But Windebank did not follow her. That night she sobbed herself to
sleep. The next morning, Mavis left with Harold for Southampton.
Many months later, Mavis, clad in black, stood, with Jill at her side,
on the deck of a ship that was rapidly steaming up Southampton water.
Her eyes were fixed on the place where they told her she would land.
The faint blurs on the landing pier gradually assumed human shape; one
on which she fixed her eyes became suspiciously like Windebank. When
she could no longer doubt that he was waiting to greet her, she went
downstairs to her cabin, to pin a bright ribbon on her frock. When he
joined her on the steamer, neither of them spoke for a few moments.
"I got your letter from--" he began.
"Don't say anything about it," she interrupted. "I know you're sorry,
but I'd rather not talk of it."
Windebank turned his attentions to Jill, to say presently to Mavis:
"Are you staying here or going on?"
"I don't know. I think I'll stay a little. And you?"
"I'll stay too, if you've no objection."
"I should like it."
Windebank saw to the luggage and drove Mavis to the barrack-like
South-Western Hotel; then, after seeing she had all she wanted, he went
to his own hotel to dress for his solitary dinner. He had scarcely
finished this meal when he was told that a lady wished to speak to him
on the telephone. She proved to be Mavis, who said:
"If you've nothing better to do, come and take me out for some air."
The next few days, they were continually together, when they would
mostly ramble by the old-world fortifications of the town. During all
this time, neither of them made any mention of events in the past in
which they were both concerned.
One evening, an unexpected shower of rain disappointed Windebank's
expectation of seeing Mavis after dinner. He telephoned to her, saying
that, after coming from a hot climate, she must not trust herself out
in the wet.
He was cursing the weather and wondering how he would get through the
evening without her, when a servant announced that a lady wished to see
him. The next moment, Mavis entered his sitting-room. He noticed that
she had changed her black frock for one of brighter hue.
"Why have you come?" he asked, when the servant had gone.
"To see you. Don't you want me?"
"Yes, but--"
"Then sit down and talk; or rather don't. I want to think."
"You could have done that better alone."
"I want to think," she repeated.
They sat for some time in silence, during which Windebank longed to
take her in his arms and shower kisses on her lips.
Presently, when she got up to leave, she found so much to say that she
continually put off going. At last, when they were standing near the
door, Mavis put her face provokingly near his. He bent, meaning to kiss
her hair, but instead his lips fell on hers.
To his surprise, Mavis covered his mouth with kisses. Windebank's eyes
expressed astonishment, while his arm gripped her form.
"Forgive me; forgive me," she murmured.
"What for?" he gasped.
"I've been a brute, a beast, and you've never once complained."
"Dearest!"
"It's true enough; too true. All your life you've given me love, and
all I've given you are doubts and misunderstandings. But I'll atone,
I'll atone now. I'm yours to do what you will with, whenever you
please, now, here, if you wish it. You needn't marry me; I won't bind
you down; I only ask you to be kind to me for a little, I've suffered
so much."
"You mean--you mean--"
"That you've loved me so long and so much that I can only reward you by
giving you myself."
She opened her arms. He looked at her steadily for a while, till, with
a great effort, he tore himself from her presence and left the room.
The next morning, Mavis received a letter from Windebank.
"My own dearest love," it ran, "don't think me a mug for leaving you
last night as I did, but I love you so dearly that I want to get you
for life and don't wish to run any risk of losing what I treasure most
on earth. I am making arrangements so that we can get married at the
very earliest date, which I believe is three days from now. And then--"
Mavis did not read any more just then.
"When and where you please," she scribbled on the first piece of paper
she could find. Lady Ludlow's words occurred to her as she sent off her
note by special messenger: "A woman is always safe with the man who
loves her."
Three days later, Windebank and Mavis were made man and wife. For all
Windebank's outward impassivity, Mavis noticed that, when he put the
ring on her finger, his hand trembled so violently that he all but
dropped it. Directly the wedding was over, Windebank and Mavis got into
the former's motor, which was waiting outside the church.
"At last!" said Windebank, as he sat beside his wife.
"Where next?" asked Mavis.
"To get Jill and your things and then we'll get away."
"Where to? I hope it's right away, somewhere peaceful in the country."
"We'll go on till you come to a place you like."
They went west. They had lunched in high spirits at a wayside inn,
which took Mavis's fancy, to continue travelling till the late
afternoon, when the machine came to a dead stop.
"We'll have to camp in a ditch," said Mavis.
"How you'd curse me if we had to!" said her husband.
"It would be heaven with you," she declared.
Windebank reverently kissed her.
He saw that the car wanted spirit, which he learned could be bought at
a village a short way ahead. Mavis and Jill accompanied Windebank to
the general shop where petrol was sold.
"I can't let you out of my sight," she said, as they set out.
"Why not?"
"You might run off."
He laughed. By the time they reached the shop, Mavis had quite emerged
from the sobriety of her demeanour to become an approximation to her
old light-hearted self.
"That's how I love to see you," remarked Windebank.
When they entered the shop, Mavis' face fell.
"What's the matter?" he asked, all concern for his wife.
"Don't you smell paraffin?"
"What of it?"
"It takes me back to Pimlico--that night when we went shopping
together--you bought me a shilling's worth."
"I wish someone would come; then we'd get out of it," remarked
Windebank.
But his wife did not appear to listen; she was lost in thought. Then
she clung desperately to his arm.
"What is it?" he asked tenderly.
"It's love I want; love. Nothing else matters. Love me: love me: love
me. A little love will help me to forget."