"Do you know anything of Mr. Charlie Perigal?" asked Mavis of Miss Toombs and Miss Hunter the following day, as they were sipping their afternoon tea.
"Why?" asked Miss Hunter.
"I met him yesterday," replied Mavis.
"Do you mean that you were introduced to him?" asked Miss Hunter calmly.
"There was no occasion. I knew him when I was a girl."
"I can't say I knew him when I was a girl," retorted Miss Hunter. "But I know this much: he never goes to church."
"What of that?" snapped Miss Toombs.
Miss Hunter looked at the eldest present, astonished.
"Is that you talking?" she asked.
"Why, what did I say?"
"You spoke as if it were a matter of no consequence, a man not going to church."
"I can't have been thinking what I said," remarked Miss Toombs, as she put aside her teacup to go on with her work.
"I thought not," retorted Miss Hunter.
"You haven't told me very much about him," said Mavis.
"I've never heard much good of him," declared Miss Hunter.
"Men are scarcely expected to be paragons," said Mavis.
"When he was last at home, he was often about with Sir Archibald Windebank."
"I know him too," declared Mavis.
"Nonsense!"
"Why shouldn't I? His father was my father's oldest friend."
Miss Hunter winced; she stared fixedly at Mavis, with eyes in which admiration and envy were expressed. Later, when Mavis was leaving for the day, Miss Hunter fussed about her with many assurances of regard.
To Mavis's surprise, Miss Toombs joined her outside the factory—surprise, because the elder woman rarely spoke to her, seeming to avoid rather than cultivate her acquaintance.
"I can say here what I can't say before that little cat," remarked Miss Toombs.
Mavis stared at the plainly clad, stumpy little figure in astonishment.
"I mean it," continued Miss Toombs. "She's a designing little hypocrite. I know you're too good a sort to give me away."
"I didn't know you liked me well enough to confide in me," remarked Mavis.
"I don't like you."
"Why not?" asked Mavis, surprised at the other woman's candour.
"Look at you!" cried Miss Toombs savagely, as she turned away from Mavis. "But what I was also going to say was this: don't have too much to do with young Perigal."
"I'm not likely to."
"Don't, all the same. You're much too good for him."
"Why? Is he fast?" asked Mavis.
"It wouldn't matter if he were. But he is what some people call a 'waster.'"
"He admits that himself."
"He's a pretty boy. But I don't think he's the man to make a woman happy, unless—"
"Unless what?"
"She despised him or knocked him about."
"I won't forget," laughed Mavis.
"Good day."
"Won't you come home to tea?"
"No, thanks," said Miss Toombs, as she made off, to leave Mavis gazing at the ill-dressed, squat figure hurrying along the road.
As might be expected, Miss Hunter's and Miss Toombs' disparagement of Charlie Perigal but served to incline Mavis in his favour. She thought of him all the way home, and wondered how soon she would see him again. When she opened the door of her room, an overpowering scent of violets assailed her nostrils; she found it came from a square cardboard box which lay upon the table, having come by post addressed to her. The box was full of violets, upon the top of which was a card.
She snatched this up, to see if it would tell her who had sent the flowers. It merely read, "With love to Jill."
Her heart glowed with happiness to think that a man had gone to the trouble and expense of sending her violets. Before sitting down to her meal, she picked out a few of the finest to pin them in her frock; the others she placed in water in different parts of the room. If Mavis were inclined to forget Perigal, which she was not, the scent of the violets was enough to keep him in her mind until they withered.
She did not write to acknowledge the gift; she reserved her thanks till their next meeting, which she believed would not long be delayed. The following Saturday (she had seen nothing of Perigal in the meantime) she called on Mrs. Trivett at Pennington Farm. The farmyard, with its poultry, the old-world garden in which the house was situated, the discordant shrieks which the geese raised at her coming, took the girl's fancy. While waiting for the door to be opened, she was much amused at the inquisitive way in which the geese craned their heads through the palings in order to satisfy their curiosity.
The door was opened by a homely, elderly woman, who dropped a curtsey directly when she saw Mavis, who explained who she was.
"You're kindly welcome, miss, if you'll kindly walk inside. Trivett will be in soon."
Mavis followed the woman to the parlour, where her hostess dusted the chair before she was allowed to sit.
"Do please sit down," urged Mavis, as Mrs Trivett continued to stand.
"Thank you, miss. It isn't often we have such a winsome young lady like you to visit us," said Mrs Trivett, as she sat forward on her chair with her hands clasped on the side nearest to Mavis, a manner peculiar to country women.
"I can't get over your husband being a farmer as well as a musician," remarked Mavis.
Mrs Trivett shook her head sadly.
"It's a sad pity, miss; because his love of music makes him forget his farm."
"Indeed!"
"And since you praised his playing in church, he's spent the best part of the week at the piano."
"I am sorry."
"At least, he's been happy, although the cows did get into the hay and tread it down."
Mavis expressed regret.
"You'll stay to tea and supper, miss?"
"Do you know what you're asking?" laughed Mavis.
"It's the anniversary of the day on which I first met Trivett, and I've made a moorhen and rabbit-pie to celebrate it," declared Mrs Trivett.
Mavis was a little surprised at this piece of information, but she very soon learned that Mrs Trivett's life was chiefly occupied with the recollection and celebration of anniversaries of any and every event which had occurred in her life. Custom had cultivated her memory, till now, when nearly every day was the anniversary of something or other, she lived almost wholly in the past, each year being the epitome of her long life. When Trivett shortly came in from his work, he greeted Mavis with respectful warmth; then, he conducted his guest over the farm. Under his guidance, she inspected the horses, sheep, pigs and cows, to perceive that her conductor was much more interested in their physical attributes than in their contributive value to the upkeep of the farm.
"Do 'ee look at the roof of that cow barton," said Trivett presently.
"It is a fine red," declared Mavis.
"A little Red Riding Hood red, isn't it? But it's nothing to the roof of the granary. May I ask you to direct your attention to that?"
Mavis walked towards the granary, to see that thatch had been superimposed upon the tiles; this was worn away in places, revealing a roof of every variety of colour. She looked at it for quite a long time.
"Zomething of an artist, miss?" said Trivett.
"Quite uncreative," laughed Mavis.
"Then you're very lucky. You're spared the pain artists feel when their work doesn't meet with zuccess."
They returned to the kitchen, where Mavis feasted on newly-baked bread smoking hot from the oven, soaked in butter, home-made jam, and cake.
"I've eaten so much, you'll never ask me again," remarked Mavis.
"I'm glad you've a good appetite; it shows you make yourself at home," replied Mrs Trivett.
After tea, they went into the parlour, where it needed no second request on Mavis' part to persuade Mr Trivett to play. He extemporised on the piano for the best part of two hours, during which Mavis listened and dreamed, while Mrs Trivett undisguisedly went to sleep, a proceeding that excited no surprise on the musician's part. Supper was served in the kitchen, where Mavis partook of a rabbit and moorhen pie with new potatoes and young mangels mashed. She had never eaten the latter before; she was surprised to find how palatable the dish was. Mr and Mrs Trivett drank small beer, but their guest was regaled with cowslip wine, which she drank out of deference to the wishes of her kind host and hostess.
After supper, Mr Trivett solemnly produced a well-thumbed "Book of Jokes," from which he read pages of venerable stories. Although Mrs Trivett had heard them a hundred times before, she laughed consumedly at each, as if they were all new to her. Her appreciation delighted her husband. When Mavis rose to take her leave, Trivett, despite her protest, insisted upon accompanying her part of the way to Melkbridge. She bade a warm goodbye to kindly Mrs Trivett, who pressed her to come again and as often as she could spare the time.
"It do Trivett so much good to see a new face. It help him with his music," she explained.
"We might walk back by the canal," suggested Trivett. "It look zo zolemn by moonlight."
Upon Mavis' assenting, they joined the canal where the tow-path is at one with the road by the railway bridge.
"How long have you been in Pennington?" asked Mavis presently.
"A matter o' ten years. We come from North Petherton, near Tarnton."
"Then you didn't know my father?"
"No, miss, though I've heard tark of him in Melkbridge."
"Do you know anything of Mr Perigal?" she asked presently.
"Which one: the old or the young un?"
"Th—the old one."
"A queer old stick, they zay, though I've never set eyes on un. He don't hit it off with his zon, neither."
"Whose fault is that?"
"Both. Do 'ee know young Mr Charles?"
"I've met him."
"H'm!"
"What's the matter with him?"
Mr Trivett solemnly shook his head.
"What does that mean?"
"It's hard to zay. But from what I zee an' from what I hear tell, he be a deal too clever."
"Isn't that an advantage nowadays?"
"Often. But he's quarrelled with his feyther and zoon gets tired of everything he takes up."
Trivett's remarks increased Mavis' sympathy for Perigal. The more he had against him, the more necessary it was for those who liked him to make allowance for flaws in his disposition. Kindly encouragement might do much where censure had failed.
Days passed without Mavis seeing more of Perigal. His indifference to her existence hurt the little vanity that she possessed. At the same time, she wondered if the fact of her not having written to thank him for the violets had anything to do with his making no effort to seek her out. Her perplexities on the matter made her think of him far more than she might have done had she met him again. If Perigal had wished to figure conspicuously in the girl's thoughts, he could not have chosen a better way to achieve that result.
Some three weeks after her meeting with him, she was sitting in her nook reading, when she was conscious of a feeling of helplessness stealing over her. Then a shadow darkened the page. She looked up, to see Perigal standing behind her.
"Interesting?" he asked.
"Very."
"Sorry."
He moved away. Mavis tried to go on with her book, but could not fix her attention upon what she read. Her heart was beating rapidly. She followed the man's retreating figure with her eyes; it expressed a dejection that moved her pity. Although she felt that she was behaving in a manner foreign to her usual reserve, she closed her book, got up and walked after Perigal.
He heard her approaching and turned round.
"There's no occasion to follow me," he said.
"I won't if you don't wish it."
"I said that for your sake. You surely know that I didn't for mine."
"Why for my sake?"
"I've a beastly 'pip.' It's catching."
"Where did you catch it?"
"I've always got it more or less."
"I'm sorry. I've to thank you for those violets."
"Rot!"
"I was glad to get them."
"Really, really glad?" he asked, his face lightening.
"Of course. I love flowers."
"I see," he said coldly.
She made as if she would leave him, but, as before, felt a certain inertness in his presence which she was in no mood to combat; instead of going, she turned to him to ask:
"Anything happened to you since I last saw you?"
"The usual."
"What?"
"Depression and rows with my father."
"I thought you'd forget your promise."
"On the contrary, that's what all the row was about."
"How was that?"
"First of all, I told him that I had met you and all you told me about yourself."
"That made him angry?"
"And when I told him I wanted to have another shot at something, a jolly good shot this time, he said, 'I suppose that means you want money?'"
"What did you say?"
"One can't make money without. That's what all the row's been about. He's a fearful old screw."
"As well as I remember, my father always liked him."
"That was before I grew up to sour his life."
"Did you tell him how you saved Jill's life?" asked Mavis.
"I'd forgotten that, and I'm also forgetting my fishing."
"May I come too?"
"I've a spare rod if you care about having a go."
"I should love to. I've often thought I'd go in for it. It would be something to do in the evenings."
She walked with him a hundred yards further, where he had left two rods on the bank with the lines in the water; these had been carried by the current as far as the lengths of gut would permit.
"Haul up that one. I'll try this," said Perigal.
Mavis did as she was told, to find there was something sufficiently heavy at the end of her line to bend the top joint of her rod.
"I've got a fish!" she cried.
"Pull up carefully."
She pulled the line from the water, to find that she had hooked an old boot.
Perigal laughed at her discomfiture.
"It is funny, but you needn't laugh at me," she said, slightly emphasising the "you."
"Never mind. I'll bait your hook, and you must have another shot."
Her newly baited line had scarcely been thrown in the water when she caught a fine roach.
"You'd better have it stuffed," he remarked, as he took it off the hook.
"It's going to stuff me. I'll have it tomorrow for breakfast."
In the next hour, she caught six perch of various sizes, four roach, and a gudgeon. Perigal caught nothing, a fact that caused Mavis to sympathise with his bad luck.
"Next time you'll do all the catching," she said.
"You mean you'll fish with me again?"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Really, with me?"
"I like fish for breakfast," she said, as she turned from the ardour of his glance.
Presently, when they had "jacked up," as he called it, and walked together across the meadows in the direction of the town, she said little; she replied to his questions in monosyllables. She was wondering at and a little afraid of the accentuated feeling of helplessness in his presence which had taken possession of her. It was as if she had no mind of her own, but must submit her will to the wishes of the man at her side. They paused at the entrance to the churchyard, where he asked:
"And what have you been doing all this time?"
She told him of her visit to the Trivetts.
His face clouded as he said:
"Fancy you hobnobbing with those common people!"
"But I like them—the Trivetts, I mean. Whoever I knew, I should go and see them if I liked them," she declared, her old spirit asserting itself.
He looked at her in surprise, to say:
"I like to see you angry; you look awfully fine when that light comes into your eyes."
"And I don't like you at all when you say I shouldn't know homely, kindly people like the Trivetts."
"May I conclude, apart from that, you like me?" he asked. "Answer me; answer me!"
"I don't dislike you," she replied helplessly.
"That's something to go on with. But if I'd known you were going to throw yourself away on farmers, I'd have hung after you myself. Even I am better than that."
"Thanks. I can do without your assistance," she remarked.
"You think I didn't come near you all this time because I didn't care?"
"I don't think I thought at all about it."
"If you didn't, I did. I was longing, I dare not say how much, to see you again."
"Why didn't you?" she asked.
"For once in my life, I've tried to go straight."
"What do you mean?"
"You're the sort of girl to get into a man's blood; to make him mad, reckless, head over ears—"
"Hadn't we better go on?" she asked.
"Why—why?"
She had not thought him capable of such earnestness.
"Because I wish it, and because this churchyard is enough to give one the blues."
"I love it, now I'm talking to you."
"Love it?" she echoed.
"First of all, you in your youth, and—and your attractiveness—are such a contrast to everything about us. It emphasises you and—and—it tells me to snatch all the happiness one can, before the very little while when we are as they."
Here he pointed to the crowded graves.
"I'm going home," declared Mavis.
"May I come as far as your door?"
"Aren't you ashamed of being seen with me?"
"I'm very, very proud, little Mavis, and, if only my circumstances were different, I should say much more to you."
His vehemence surprised Mavis into silence; it also awoke a strange joy in her heart; she seemed to walk on air as they went towards her lodging.
"What are you thinking of?" he asked presently.
"You."
"Really?"
"I was wondering why you went out of your way to give people a bad opinion of you."
"I wasn't aware I was especially anxious to do that."
"You don't go to church."
"Are you like that?"
"Not particularly; but other people are, and that's what they say."
"Church is too amusing nowadays."
"I'm afraid my sense of humour isn't sufficiently developed."
"It's the parsons I'm thinking of. Once upon a time, when people went in for deadly sins, it gave 'em something to preach about. Now we all lead proper, discreet lives, they have to justify their existence by inventing tiny sins for their present congregations."
"What sins?" asked Mavis.
"Sins of omission: any trifles they can think of that a more robust race of soul-savers would have laughed at. No. It's the parsons who empty the churches."
"I don't like you to talk like that."
"Why? Are you that way?"
"Sometimes more than others."
"I congratulate you."
She looked at him, surprised.
"I mean it," he went on. "People are much the happier for believing. The great art of life is to be happy, and, if one is, nothing else matters."
"Then why don't you believe?"
"Supposing one can't."
"Can't?"
"It isn't given to everyone, you know."
"Then you think we're just like poor animals—"
"Don't say 'poor' animals," he interrupted. "They're ever so much happier than we."
"Nonsense! They don't know."
"To be ignorant is to be happy. When will you understand that?"
"Never."
"I know what you're thinking of—all the so-called mental development of mankind—love, memory, imagination, sympathy—all the finer susceptibilities of our nature. Is it that what you were thinking of?"
"Vaguely. But I couldn't find the words so nicely as you do."
"Perhaps I read 'em and got 'em by heart. But don't you see that all the fine things I mentioned have to be paid for by increased liability to mental distress, to forms of pain to which coarse natures are, happily, strangers?"
"You talk like an unpleasant book," she laughed.
"And you look like a radiant picture," he retorted.
"Ssh! Here we are."
"The moon's rising: it's full tonight. Think of me if you happen to be watching it," he said.
"I shall be fast asleep."
"And looking more charming than ever, if that be possible. I shall be having a row with my father."
"I daresay you can hold your own."
"That's what makes him so angry."
Mrs. Farthing, upon opening the door, was surprised to see Mavis standing beside young Mr Perigal.
"I think you can get home safely now," he remarked, as he raised his straw hat.
"Thanks for seeing me home."
"Don't forget your fish. Good night."
Mavis thought it well not to enter into any explanation of Perigal's presence to her landlady. She asked if supper were ready, to sit down to it directly she learned that it was. But she did not eat; whether or not her two hours spent in Perigal's company were responsible for the result, it did not alter the fact that her mind was distracted by tumult. The divers perplexities and questionings that had troubled her with the oncoming of the year now assailed her with increased force. She tried to repress them, but, finding the effort unavailing, attempted to fathom their significance, with the result of increasing her distress. The only tangible fact she could seize from the welter in her mind was a sense of enforced isolation from the joys and sorrow of everyday humanity. More than this she could not understand.
She picked her food, well knowing that, if she left it untouched, Mrs Farthing would associate her loss of appetite with the fact of her being seen in the company of a man, and would lead the landlady to make ridiculously sentimental deductions, which would be embarrassing to Mavis.
When she went upstairs, she did not undress. She felt that it would be useless to seek sleep at present. Instead, she stood by the open window of her room, and, after lighting a cigarette and blowing out the candle, looked out into the night.
It was just another such an evening that she had looked into the sky from the window of Mrs Ellis' on the first day of her stay on Kiva Street. Then, beyond sighing for the peace of the country, she had believed that she had only to secure a means of winning her daily bread in order to be happy. Now, although she had obtained the two desires of her heart, she was not even content. Perigal's words awoke in her memory:
"No sooner was a desire satisfied, than one was at once eager for something else."
It would almost seem as if he had spoken the truth—"almost," because she was hard put to it to define what it was for which her being starved.
Mavis looked out of the window. The moon had not yet emerged from a bank of clouds in the east; as if in honour of her coming, the edge of these sycophants was touched with silver light. The stars were growing wan, as if sulkily retiring before the approach of an overwhelming resplendence. Mavis's cigarette went out, but she did not bother to relight it; she was wondering how she was to obtain the happiness for which her heart ached: the problem was still complicated by the fact of her being ignorant in which direction lay the promised land.
Her windows looked over the garden, beyond which fields of long grasses stretched away as far as she could see. A profound peace possessed these, which sharply contrasted with the disquiet in her mind.
Soon, hitherto invisible hedges and trees took dim, mysterious shape; the edge of the moon peeped with glorious inquisitiveness over the clouds. Calmly, royally the moon rose. So deliberately was she unveiled, that it seemed as if she were revealing her beauty to the world for the first time, like a proud, adored mistress unrobing before an impatient lover, whose eyes ached for what he now beheld.
Mystery awoke in the night. Things before unseen or barely visible were now distinct, as if eager for a smile from the aloof loveliness soaring majestically overhead.
Mavis stood in the flood of silver light. For the moment her distress of soul was forgotten. She gazed with wondering awe at the goddess of the night. The moon's coldness presently repelled her: to the girl's ardent imaginings, it seemed to speak of calm contemplation, death—things which youth, allied to warm flesh and blood, abhorred.
Then she fell to thinking of all the strange scenes in the life history of the world on which the moon had looked—stricken fields, barbaric rites, unrecorded crimes, sacked and burning cities, the blackened remains of martyrs at the stake, enslaved nations sleeping fitfully after the day's travail, wrecks on uncharted seas, forgotten superstitions, pagan saturnalias—all the thousand and one phases of life as it has been and is lived.
Although Mavis' tolerable knowledge of history told her how countless must be the sights of horror on which the moon had gazed, as indifferently as it had looked on her, she recalled, as if to leaven the memory of those atrocities (which were often of such a nature that they seemed to give the lie to the existence of a beneficent Deity), that there was ever interwoven with the web of life an eternal tale of love—love to inspire great deeds and noble aims; love to enchain the beast in woman and man; love, whose constant expression was the sacrifice of self upon the altar of the loved one.
Then her mind recalled individual lovers, famous in history and romance, who were set as beacon lights in the wastes of oppression and wrong-doing. These lovers were of all kinds. There were those who deemed the world well lost for a kiss of the loved one's lips; lovers who loved vainly; those who wearied of the loved one.
Mavis wondered, if love were laid at her feet, how it would find her.
She had always known that she was well able to care deeply if her heart were once bestowed. She had, also, kept this capacity for loving unsullied from what she believed to be the defilement of flirtation. Now were revealed the depths of love and tenderness of which she was possessed. They seemed fathomless, boundless, immeasurable.
The knowledge made her sick and giddy. She clung to the window sill for support. It pained her to think that such a treasure above price was destined to remain unsought, unbestowed. She suffered, the while the moon soared, indifferent to her pain.
Suffering awoke wisdom: in the twinkling of an eye, she learned that for which her being starved. The awakening caused tremors of joy to pass over her body, which were succeeded by despondency at realising that it is one thing to want, another to be stayed. Then she was consumed by the hunger of which she was now conscious.
She seemed to be so undesirable, unlovable in her own eyes, that she was moved in her passionate extremity to call on any power that might offer succour.
For the moment, she had forgotten the Source to which in times of stress she looked for help. Instead, she lifted her voice to the moon, the cold wisdom of which seemed to betoken strength, which seemed enthroned in the infinite in order to listen to and to satisfy yearnings, such as hers.
"It's love I want—love, love. I did not know before; now I know. Give me—give me love."
Then she cried aloud in her extremity. She was so moved by her emotions that she was not in the least surprised at the sound of her voice. After she had spoken, she waited long for a sign; but none came. Mavis looked again on the night. Everything was white, cold, silent.
It was as if the world were at one with the deathlike stillness of the moon.
Mavis invested a fraction of her savings in the purchase of rod, fishing tackle, landing net, and bait can; she also bought a yearly ticket from the Avon Conservancy Board, entitling her to fish with one rod in the river at such times as were not close seasons. Most evenings, her graceful form might be seen standing on the river bank, when she was so intent on her sport that it would seem as if she had grown from the sedge at the waterside. Womanlike, she was enthusiastic over fishing when the fish were on the feed and biting freely, to tire quickly of the sport should her float remain for long untroubled by possible captures nibbling at the bait. She avoided those parts of the river where anglers mostly congregated; she preferred and sought the solitude of deserted reaches. Perigal, at the same time, developed a passion for angling. Most evenings, he would be found on the river's bank, if not in Mavis' company, at least near enough to be within call, should any assistance or advice be required. It was remarkable how often each would want help or counsel on matters piscatorial from the other. Sometimes Mavis would want a certain kind of hook, or she would be out of bait, or she would lose one of the beaded rings on her float, all being things which she had no compunction in borrowing from Perigal, inasmuch as he always came to her when he wanted anything himself. It must also be admitted that, as the days flew by, their excuses for meeting became gradually more slender, till at last they would neglect their rods to talk together for quite a long time upon any and every subject under the sun, save fishing.
Once or twice, when owing to Perigal's not making an appearance, Mavis spent the evening alone, she would feel keenly disappointed, and would go home with a strong sense of the emptiness of life.
During her day at the office, or when in her lodgings, she was either absent-minded or self-conscious; she was always longing to get away with only her thoughts for company. She would sometimes sigh for apparently no reason at all. Then Miss Toombs lent her a volume of Shelley, the love passages in which Mavis eagerly devoured. Her favourite time for reading was in bed. She marked, to read and reread, favourite passages. Often in the midst of these she would leave off, when her mind would pursue a train of thought inspired by a phrase or thought of the poet. Very soon she had learned 'Love's Philosophy' by heart. The next symptom of the ailment from which she was suffering was a dreamy languor (frequently punctuated by sighs), which disposed her to offer passionate resentment to all forms of physical and mental effort. This mood was not a little encouraged by the fact of the hay now lying on the ground, to the scent of which she was always emotionally susceptible.
Perigal renounced fishing at the same time as did Mavis. He had a fine instinct for discovering her whereabouts in the meadows bordering the river.
For some while, she had no hesitation in suffering herself to cultivate his friendship. If she had any doubts of the wisdom of the proceeding, there were always two ample justifications at hand.
The first of these was that her association with him had effected a considerable improvement in his demeanour. He was no longer the mentally down-at-heel, soured man that he had been when Mavis first met him. He had taken on a lightness of heart, which, with his slim, boyish beauty, was very attractive to Mavis, starved as she had been of all association with men of her own age and social position. She believed that the beneficent influence she exercised justified the hours she permitted him of her society.
The other reason was that she deluded herself into believing that her sighs and Shelley-inspired imaginings were all because of Windebank's imminent return. She thought of him every day, more especially since she had met Perigal. She often contrasted the two men in her thoughts, when it would seem as if Windebank's presence, so far as she remembered it, had affected her life as a bracing, health-giving wind; whereas Perigal influenced her in the same way as did appealing music, reducing her to a languorous helplessness. She had for so long associated Windebank with any sentimental leanings in which she had indulged, that she was convinced that her fidelity to his memory was sufficient safeguard against her becoming infatuated with Perigal.
Thus she travelled along a road, blinding herself the while to the direction in which she was going. But one day, happening to obtain a glimpse of its possible destination, she resolved to make something of an effort, if not to retrace her way (she scarcely thought this necessary), to stay her steps.
Perigal had told her that if he could get the sum he wanted from his father, he would shortly be going somewhere near Cardiff, where he would be engaged in the manufacture of glazed bricks with a partner. The news had frightened her. She felt as if she had been dragged to the edge of a seemingly bottomless abyss, into which it was uncertain whether or not she would be thrown. To escape the fate that threatened, she threw off her lethargy, to resume her fishing and avoid rather than seek Perigal. Perhaps he took the hint, or was moved by the same motive as Mavis, for he too gave up frequenting the meadows bordering the river. His absence hurt Mavis more than she could have believed possible. She became moody, irritable; she lost her appetite and could not sleep at night. To ease her distress of mind, she tried calling on her old friends, the Medlicotts, and her new ones, the Trivetts. The former expressed concern for her altered appearance, which only served to increase her despondency, while the music she heard at Pennington Farm told of love dreams, satisfied longings, worlds in which romantic fancy was unweighted with the bitterness and disappointment of life, as she now found it, all of which was more than enough to stimulate her present discontent.
She had not seen or heard anything of Perigal for two weeks, when one July evening she happened to catch the hook of her line in her hand. She was in great pain, her efforts to remove the hook only increasing her torment. She was wondering what was the best way of getting help, when she saw Perigal approaching. Her first impulse was to avoid him. With beating heart, she hid behind a clump of bushes. But the pain in her hand became so acute that she suddenly emerged from her concealment to call sharply for assistance. He ran towards her, asking as he came:
"What's the matter?"
"My hand," she faltered. "I've caught the hook in it."
"Poor dear! Let me look."
"Please do something. It hurts," she urged, as she put out her hand, which was torn by the cruel hook.
"What an excellent catch! But, all the same, I must get it out at once," he remarked, as he produced a pocket knife.
"With that?" she asked tremulously.
"I won't hurt you more than I can help, you may be sure. But it must come out at once, or you'll get a bad go of blood poisoning."
"Do it as quickly as possible," she urged.
She set her lips, while he cut into the soft white flesh.
However much he hurt her, she resolved not to utter a sound. For all her fortitude, the trifling operation pained her much.
"Brave little Mavis!" he said, as he freed her flesh from the hook, to ask, as she did not speak, "Didn't it hurt?"
"Of course it did. See how it's bleeding!"
"All the better. It will clear the poison out."
Mavis was hurt at the indifference he exhibited to her pain.
"Would you please tie my handkerchief round it?" she asked.
"Let it bleed. What are you thinking of?"
"I want to get back."
"Where's the hurry?"
"Only that I want to get back."
"But I haven't seen you for ages."
"Haven't you?" she asked innocently.
"Cruel Mavis! But before you go back you must wash your hand in the river."
"I'll do nothing of the kind."
"Not if it's for your good?"
"Not if I don't wish it."
"As it's for your good, I insist on your doing what I wish," he declared, as he caught her firmly by the wrist and led her, all unresisting, to the river's brink. She was surprised at her helplessness and was inclined to criticise it impersonally, the while Perigal plunged her wounded hand into the water. Her reflections were interrupted by a sharp pain caused by the contact of water with the torn flesh.
"It's better than blood poisoning," he hastened to assure her.
"I believe you do it on purpose to hurt me," she remarked, upon his freeing her hand.
"I'm justified in hurting you if it's for your good," he declared calmly. "Now let me bind it up."
While he tied up her hand, she looked at him resentfully, the colour heightening on her cheek.
"I wish you'd often look like that," he remarked.
"I shall if you treat me so unkindly."
He took no notice of the accusation, but said:
"When you look like that it's wonderful. Then certain verses in the 'Song of Solomon' might have been written to you."
"The 'Song of Solomon'?"
"Don't you read your Bible?"
"But you said some of them might have been written to me. What do you mean?"
"They're the finest love verses in the English language. They might have been written to you. They're quite the best thing in the Bible."
She was perplexed, and showed it in her face; then, she looked appealingly to him for enlightenment. He disregarded the entreaty in her eyes. He looked at her from head to foot before saying:
"Little Mavis, little Mavis, why are you so alluring?"
"Don't talk nonsense. I'm not a bit," she replied, as something seemed to tighten at her heart.
"You are, you are. You've soul and body, an irresistible combination," he declared ardently.
His words troubled her; she looked about her, large-eyed, afraid; she did not once glance in his direction.
Then she felt his grasp upon her wrist and the pressure of his lips upon her wounded hand.
"Forgive me: forgive me!" he cried. "But I know you never will."
"Don't, don't," she murmured.
"Are you very angry?"
"I—I—" she hesitated.
"Let me know the worst."
"I don't know," she faltered ruefully.
His face brightened.
"I'm going to ask you something," he said earnestly.
Mavis was filled with a great apprehension.
"If I weren't a bad egg, and could offer you a home worthy of you, I wonder if you'd care to marry me?"
An exclamation of astonishment escaped her.
"I mean it," he continued, "and why not? You're true-hearted and straight and wonderful to look at. Little Mavis is a pearl above price, and she doesn't know it."
"Ssh! ssh!" she murmured.
"You're a rare find," he said, to add after a moment or two, "and I know what I'm talking about."
She did not speak, but her bosom was violently disturbed, whilst a delicious feeling crept about her heart. She repressed an inclination to shed tears.
"Now I s'pose your upset, eh?" he remarked.
"Why should I be?" she asked with flashing eyes.
It was now his turn to be surprised. She went on:
"It's a thing any woman should be proud of, a man asking her to share her life with him."
His lips parted, but he did not speak.
She drew herself up to her full, queenly height to say:
"I am very proud."
"Ah! Then—then—"
His hands caught hers.
"Let me go," she pleaded.
"But—"
"I want to think. Let me go: let me go!"
His hands still held hers, but with an effort she freed herself, to run from him in the direction of her lodging. She did not once look back, but hurried as if pursued by danger, safety from which lay in the companionship of her thoughts.
Arrived at Mrs Farthing's, she made no pretence of sitting down to her waiting supper, but went straight upstairs to her room. She felt that a crisis had arisen in her life. To overcome it, it was necessary for her to decide whether or not she loved Charlie Perigal. She passed the best part of a sleepless night endeavouring, without success, to solve the problem confronting her. Jill, who always slept on Mavis' bed, was alive to her mistress' disquiet. The morning sun was already high in the heavens when Jill crept sympathetically to the girl's side.
Mavis clasped her friend in her arms to say:
"Oh, Jill, Jill! If you could only tell me if I truly loved him!"
Jill energetically licked Mavis' cheek before nestling in her arms to sleep.
The early morning post brought a letter from Perigal to Mavis, which she opened with trembling hands and beating heart. It ran:—
"For your sake, not for mine, I'm off to Wales by the early morning train. If you care for me ever so little (and I am proud to believe you do), in clearing out of your life, I am doing what I conceive to be the best thing possible for your future happiness. If it gives you any pleasure to know it, I should like to tell you I love you. My going away is some proof of this statement, C. P.
"P.S.—I have written by the same post to Windebank to give him your address."
Mavis looked at her watch, to discover it was exactly half-past seven. She ran downstairs, half dressed as she was, to look at the time-table which Mr Medlicott presented to her on the first of every month. After many false scents, she discovered, that for Perigal to catch the train at Bristol for South Wales, he must leave Melkbridge for Dippenham by the 8.15. Always a creature of impulse, she scrambled into her clothes, swallowed a mouthful of tea, pinned on her hat, caught up her gloves, and, almost before she knew what she was doing, was walking quickly towards the station. She had a little under twenty minutes in which to walk a good mile. Her one concern was to meet, say something (she knew not what) to Perigal before he left Melkbridge for good. She arrived breathless at the station five minutes before his train started. He was not in the booking office, and she could see nothing of him on the platform. She was beginning to regret her precipitancy, when she saw him walking down the road to the station, carrying a much worn leather brief bag. Her heart beat as she went out to meet him.
"Little Mavis!" he cried.
"Good morning."
"What are you doing here at this time?"
"I came out for a walk."
"To see me off?"
"Perhaps."
"Well, I will say this, you will bear looking at in the morning."
"Why, who won't?"
"Lots of 'em."
"How do you know?"
"Eh! But we can't talk here. It will be all over the town that we were—were—"
"Going to elope!" she interrupted.
"I wish we were. But, seriously, you got my letter?"
"It's really why I came."
"What?" he asked, astonished.
"It's really why I came."
"What have you to say to me?"
"I don't know."
"Don't you want me to go to Wales?"
"I don't know."
"I must decide soon. Here's the train."
They mechanically turned towards the platform.
"Must you go?" she impulsively asked.
"I could either chuck it or I could put it off till tomorrow."
"Why not do that?"
"But would you see me again?"
"Yes."
"And will you decide then?"
"Perhaps."
"Then I'll see you tonight," he said, as he raised his hat, as if wishing her to leave him.
Mavis bit her lip as she turned to leave Perigal.
"Goodbye till tonight, little Mavis!"
"Goodbye," she called back curtly.
"One moment," he cried.
She paused.
He went on:
"It was charming of you to come. It's like everything to do with you—beautiful."
"There's still time for you to get your train," she said, feeling somewhat mollified by his last words.
"And miss seeing you tonight!" he replied.
Mavis walked to the factory wondering how many people had seen her talking to Perigal. During her morning's work, her mind was in a turmoil of doubt as to the advisability of meeting Perigal in the evening. She could not help believing that, should she see him, as was more or less arranged, it would prove an event of much moment in her life, holding infinite possibilities of happiness or disaster. She knew herself well enough to know that if she were wholly possessed by love for him she would be to him as clay in the hands of the potter. She could come to no conclusion; even if she had, she could not be certain if she could keep to any resolve she might arrive at. During her midday meal she remembered how Perigal had said that the "Song of Solomon" might have been written to her. She opened her Bible, found the "Song" and greedily devoured it. In her present mood its sensuous beauty entranced her, but she was not a little perplexed by the headings of the chapters. As with so many others, she found it hard to reconcile the ecclesiastical claims here set forth at the beginning of each chapter with the passionate outpourings of the flesh which followed. She took the Bible with her to the office, to read the "Song" twice during the interval usually allotted to afternoon tea.
When she got back to Mrs Farthing's, she was long undecided whether she should go out to meet Perigal. The leanings of her heart inclined her to keep the appointment, whilst, on the other hand, her strong common sense urged her to decide nothing until Windebank came back. Windebank she was sure of, whereas she was not so confident of Perigal; but she was forced to admit that the elusive and more subtle personality of the latter appealed more to her imagination than the other's stability. Presently, she left her lodgings and walked slowly towards the canal, which was in a contrary direction to that in which lay the Avon. The calm of the still water inclined her to sadness. She idled along the towpath, plucking carelessly at the purple vetch which bordered the canal in luxuriant profusion. More than once, she was possessed by the idea that someone was following her. Then she became aware that Perigal was also idling along the towpath some way behind her. The sight of him made her heart beat; she all but decided to turn back to meet him. Common sense again fought for the possession of her mind. It told her that by dawdling till she reached the next bend, she could be out of sight of Perigal, without exciting his suspicions, when it would be the easiest thing in the world to hurry till she came to a track which led from the canal to the town. She was putting this design into practice, and had already reached the bend, when odd verses of the "Song of Solomon" occurred to her:
"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes.
"As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.
"Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.
"Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck.
"Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue.
"A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.
"How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love, for delights!
"And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved, that goeth down sweetly, causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak.
"I am my beloved's, and his desire is towards me.
"I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine."
The influence of air, sky, evening sun, and the peace that lay over the land reinforced the unmoral suggestions of the verses that had leapt in her memory. Her blood quickened; she sighed, and then sat by the rushes that, just here, invaded the towpath.
As Perigal strolled towards her, his personality caused that old, odd feeling of helplessness to steal over her. She, almost, felt as if she were a fly gradually being bound by a greedy spider's web.
He stood by her for a few moments without speaking.
"You've broken your promise," he presently remarked.
"Haven't you, too?" she asked, without looking up.
"No."
"Sure?"
"I was so impatient to see you, I hung about in sight of your house, so that I could catch sight of you directly when you came out."
"What about Melkbridge people?"
"What do I care!"
"What about me?"
He turned away with an angry gesture.
"What about me?" she repeated more insistently.
"You know what I said to you, asked you last night."
Mavis hung her head.
"What did you tell Windebank in your letter?" she asked presently.
"Don't talk about him."
"I shall if I want to. What did you say about me?"
"Shall I tell you?" he asked suddenly, as he sat beside her. "I told him how wholesome and how sweet you were. That's what I said."
"Ssh!"
"Do you know what I should have said?"
Mavis made a last effort to preserve her being from the thraldom of love. It was in her heart to leave Perigal there and then, but although the spirit was all but willing, the flesh was weak. As before in his presence, Mavis was rendered helpless by the odd fascination Perigal exercised.
"Do you know what I should have said?" he repeated.
Mavis essayed to speak; her tongue would not give speech.
"I'll tell you. I should have said that I love you, and that nothing in heaven or earth is going to stop my getting you."
"I must go," she said, without moving.
"When I love you so? Little Mavis, I love you, I love you, I love you!"
She trembled all over. He seized her hand, covered it with kisses, and then tried to draw her lips to his.
"My hand was enough."
"Your lips! Your lips!"
"But—"
"I love you! Your lips!"
He forced his lips to hers. When he released them, she looked at him as if spellbound, with eyes veiled with wonder and dismay—with eyes which revealed the great awakening which had taken place in her being.
"I love little Mavis. I love her," he whispered.
The look in her eyes deepened, her lips trembled, her bosom was violently disturbed. Perigal touched her arm. Then she gave a little cry, the while her head fell helplessly upon his shoulder.