Days passed swiftly for Mavis; weeks glided into months, months into seasons. When the anniversary of the day on which she had commenced work at the boot factory came round, she could not believe that she had been at Melkbridge a year. When she had padded the streets of London in quest of work, she had many times told herself that she had only to secure a weekly wage in order to be happy. Now this desire was attained, she found (as who has not?) that satisfaction in one direction breeds hunger in another. Although her twenty shillings a week had been increased to twenty-five, and she considerably augmented this sum by teaching music to pupils to whom Mr Medlicott recommended her, Mavis was by no means content. Her regular hours, the nature of her employment, the absence of friendship in the warm-hearted girl's life, all irked her; she fearfully wondered if she were doomed to spend her remaining days in commencing work at nine-thirty and leaving off at half-past four upon five days of the week, and one on Saturdays. If the fifty-two weeks spent in Melkbridge had not brought contentment to her mind, the good air of the place, together with Mrs Farthing's wholesome food, had wrought a wondrous change in her appearance. The tired girl with the hunted look in her eyes had developed into an amazingly attractive young woman. Her fair skin had taken on a dazzling whiteness; her hair was richer and more luxuriant than of yore; but it was her eyes in which the chief alteration had occurred. These now held an unfathomable depth of tenderness, together with a roguish fear that the former alluring quality might be discovered. If her figure were not as unduly stout as the skinny virgins of Melkbridge declared it to be, there was no denying the rude health apparent in the girl's face and carriage.
So far as her colleagues at the boot factory were concerned, Miss Toombs hardly took any notice of her, whilst Miss Hunter gave her the impression of being extremely insincere, all her words and actions being the result of pose rather than of conviction.
The only people Mavis was at all friendly with were Mr and Mrs Medlicott, whom she often visited on Sunday evenings, when they would all sing Moody and Sankey's hymns to the accompaniment of the cabinet piano.
When she had been some months at Melkbridge, a new interest had come into her life. One day, Mr Devitt, who, with his family, had showed no disposition to cultivate Mavis's acquaintance, sent for her and asked her if she would like to have a dog.
"Nothing I should like better," she replied.
"There's only one objection."
"One can't look gift dogs in the mouth."
"It's a she, a lady dog: there's risk of an occasional family."
"I'll gladly take that."
"She's rather a dear, but she's lately had pups, and some people might object to her appearance."
"I know I should love her."
"She's a cocker spaniel—her name's Jill. She belongs to my boy, Harold. But as he's away—"
"Then we've already met. I saw her the day I came down to see you from London. You're right—she is a dear."
"My boy, who is still away for his health—"
"I am sorry," Mavis interrupted.
"Thanks. He wrote to say that, as we—some of us—appeared to find her a nuisance, we'd better try and find her a happy home."
"I'm sure she'd be happy with me."
"What about your landlady?"
"I'd forgotten her. I must ask."
"If she doesn't mind, Jill's licence is paid till the end of the year."
"I do hope Mrs Farthing won't mind," declared Mavis hopefully.
Rather to her surprise, Mrs Farthing made little objection to Jill's coming to live with Mavis, her surrender being partly due to the fact of the girl's winsome presence having softened the elder woman's heart, but largely because it had got about Melkbridge that Mavis came of a local county family.
Mr Devitt, being told of this decision, sent Jill up in charge of a maid, who asked that its collar and chain might be returned to Melkbridge House.
Mavis took Jill in her arms, when it would seem by the dog's demonstrations of delight as if it had long been a stranger to affectionate regard.
"Be you agoing to keep un?" asked the maid.
"Why not?"
"I shouldn't. Hev a good look at un."
Mavis looked, to see that Jill's comparatively recent litter had been responsible for the temporary abnormal development of the parts of her body by which she had nourished her young.
"It's why Mrs Devitt wouldn't have un in the house. I don't blame her. I call it disgusting," continued this chip of Puritanical stock.
"I see nothing to object to. It's nature," retorted Mavis, who inwardly smiled to see how the Puritanical-minded young woman, who had looked askance at Jill's appearance, did not hesitate to grab the girl's proffered shilling.
Jill and Mavis were at once fast friends. The dog accompanied her mistress in all her rambles, where its presence routed the forces of loneliness which were beginning to lay siege to the girl's peace of mind. Jill slept on Mavis's bed, pined when she left her in the morning, madly rejoiced at her mistress' return from work, when the vigorous wagging of Jill's tail, together with the barks of delight which greeted Mavis, gave her a suggestion of home which she had never experienced since the days of Brandenburg College.
This year, spring came early, like a beautiful mistress who joins an enraptured lover before he dares to hope for her coming. With the lengthening days Mavis knew an increasing distress of mind. She became unsettled: outbreaks of violent energy alternated with spells of laziness, which, more often than not, were accompanied by headaches. Books of historical memoirs, hitherto an unfailing solace, failed to interest her. Love stories she would avoid for weeks on end, as if they were the plague, suddenly to fall to and devour them with avidity, when the inclination seized her.
It was not yet warm enough for her to sit in her nook; it was doubtful if she would have done so if the weather had been sufficiently propitious. The reason for her present indifference to the spot, which she had always loved, was that it bordered the Avon, and just now the river was swollen and turbulent with spring rains. Her soul ached for companionship with something stable, soothing, still. Perhaps this was why she preferred to walk by the canal that touched Melkbridge in its quiet and lonely course. The canal had a beauty of its own in Mavis' eyes: its red-brick, ivy-grown bridges, its wooden drawbridges, deep locks, and deserted grass-grown tow-paths were all eloquent of the waterways having arrived at a certain philosophic repose, which was in striking contrast to the girl's unquiet thoughts. Soon, as if in celebration of spring, both banks were gay with borders of great yellow butter-cups. It seemed to Mavis as if they decorated the tables of a feast to which she had not been asked. The great awakening in the heart of life proceeded exquisitely, inevitably. Mavis believed that, as the sun's rays had no real meaning for her, it was only by some cruel mischance that she was enabled to bear witness to their daily increasing warmth. She would tell the troubles of her disturbed mind to Jill, who tried to show her sympathy by licking her face. At night, she would often waken out of a deep sleep with a start, when her eagerly outstretched arms would grasp a vast emptiness. The sight of lovers walking together would bring hot blood to her head; the proximity of a young man would make her heart beat strangely.
She frequently found herself wondering why intercourse between man and woman was hedged about by innumerable restrictions. It seemed to her that what people called the conventionalities were a device of the far-seeing eye of the Most High to regulate the relations of His children. If any of these appeared to escape the ends for which they were made, she put down the failure to the imperfect construction of the human organism, the constant aberrations of which necessitated the restraints imposed by religion and morality.
Mavis soon descended from the general to the particular. Her mind continually dwelt on every incident of her brief acquaintance with Windebank: she found that it was as much as she could do to justify the exigent scruples which had made her repel the man's approaches. One day, the scales fell from her eyes. She had deserted the canal and was sitting in a field, some two miles from the town, where the few trees it contained were disposed as if they were continually setting to partners, in some arboreous quadrille. The surrounding fields were tipped at all angles, as if in petulant discontent of one-time flatness. With an effort she could discern, Jill's tail wagging delightedly from a hole in a ditch, where she was hunting a rabbit. The voice, the sights, the sounds of nature, all served to obliterate the effect of life, as she had, hitherto, regarded it, upon her processes of thought. Archie Windebank's wealth, social position and career were as nought to her; he appealed to her only as a man, and her conceivable relationship to him was but as female to male.
All other considerations, which she had before believed of importance, now seemed trivial and inept. She wondered how she could have been blinded for so long. She bitterly reproached herself for her high-flown scruples, which now savoured of unwholesome affectation; but for these, she might not only have been a happy wife, but she might, also, have proved the means of conferring happiness upon another, and he a dearly loved one.
She called to Jill and sorrowfully went home. Three weeks later was Whit Monday, a day which, being a holiday, she was able to devote to her own uses. She had planned to walk to the village of Preen, an ancient hamlet set upon a hill that overlooked Salisbury Plain, which was distant some five miles from Melkbridge; but, at the last moment, her distress of mind was such that she abandoned the excursion. Lethargy had succeeded to her disturbed thoughts—lethargy that made her look on life through grey spectacles. Instead of setting out for Preen, she walked aimlessly about the town, accompanied by Jill. Presently she went up Church Walk, at the top of which she saw that the church door was open. She had a fancy for walking by the grave-stones, so Mavis tied Jill up to the gate of the churchyard with the lead which she usually carried.
As Mavis wandered among the moss-grown stones, which bore almost undecipherable inscriptions, she wondered if those they covered had led happy, contented lives, or if they were afflicted with unquiet thoughts, unsatisfied longings, and dull despair, as she was. The church was empty and cool; she walked inside, to sit in the first pew she chanced upon. It was the first time that she had sat all alone in the church; its venerable appearance now cried aloud for recognition and appreciation. As if to accentuate its antiquity, some of the aisles and walls bore the disfiguring evidences of an unfinished electric light and electric organ-blowing installation, which was in the process of being made, despite the protests of the more conservative among the worshippers. She did not know whether to stay or to go; she seemed incapable of making up her mind. Then, almost before she was aware of it, the organ commenced to play softly, appealingly; very soon, the fane was filled with majestic notes. Mavis was always acutely sensitive to music. In a moment, her troubles were forgotten; she listened enrapt to the soaring melody. The player was not the humdrum organist of the church, neither did his music savour of the ecclesiastical inspiration which makes its conventional appeal on Sundays and holy days. Instead, it spoke to Mavis of the travail, the joy of being, the night, sunlight, sea, air, the gay and grey pageant of life: the player appeared to be moved by all these influences. Not only was he eloquent of life, but he seemed to read and understand Mavis' soul and the perplexities with which it was confronted. Her heart went out to this sympathetic and intimate understanding of her needs; body and soul, she surrendered herself to the musician's mood. Very soon, he was playing upon her being as if she were but another instrument, of which he had acquired the mastery. Her imagination, stirred to its depths, took instant wing. It seemed as if the hand of time were put back for many hundreds of years to a day in a remote century. The building, bare of memorial inscriptions, was crowded with ecclesiastics, monks, nobles and simple; she could see the gorgeous ceremonial incidental to the occasion; the chanting of monks filled her ears; the rich scent of incense lay heavy on the air; lights flickered on the altar. Night came, when silence seemed to have forever enshrouded the world; many nights, till one on which the moonlight shone upon the figure of a young man keeping his vigil beside his armour and arms. Then, in a moment, the church was filled with sunlight, and gay with garlands and bright frocks. The knight and his bride stood before the altar, while the world seemed to laugh for very joy. As the newly-made man and wife left the church, old-world wedding music sounded strangely in Mavis' ears. The best part of a year passed. A little group stood about the font, where the life, that love had called into being, was purged of taint of sin by holy church.
Next, martial music rent the air; a venerable ecclesiastic blessed the arms and aims of a goodly company of stout-hearted men. When the echoes of the martial music had died away, the fane was deserted, save for one lone woman, who offered up continual supplication for her absent lord.
Cries and lamentations fell on Mavis' ears: to the music of a military march, the brave young knight was borne to burial. Soon, the moonlight fell upon the church's first monument, beside which the tearless and kneeling figure of a woman often prayed. It was not so very long before the widow was carried to rest beside her husband; it seemed but little longer when the offspring of her love stood before the altar with the bride of his choice.
The foregoing scenes were many times repeated, as, thus, life moved down the centuries, differing not at all but for changes in personality and dress. The church looked on, unmoved, unaltered, save for signs of age and an increasing number of memorials raised to the dead. The procession of life began by fascinating and ended by paining Mavis.
It was as if she were the spectator of a crowd in which her heart ached to mix, despite the distressing penalties of pain to which those she envied were, at all times, subject. It was as if she were forever cut off from the pleasures of her kind, to gain which the risk of mental and physical torments was well worth the running. It seemed as if her youth, sweetness, and immense capacity for loving, were doomed to wither unsought, unappreciated in the desert of her destiny. As if to save herself from such an unkind fate, she involuntarily fell on her knees; but she did not pray, indeed, she made no attempt to formulate prayer in her heart. Perhaps she thought that her dumb, bruised loneliness was more eloquent than words. She remained on her knees for quite a long time. When she got up, the music stopped. The contrast between the sound and the succeeding silence was such that the latter seemed to be more emphatic than the melody.
When she, presently, rose to go, she saw a man standing just behind her in the aisle; he was elderly and homely-looking, with soft, far-away eyes.
"Good morning, miss," said the man.
"Good morning," replied Mavis, wondering who he could be.
"I hoped—you zeemed to like my playing."
"Was it you who played so beautifully?"
"I was up there practising just now."
"Do you often practise like that?"
"It isn't often I get the chance; I'm mostly busy varming."
"Farming?"
"That's it. And what with bad times, one doesn't get much time for the organ. And when one does, one's vingers run away with one."
"You a farmer?"
"At Pennington Varm. My name's Trivett, miss. If ever you would come in to tea, Mrs Trivett would be proud to welcome 'ee."
"I should be delighted. Perhaps, if you would like to teach me, I'd have organ lessons."
"I get so little time, miss. What day will 'ee come to the varm?"
"Next Saturday, if I may,"
"That's zettled. I'm glad you be coming zoon; the colour of the young grass be wonderful."
"Indeed!" remarked Mavis, as she looked at him, surprised.
"That's the advantage of varming," continued Trivett: "you zee natur in zo many colours and zo many moods."
Thus talking, they reached the churchyard gates, where Mavis released Jill, who was delighted at being set at liberty.
Mavis said goodbye to Trivett and recrossed the churchyard on her way to the river. As she walked, she wondered at Trivett's strange conjunction of pursuits; also, if he were as good a farmer as he was a musician.
She found the part of the river nearest to the church crowded with holiday bathers, so turned aside in the direction of her nook, where she was tolerably certain of getting quiet. Arrived there, she found her expectation was not belied. She felt dazed and tired with the emotions she had experienced; she reclined on the ground to look lazily at the beauty spread so bountifully about her.
Nature was now at her best. She was like a fair young mother radiant with the joys attaching to the birth of her firstborn. The striking of the quarter on the church clock was borne to her on the light wind; she heard a rumble and caught a glimpse through the young foliage of the white panelled carriages of a train speeding to Weymouth.
She settled herself for a repose of suspended thought, thankful that there was no prospect of her peace being interfered with. She had not lain long when she was disturbed by a plashing of water, at which Jill was vigorously barking.
She raised her head to see a man swimming; her eyes were fascinated by the whiteness of the man's flesh. After a while, he returned, to pass and repass her two or three times. Then, to her consternation, he approached the bank near to where she lay. She sat up; a few moments later, the man's head and shoulders appeared among the grasses upon the river bank.
"Good morning," said the man.
Mavis took no notice, but called to Jill.
"Good morning," repeated the man, who was young and pleasant-looking.
Mavis did not reply.
"Would little Mavis mind moving a little further up the bank?" continued the man.
Mavis looked at him in astonished anger.
"Because I can't get to my clothes until you do."
Mavis got up, called to Jill, and turned her back on the nook, wondering how on earth the man could have known her name; also, why he had the impertinence to address her so familiarly.
She did not get very far, because, call as she might to Jill, the spoiled dog took no notice of her summons, but remained about the place that her mistress had left.
Mavis called vainly for some minutes, till, at last, Jill appeared, carrying the man's collar in her mouth. Mavis tried to induce the dog to come to her, but, instead, Jill raced madly round and round, delighted with her find.
Very soon the man appeared, now dressed in a flannel suit, but collarless; a bath towel was thrown over his shoulder. He advanced to Mavis in leisurely fashion.
"Bother the man!" she thought.
"May I introduce myself?" he asked, as he lifted his hat.
"No, thank you," she replied coldly.
"There's no occasion. We've already met," he continued.
"I'm sure we haven't, and I haven't the least wish to know you."
"Rot! I'm Charlie Perigal."
"Charlie Perigal!"
"Yes. And how is little Mavis after all these years? But there's little need to ask."
Here he stared at her with an immense admiration in his eyes.
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