"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.
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