Mavis was in love, consequently the world was transformed. All her previous hesitations in surrendering to her incipient love for Perigal were forgotten; the full, flowing current of her passion disregarded the trifling obstacles which had once sought to obstruct its progress. Life, nature, the aspect of things took on the abnormally adorable hues of those who love and are beloved. Such was the rapture in her heart, that days, hours, moments were all too fleeting for the enjoyment of her newborn felicity. The radiant happiness which welled within her, in seemingly inexhaustible volume, appeared to fill the universe. Often, with small success, she would attempt to realise the joy that had come into her life. At other times, when alone, she would softly shed tears—tears with which shy, happy laughter mingled. She would go about all day singing snatches of gay little songs. There was not a happier girl in the world. As if, perhaps, to give an edge to her joy, the summer sky of her gladness was troubled by occasional clouds. She would wake in the night with a great presage of fear, which nothing she could do would remove. At such times, she would clasp with both hands a ring that her lover had given her, which at night she wore suspended from her neck, so that it lay upon her heart. At other times, she would be consumed by a passion for annihilating all thoughts and considerations for self in her relations with Perigal; she was urged by every fibre in her body to merge her being with his. When thus possessed, she would sometimes, if she were at home when thus moved, go upon her knees to pray long and fervently for the loved one's welfare; as likely as not her thoughts would wander, when thus engaged, to be wholly concerned with the man she adored.
Thus, she abandoned herself whole-heartedly, unreservedly to the ecstasy of loving.
Mavis and Perigal were to be quietly married by special licence in London, in five weeks' time, which would be in the early days of September. Perigal urged Mavis not to speak to anyone of the wedding, saying, as a reason for this silence, that his father had not yet quite decided upon giving him the money he wanted, and the news of the engagement and early marriage might cause him to harden his heart. The honeymoon was to be spent in the retirement of Polperro, a Cornish village, the beauty and seclusion of which Perigal never tired of describing. As far as they could both see at present, Mavis was to keep on with her work at the office (the honeymoon was to consist of her fortnight's annual holiday), till such time as he could prepare a home for her in Wales. Although not welcoming, she did not offer the least objection to this arrangement, as she saw that it was all that could be done under their present circumstances. She wrote out and placed over her bed a list of dates, which culminated in the day on which she was to throw in her lot with the loved one; every day, as soon as she awoke, she crossed off one more of the slowly dwindling days. Nearly every Saturday she took the train to Bathminster, where she spent a considerable fraction of the forty pounds she had saved in buying a humble equivalent for a trousseau.
As boxes and parcels of clothes began to arrive at her lodgings, she would try on the most attractive of these, the while her eyes shone with happiness. Those with whom she was commonly brought in contact noticed the change in her demeanour. Mrs Farthing smiled mysteriously, as if guessing the cause. Miss Hunter made many unsuccessful efforts to worm confidences from Mavis; while plain Miss Toombs showed her displeasure of the alteration that had occurred in her by scarcely ever addressing her, and then only when compelled.
"You look like a bride," she remarked one day, when Mavis was glowing with happiness.
Mavis saw something of Perigal pretty well every day. Sometimes, they would meet quite early of a morning by the canal; if they did not see each other then, they made a point of getting a few minutes together of an evening, usually by the river. So that no hint of their intentions should reach Major Perigal, the lovers met furtively, a proceeding which enhanced the charm of their intercourse.
At all times, Mavis was moved by an abiding concern for his health. There was much of the maternal in her love, leading her frequently to ask if his linen were properly aired and if he were careful to avoid getting damp feet; she also made him solemnly promise to tell her immediately if he were not feeling in the best of health. Mavis, with a great delight, could not help noticing the change that had taken place in her lover ever since their betrothal. He, too, was conscious of the difference, and was fond of talking about it.
"I never thought I'd grow young again!" he would remark.
"What about second childhood?" laughed the irrepressible Mavis.
"Seriously, I didn't. I always felt so old. And it's little Mavis who has done it all."
"Really, sweetheart?"
"All, dear."
She rewarded him with a glance of love and tenderness.
He went on:
"The past is all over and done with. I made a fresh start from the day you promised to throw in your exquisite self with me."
Thus he would talk, expressing, at the same time, boundless confidence in the future, forgetful or ignorant of what has been well said, "That the future is only entering the past by another gate."
One evening, when he had made bitter reference to the life that he had led, before he had again met with her, she asked:
"What is this dreadful past you're always regretting so keenly?"
"You surely don't want to know?"
"Haven't I a right to?"
"No. Not that it's so very terrible. Far from it, it isn't. There's an awful sameness about it. The pleasure of to day is the boredom of tomorrow. It all spells inherent incapacity to succeed in either good or evil."
"Good or evil?" she queried.
"It's going to be good now, since I've little Mavis and her glorious hair to live for."
One evening, he brought a brick to show her, which was a sample of those he intended manufacturing, should he get the assistance he now daily expected from his father. She looked at it curiously, fondly, as if it might prove the foundation stone of the beloved one's prosperity; a little later, she begged it of him. She took it home, to wrap it carefully in one of her silk handkerchiefs and put it away in her trunk. From time to time, she would take the brick out, to have it about her when she was at her lodgings. She also took an acute interest in bricks that were either built into houses, or heaped upon the roadside. She was proudly convinced there were no bricks that could compare with the one she prized for finish or durability. Perigal was much diverted and, perhaps, touched by her interest in his possible source of success.
The clamourings of Mavis' ardent nature had been so long repressed, that the disturbing influences of her passion for Perigal were more than sufficient to loose her pent up instincts. Her lover's kisses proved such a disturbing factor, that, one evening when he had been unusually appreciative of her lips, she had not slept, having lain awake, trembling, till it was time for her to get up. For the future, she deemed it prudent to allow one kiss at meeting, and a further one at parting.
Perigal protested against this arrangement, when he would say:
"I love to kiss you, little Mavis, because then such a wistful, faraway look comes into your eyes, which is one of the most wonderful things I've seen."
Mavis, with an effort, resisted Perigal's entreaties.
One August evening, when it was late enough for her to be conscious that the nights were drawing in, she was returning from a happy hour spent with her lover. It now wanted but a week to their marriage; their hearts were delirious with happiness.
"Don't you miss all the bridesmaids and all the usual thing-uma-jigs of a wedding?" he had asked her.
"Not a bit."
"Sure, darling?"
"Quite. I only want one thing. So long as I get that, nothing else can possibly matter."
"And that?"
"You," she had replied, at which Perigal had said after a moment or two of silence:
"I will, I really will do all I know to make my treasure of a little Mavis happy."
Mavis was walking home with a light step and a lighter heart: more than one red-cheeked, stolid, Wiltshire man and woman turned to look after the trimly-built, winsome girl, who radiated distinction and happiness as she walked.
A familiar voice sounded in Mavis's ear. "At last," it said heartfully.
She turned, to see Windebank standing before her, a Windebank stalwart as ever, with his face burned to the colour of brick red, but looking older and thinner than when she had last seen him. Mavis' heart sank.
"At last," he repeated. He looked as if he would say more, but he did not speak. She wondered if he were moved at seeing her again.
Mavis, not knowing what to say, put out her hand, which he clasped.
"Aren't you glad to see me?" he asked.
"Of course."
"And you're not going to run away again?"
She looked at him inquiringly.
"I mean as you did before, into the fog!"
"There's no fog to run into," she remarked feebly.
"Little Mavis! Little Mavis! I'd no idea you could look so well and wonderful as you do."
"Hadn't we better walk? People are staring at us already."
"I can't see you so well walking," he complained.
They strolled along; as they walked, Windebank half turned, so that his eyes never left her face.
"What a beautiful girl you are!" he said.
"You mustn't say that."
"But it's true. And to think of you working for that outsider Devitt!"
"He means well. And I've been very happy there."
"You won't be there much longer! Do you know why?"
"Tell me about yourself," she said evasively, as she wondered if talking to Windebank were unfair to Perigal.
"Do you remember this?" he asked, as he brought out a crumpled letter for her inspection.
"It's my writing!" she cried.
"It's the foolish, dear letter you wrote to me."
She took it, to recall the dreary day at Mrs Bilkins's on which she had penned the lines to Windebank, in which she had refused to hamper his career by acceding to his request.
"Give it back," he demanded.
"You don't want it?"
"Don't I! A girl who can write a letter like that to a chap isn't easily forgotten, I can tell you."
Mavis did not reply. Windebank, seeing how she was embarrassed, told her of his more recent doings; how, after getting Perigal's letter, he had set out for England as soon as he could start; how he had saved three days by taking the overland route from Brindisi (such was his anxiety to see his little Mavis, who had never been wholly out of his thoughts), to arrive home before he was expected.
"I had an early feed and came out hoping to see you," he concluded.
Mavis did not speak. She was deliberating if she should tell Windebank of her approaching marriage; if he cared seriously for her, it was only fair that he should know her affections were bestowed.
"Aren't you glad to see me?" he asked.
"Of course, but—"
"There are no 'buts.' You're coming home with me."
"Home!"
"To meet my people again. They're just back from Switzerland. It isn't your home—yet."
This decided her. She told him, first enjoining him to silence. To her relief, also to her surprise, he took it very calmly. His face went a shade whiter beneath his sun-tanned skin; he stood a trifle more erect than before; and that was all.
"I congratulate you," he said. "But I congratulate him a jolly sight more. Who is he?"
Mavis hesitated.
"You can tell me. It won't go any further."
"Charlie Perigal."
"Charlie Perigal?" he asked in some surprise.
"Why not?" she asked, with a note of defiance in her voice.
"But he's upside down with his father, and has been for a long time."
"What of that?"
"What are you going to live on?"
"Charlie is going to work."
"Charlie work!" The words slipped out before he could stop them. "Of course, I'd forgotten that," he added.
"You're like a lot of other people, who can't say a good word for him, because they're jealous of him," she cried.
He did not reply for a moment; when he did, it was to say very gravely:
"Naturally I am very, very jealous; it would be strange if it were otherwise. I wish you every happiness from the bottom of my heart."
"Thank you," replied Mavis, mollified.
"And God bless you."
He took off his cap and left her. Mavis watched his tall form turn the corner with a sad little feeling at her heart. But love is a selfish passion, and when Mavis awoke three mornings later, when it wanted four days to her marriage, she would have forgotten Windebank's existence, but for the fact of his having sent her a costly, gold-mounted dressing-case. This had arrived the previous evening, at the same time as the frock that she proposed wearing at her wedding had come from Bathminster. She looked once more at the dressing-case with its sumptuous fittings, to turn to the wrappings enclosing her simple wedding gown. She took it out reverently, tenderly, to kiss it before locking the door and trying it on again. With quick, loving hands she fastened it about her; she then looked at the reflection of her adorable figure in the glass.
"Will he like me in it? Do you think he will love me in it?" she asked Jill, who, blinking her brown eyes, was scarcely awake. She then took Jill in her arms to murmur:
"Whatever happens, darling, I shall always love you."
Mavis was sick with happiness; she wondered what she had done to get so much allotted to her. All her struggles to earn a living in London, the insults to which she had been subjected, the disquiet that had troubled her mind throughout the spring, were all as forgotten as if they had never been. There was not a cloud upon the horizon of her joy.
As if to grasp her present ecstasy with both hands, she, with no inconsiderable effort, recalled all the more unhappy incidents in her life, to make believe that she was still enduring these, and that there was no prospect of escape from their defiling recurrence. She then fell to imagining how envious she would be were she acquainted with a happy Mavis Keeves who, in three days' time, was to belong, for all time, to the man of her choice.
It was with inexpressible joy that she presently permitted herself to realise that it was none other than she upon whom this great gift of happiness unspeakable had been bestowed. The rapture born of this blissful realisation impelled her to seek expression in words.
"Life is great and noble," she cried; "but love is greater."
Every nerve in her body vibrated with ecstasy. And in four days—
Two letters, thrust beneath her door by Mrs Farthing, recalled her to the trivialities of everyday life. She picked them up, to see that one was in the well-known writing of the man she loved; the other, a strange, unfamiliar scrawl, which bore the Melkbridge postmark. Eager to open her lover's letter, yet resolved to delay its perusal, so that she could look forward to the delight of reading it (Mavis was already something of an epicure in emotion), she tore open the other, to decipher its contents with difficulty. She read as follows:—
"SHAW HOUSE, MELKBRIDGE.
"MADAM,—My son has told me of his intentions with regard to yourself. This is to tell you that, if you persist in them, I shall withdraw the assistance I was on the point of furnishing in order to give him a new start in life. It rests with you whether I do my utmost to make or mar his future. For reasons I do not care to give, and which you may one day appreciate, I do what may seem to your unripe intelligence a meaningless act of cruelty.—I remain, dear Madam, Your obedient servant,
"JOHN VEZEY PERIGAL."
The sun went out of Mavis' heaven; the gorgeous hues faded from her life. She felt as if the ground were cut from under her feet, and she was falling, falling, falling she knew not where. To save herself, she seized and opened Perigal's letter.
This told her that he knew the contents of his father's note; that he was still eager to wed her as arranged; that they must meet by the river in the evening, when they could further discuss the situation which had arisen.
Mavis sank helplessly on her bed: she felt as if her heart had been struck a merciless blow. She was a little consoled by Perigal's letter, but, in her heart of hearts, something told her that, despite his brave words, the marriage was indefinitely postponed; indeed, it was more than doubtful if it would ever take place at all. She suffered, dumbly, despairingly; her torments were the more poignant because she realised that the man she loved beyond anything in the world must be acutely distressed at this unexpected confounding of his hopes. Her head throbbed with dull pains which gradually increased in intensity; these, at last, became so violent that she wondered if it were going to burst. She felt the need of action, of doing anything that might momentarily ease her mind of the torments afflicting it. Her wedding frock attracted her attention. Mavis, with a lump in her throat, took off and folded this, and put it out of sight in a trunk; then, with red eyes and face the colour of lead, she flung on her work-a-day clothes, to walk mechanically to the office. The whole day she tried to come to terms with the calamity that had so suddenly befallen her; a heavy, persistent pressure on the top of her head mercifully dulled her perceptions; but at the back of her mind a resolution was momentarily gaining strength—a resolution that was to the effect that it was her duty to the man she loved to insist upon his falling in with his father's wishes. It gave her a certain dim pleasure to think that her suffering meant that, some day, Perigal would be grateful to her for her abnegation of self.
Perigal, looking middle-aged and careworn, was impatiently awaiting her arrival by the river. Her heart ached to see his altered appearance.
"My Mavis!" he cried, as he took her hand.
She tried to speak, but a little sob caught in her throat. They walked for some moments in silence.
"I told him all about it; I thought it better," said Perigal presently. "But I never thought he'd cut up rough."
"Is there any chance of his changing his mind?"
"Not the remotest. If he once gets a thing into his head, as he has this, nothing on earth will move him."
"I won't let it make any difference to you," she declared.
"What do you mean?" he asked quickly.
"That nothing, nothing will persuade me to marry you on Thursday."
"What?"
"I mean it. I have made up my mind."
"But I've set my mind on it, darling."
"I'm doing it for your good."
He argued, threatened, cajoled, pleaded for the best part of two hours, but nothing would shake her resolution. To all of his arguments, she would reply in a tone admitting no doubt of the unalterable nature of her determination:
"I'm doing it for your good, beloved."
Shadows grew apace; light clouds laced the west; a hush was in the air, as if trees, bushes, and flowers were listening intently for a message which had evaded them all the day.
Perigal's distress wrung Mavis' heart.
"I can bear it no longer," she presently cried.
"Bear what, sweetheart?"
"Your pain. My heart isn't made of stone. I almost wish it were. Listen. You want me?"
"What a question!"
"Then you shall have me."
He looked at her quickly. She went on:
"We will not get married. But I give you myself."
"Mavis!"
"Yes; I give you myself."
Perigal was silent for some minutes; he was, evidently, in deep thought. When he spoke, it was to say with deliberation:
"No, no, little Mavis. I may be bad; but I'm not up to that form—not yet."
"I love you all the more for saying that," she murmured.
"Since I can't move you, I'll go to Wales tomorrow," he said.
"Then that means—"
"Wait, wait, little Mavis; wait and hope."
"I shall never love anyone else."
"Not even Windebank?"
She cried out in agony of spirit.
"Forgive me, darling," he said. "I will keep faithful too."
They walked for some moments in silence.
"Do one thing for me," pleaded Mavis.
"And that?"
"We are near my nook—at least I call it that. Let us sit there for just three minutes and think Thursday was—was going to be our—" She could not trust her voice to complete the sentence.
"If you wish it."
"Only—"
"Only what?"
"Promise—promise you won't kiss me."
"But—"
"I'm not myself. Promise."
He promised. They repaired to Mavis' nook, where they sat in silence, while night enwrapped them in gloom. Instinctively, their hands clasped. Mavis had realised that she was with her lover perhaps for the last time. She wished to snatch a moment of counterfeit joy by believing that the immense happiness which had been hers was to continue indefinitely. But her imaginative effort was a dismal failure. Her mind was a blank with the promise of unending pain in the background.
Perigal felt the pressure of Mavis's hand instinctively tighten on his; it gripped as if she could never let him go: tears fell from her eyes on to his fingers. With an effort he freed himself and, without saying a word, walked quickly away. With all her soul, she listened to his retreating steps. It seemed as if her life were departing, leaving behind the cold shell of the Mavis she knew, who was now dead to everything but pain. His consideration for her helplessness illumined her suffering. The next moment, she was on her knees, her heart welling with love, gratitude, concern for the man who had left her.
"Bless him! Bless him, oh God! He's good; he's good; he's good! He's proved it to a poor, weak girl like me!"
Thus she prayed, all unconscious that Perigal's consideration in leaving her was the high-water mark of his regard for her welfare.
"Beloved!"
"My own!"
"Are you ready to start?"
"I'll see if they've packed the luncheon."
"One moment. Where are we going today?"
"Llansallas; three miles from here."
"What's it like?" she asked.
"The loveliest place they knew of."
"How wonderful! And we'll have the whole day there?"
"Only you and I," he said softly.
"Be quick. Don't lose a moment, sweetheart. I dislike being alone—now."
"Why?" he asked.
Mavis dropped her eyes.
"Adorable, modest little Mavis," he laughed. "I'll see about the grub."
"You've forgotten something," she pouted, as he moved towards the door.
"Your kiss!"
"Our kiss."
"I hadn't really. I wanted to see if you'd remember."
"As if I'd forget," she protested.
Their lips met; not once, but many times; they seemed reluctant to part.
Mavis was alone. She had spoken truly when she had hinted how she was averse to the company of her own thoughts. It was then that clouds seemed disposed to threaten the sun of her joy.
She went to the window of the hotel sitting-room, which overlooked the narrow road leading to Polperro village; beyond the cottages opposite was bare rock, which had been blasted to find room for stone habitations; above the naked stone was blue sky. Mavis tried to think about the sky in order to exclude a certain weighty matter from her mind. She had been five days in Cornwall, four of which had been spent with Perigal in Polperro. Mavis did her best to concentrate her thoughts upon the cerulean hue of the heavens; she wondered why it could not faithfully be matched in dress material owing to the peculiar quality of light in the colour of the sky. It was just another such a blue, so she thought, as she had seen on the morning of what was to have been her wedding day, when, heavy-eyed and life-weary, she had crept to the window of her room; then the gladness of the day appeared so indifferent to her sorrow that she had raged hopelessly, helplessly, at the ill fortune which had over-ridden her. This paroxysm of rebellion had left her physically inert, but mentally active. She had surveyed her life calmly, dispassionately, when it seemed that she had been deprived by cruel circumstance of parents, social position, friends, money, love: everything which had been her due. She had been convinced that she was treated with brutal injustice. The joyous singing of birds outside her window, the majestic climbing of the sun in the heavens maddened her. Her spirit had been aroused: she had wondered what she could do to defy fate to do its worst. The morning's post had brought a letter from Perigal, the envelope of which bore the Polperro postmark. This had told her that the despairing writer had gone to the place of their prospective honeymoon, where the contrast between his present agony of soul and the promised happiness, on which he had set so much store, was such, that if he did not immediately hear from Mavis, he was in danger of taking his life. There had been more to the same effect. Immediately, all thought of self had been forgotten; she had hurried out to send a telegram to Perigal, telling him to expect a surprise to-day.
She had confided her dear Jill to Mrs Farthing's care. After telling her wondering landlady that she would not be away for more than one night, she had hurried (with a few belongings) to the station, ultimately to get out at Liskeard, where she had to take the local railway to Looe, from which an omnibus would carry her to Polperro. Perigal had met her train at Liskeard, her telegram having led him to expect her.
He was greatly excited and made such ardent love to her that, upon her arrival at Looe, she already regretted her journey and had purposed returning by the next train. But there was nothing to take her back before morning; against her wishes, she had been constrained to spend the night at Looe.
Here Perigal insisted on staying also.
Mavis, as she looked back on the last four days, and all that had happened therein, could not blame herself. She now loved Perigal more than she had ever believed it possible for woman to love man; she belonged to him body and soul; she was all love, consequently she had no room in her being for vain regrets.
When she was alone, as now, her pride was irked at the fact of her not being a bride; she believed that the tenacious way in which she had husbanded her affections gave her every right to expect the privilege of wifehood. It was, also, then she realised that her very life depended upon the continuance of Perigal's love: she had no doubt that he would marry her with as little delay as possible. Otherwise, the past was forgotten, the future ignored: she wholly surrendered herself to her new-born ecstasy begotten of her surrender. He was the world, and nothing else mattered. So far as she was concerned, their love for each other was the beginning, be-all, and end of earthly things.
It was a matter of complete indifference to her that she was living at Polperro with her lover as Mrs and Mr Ward.
It may, perhaps, be wondered why a girl of Mavis's moral susceptibilities could be so indifferent to her habit of thought as to find such unalloyed rapture in a union unsanctified by church and unprotected by law. The truth is that women, as a sex, quickly accommodate themselves to such a situation as that in which Mavis found herself, and very rarely suffer the pangs of remorse which are placed to their credit by imaginative purists. The explanation may be that women live closer to nature than men; that they set more store on sentiment and passion than those of the opposite sex; also, perhaps, because they instinctively rebel against a male-manufactured morality to which women have to subscribe, largely for the benefit of men whose observance of moral law is more "honoured in the breach than in the observance." Indeed, it may be regarded as axiomatic that with nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand the act of bestowing themselves on the man they love is looked upon by them as the merest incident in their lives. The thousandth, the exception, to whom, like Mavis, such a surrender is a matter of supreme moment, only suffers tortures of remorse when threatened by the loss of the man's love or by other inconvenient but natural consequences of sexual temerity.
Mavis was recalled to the immediate present by an arm stealing about her neck; she thrilled at the touch of the man who had entered the room unobserved; her lips sought his.
"Ready, darling?" he asked.
"If you are."
She caught up her sunbonnet, which had been thrown on one side, to hand it to him.
"You put it on me," she said.
When he had expended several unnecessary moments in adjusting the bonnet, they made as if they would start.
"Got everything you want?" he asked, looking round the room.
"I think so. Take my sunshade."
"Right o'."
"My gloves."
"I've got 'em."
"My handkerchief."
"I've got it."
"Now kiss me."
His all too eager lips met on hers.
"Now we can start," she remarked.
She stood on the steps of the little hotel, while Perigal grasped a luncheon basket.
"Quick march!" he cried.
"Wait one moment. I so love the sunlight," she replied.
"Little pagan!"
She stood silent, while the rays of the September sun warmly caressed her face and neck.
She looked about her, to see that the sky was on all sides a faultless blue, with every prospect of its continuance.
"One of the rare days I love," she murmured.
She shut her eyes to appreciate further the sun's warmth.
"If it were only like this all the year round," she thought.
"This is going to be all my day," she said to Perigal, who was impatiently awaiting her. "I want to enjoy every moment of it for all I am worth."
They turned to the left, walking up the road to the hamlet of Crumplehorn; when they reached the mill, worked by the stream which crosses the road, they turned sharp to the left and continued to ascend. Their progress was accompanied by the music of moving water, the singing of larks. When they emerged on the Fowey road, they caught frequent glimpses of the sea, which they lost as they approached Llansallas. Arrived at this tiny, forgotten village, there was not a sign of the sea, although Perigal had been told at the inn that he would find it here. He asked the way, to be directed to a corner of the churchyard from which a track led to the shore. To their surprise, this path proved to be a partially dry watercourse which, as it wound in a downward direction, was presently quite shut in by an overgrowth of bushes. Mavis, sorry to lose the sunlight, if only for a few minutes, was yet pleased at exploring this mysterious waterway. Now and again, where the water had collected in wide pools, she had, with Perigal's assistance, to make use of stepping stones, to espy which was often difficult. They picked their way down and down for quite a long time, till Mavis began to wonder if they would ever discover an outlet. When, at last, the passage was seen to emerge into a blaze of sunlight, they ran like children to see who would be out first. In a few moments they were blinking their eyes to accustom these to the sudden sunlight. It was hard to believe that the sun had been shining while their way had been steeped in gloom. When they were shortly able to look about them, they glanced at one another, to see if the spot they reached had made anything of an impression. There was occasion for surprise. The lovers were now in an all but land-locked stretch of water, shut in by tall rocks or high ground. Before the water of the inlet could reach the sea, it would have to pass sheer, sentinel rocks which seemed to guard jealously the bay's seclusion.
From several places very high up in the ground on either side of them, water gushed out in continuous currents, making music the while, presently to merge by divers channels into a stream which straggled down to the sea. The surface of this stream was covered with watercress: this was green where the water was fresh, a bright yellow as far as the salt tide had prevailed. Between where they stood and the distressed waters of the bay was a stretch of yellow sand. A little to their right was a dismantled, tumble-down cottage, which served to emphasise the romantic remoteness of the place.
"Isn't it—isn't it exquisite?" cried Mavis.
"It might have been made for us," Perigal remarked.
"It was. Say it was."
"Of course it was. Let me make my darling comfortable. She must be tired after her walk."
"She isn't a bit—but—"
"But what, sweetheart?"
"It's a long time since she had a kiss."
Perigal insisted upon making Mavis comfortable, with her back to a conveniently situated hummock of earth. He lit a cigarette, to pass it on to her before lighting one for himself.
Mavis lay back with the cigarette between her red lips, the while her eyes lazily took in the strange loveliness about her. The joy that burned so fiercely in her heart seemed to have been communicated to the world. Sea, cliff, waterfalls were all resplendent in the bountiful sunlight.
"It's not real: it's not real," she presently murmured.
"What isn't real?" he asked.
"This: you: love."
He reassured her with kisses.
"If it would only go on for ever!" she continued. "I'm so hungry for happiness."
"Why shouldn't it?" he laughed.
"Will it be just the same when we're married?"
"Eh! Of course."
"Sure?"
"So long as you don't change," he declared.
She laughed scornfully, while he sauntered down to the sea, cigarette in mouth. Mavis settled herself luxuriously to watch the adored one through lazy, half-closed eyelids. He had previously thrown away his straw hat; she saw how the wind wantoned in his light curls. All her love seemed to well up into her throat. She would have called to him, but her tongue refused speech; she was sick with love; she wondered if she would ever recover. As he idled back, her eyes were riveted on his face.
"What's up with little Mavis?" he asked carelessly, as he reached her side.
"I love you—I love you—I love you!" she whispered faintly.
He threw himself beside her to exclaim:
"You look done. Is it the heat?"
"Love—love for you," she murmured.
He kissed her neck, first lifting the soft hair behind her ear. Her head rested helplessly on his shoulder.
"I'll see about luncheon when little Mavis will let me," he remarked.
"Don't fidget: I want to talk."
"I'll listen, provided you only talk about love."
"That's what I wanted to talk about."
"Good!"
"No one's ever loved as we do?" she asked anxiously.
"No one."
"Or ever will?"
"Never."
"Sure?"
"Quite."
"I'm sure too. And nothing's ever—ever going to change it."
"Nothing. What could?"
"I love you. Oh, how I love you!" she whispered, as she nestled closer to him.
"Don't you believe I love you?" he asked hoarsely.
"Prove it."
"How?"
"By kissing my eyes."
As they sat, her arms stole about him; she wished that they were stronger, so that she could press him closer to her heart. Presently, he unpacked the luncheon basket, spread the cloth, and insisted on making all the preparations for their midday meal. She watched him cut up the cold chicken, uncork the claret, mix the salad—this last an elaborate process.
"It's delicious," she remarked, when she tasted his concoction.
"That's all I'm good for, Tommy rotten things of no real use to anyone."
"But it is of use. It's added to the enjoyment of my lunch."
"But there's no money in it: that's what I should have said."
He filled her glass and his with claret. Before either of them drank, they touched each other's glasses.
"Suggest a toast!" said Mavis.
"Love," replied Perigal.
"Our love," corrected Mavis, as she gave him a glance rich with meaning.
"Our love, then: the most beautiful thing in the world."
"Which, unlike everything else, never dies," she declared.
They drank. Mavis presently put down her knife and fork, to take Perigal's and feed him with tid-bits from her or his plate. She would not allow him to eat of anything without her sanction; she stuffed him as the dictates of her fancy suggested. Then she mixed great black berries with the Cornish cream. When they had eaten their fill, she lit a cigarette, while her lover ate cheese. When he had finished, he sat quite close to her as he smoked. Mavis abandoned herself to the enjoyment of her cigarette; supported by her lover's arm, she looked lazily at the wild beauty spread so bountifully about her. The sun, the sea, the sky, the cliff, the day all seemed an appropriate setting to the love which warmed her body. The man at her side possessed her thoughts to the exclusion of all else; she threw away her half-smoked cigarette to look at him with soft, tremulous eyes. Suddenly, she put an arm about his neck and bent his face back, which accomplished, she leant over him to kiss his hair, eyes, neck, and mouth.
"I love you! I love you! I love you!" she murmured.
"You're wonderful, little Mavis—wonderful."
Her kisses intoxicated him. He closed his eyes and slept softly. She pulled him towards her, so that his head was pillowed on her heart; then, feeling blissfully, ecstatically happy, she closed her eyes and turned her head so that the sunlight beat full on her face. She lost all sense of surroundings and must have slept for quite two hours. When she awoke, the sun was low in the heavens. She shivered slightly with cold, and was delighted to see the kettle boiling for tea on a spirit-lamp, which Perigal had lit in the shelter of the luncheon basket.
"How thoughtful of my darling!" she remarked.
"It's just boiling. I won't keep you a moment longer than I can help."
She sipped her tea, to feel greatly refreshed with her sleep. They ate heartily at this meal. They were both so radiantly happy that they laughed whenever there was either the scantiest opportunity or none at all. The most trivial circumstance delighted them; sea and sky seemed to reflect their boundless happiness. The sea had, by now, crept quite close to them: they amused themselves by watching the myriads of sand-flies which were disturbed by every advancing wave.
"We must soon be thinking of jacking up," said Perigal.
"Surely not yet, dearest."
"But it's past six."
"Don't let us go a moment sooner than is necessary," she pleaded. "It's all been too wonderful."
As the September sun had sunk behind the cliffs, they no longer felt his warmth. When Perigal had packed the luncheon basket, they walked about hand in hand, exploring the inmost recesses of their romantic retreat. It was only when it was quite dusk that they regretfully made a start for home.
"Go on a moment. I must take a last look of where I have been so happy," said Mavis.
"Alone?"
"If you don't mind. I want to see what it's like without you. I want to carry it in my mind all my life."
It was not long before Mavis rejoined her lover. When she had looked at the spot where she had enjoyed a day of unalloyed rapture, it appeared strangely desolate in the gathering gloom of night.
"Serve you right for wishing to be without me," he laughed, when she told him how the place had presented itself to her.
"You're quite right. It does," she assented.
They had some difficulty in finding foothold on the covered way, but Perigal, by lighting matches, did much to dissipate the gloom.
"Isn't it too bad of me?" asked Mavis suddenly, "I've forgotten all about dear Jill."
"But you were talking about her a lot yesterday."
"I mean to-day. She'd never forgive me if she knew."
"You must explain how happy you've been when you see her."
When they got out by the churchyard, they found that the night was spread with innumerable stars. She nestled close to his side as they walked in the direction of Polperro. Now and again, a thick growth of hedge flowers would fill their pathway with scent, when Mavis would stop to drink her fill of the fragrance.
"Isn't it delicious?" she asked.
"It knew you were coming and has done its best to greet you."
"It's all too wonderful," she murmured.
"Like your good-night kisses," he whispered.
A love tremor possessed her body.
"Say I love you," she said at another of their frequent halts.
"I love you! I love you! I love you!"
"I love music. But there's no music like that."
He placed his arm caressingly about her soft, warm body.
"Don't!" she pleaded.
"Don't!" he queried in surprise.
"It makes me love you so."
She spoke truly: from her lips to her pretty toes her body was burning with love. Her ecstasy was such that one moment she felt as if she could wing a flight into the heavens; at another, she was faint with love-sickness, when she clung tremulously to her lover for support.
Above, the stars shone out with a yet greater brilliance and in immense profusion. Now and again, a shooting star would dart swiftly down to go out suddenly. The multitude of many coloured stars dazzled her brain. It seemed to her love-intoxicated imagination as if night embraced the earth, even as Perigal held her body to his, and that the stars were an illumination and were twinkling so happily in honour of the double union. For all the splendid egotism born of human passion, the immense intercourse of night and earth seemed to reduce her to insignificance. She crept closer to Perigal's side, as if he could give her the protection she needed. He too, perhaps, was touched with the same lowliness, and the same hunger for the support of loving sympathy. His hand sought hers; and with a great wonder, a great love and a great humility in their hearts, they walked home.