Mavis spoke truly. She loved her husband, although with a different love from that which she had known for Perigal. She had adored the father of her child with her soul and with her body, but in her affection for her husband there was no trace of physical passion, of which she had no small share. This new-born love was, in truth, an immense maternal devotion which seemed to satisfy an insistent longing of her being.
Upon the day of their wedding, Mavis was already wondering if she were beginning to love Harold; but for all this uncertainty, she believed that if the marriage were to be a physical as well as a civil union, she would have confessed before the ceremony took place her previous intimacy with Perigal. After the marriage, the holy fervour with which Harold had regarded Mavis bewildered her. The more his nature was revealed to her, the better she was enabled to realise the cold-blooded brutality with which the supreme Power (Mavis's thoughts did not run so easily in the direction of a Heavenly Father as was once their wont) had permanently mutilated Harold's life, which had been of the rarest promise. Still ignorant of her real sentiments for her husband, she had persuaded him, for no apparent reason, to delay acquainting his family with the news of their marriage. Truth soon illumined Mavis's mind. Directly she realised how devotedly she loved her husband (the maternal aspect of her love did not occur to her), her punishment for her previous duplicity began. She was constantly overwhelmed with bitter reproaches because of her having set out to marry her husband from motives of revenge against his family.
Mavis's confession to the Devitts temporarily eased her mind, but, as her husband's solicitude for her happiness redoubled, her torments recommenced with all their old-time persistency. Harold's declining health gave her innumerable anguished hours; she realised that, so long as he lived, she would suffer for the deception she had practised. She believed that, if she survived him, her remaining days would be filled with grief.
Whichever way she looked, trouble confronted her with hard, unbending features.
She was enmeshed in a net of sorrow from which there was no escape.
In order to stifle any hints or rumours which might have got about Melkbridge of Mavis having been a mother without being a wife, she was pressed by the Devitts to make a stay of some length at Melkbridge House. Guessing the reason of this invitation, she accepted, although she, as well as her husband, were eager to get into a quaint, weather-beaten farmhouse which Harold had bought in the neighbourhood.
To make her stay as tolerable as possible, Mavis set herself to win the hearts of the Devitt family, the feminine members of which, she was convinced, were bitterly hostile to her. The men of the household, to the scarcely concealed dismay of the women, quickly came over to her side. Lowther she appreciated at his worth; her studied indifference to him went a long way towards securing that youth's approval, which was not unmingled with admiration for her person. Montague she was beginning to like. For his part, he was quickly sensible of the feminine distinction which Mavis's presence bestowed upon his home. The fine figure she cut in evening dress at dinner parties, when the Devitts feasted their world; her conversation in the drawing-room afterwards; the emotion she put into her playing and singing (it was the only expression Mavis could give to the abiding griefs gnawing at her heart), were social assets of no small value, which Devitt was the first to appreciate. Mrs Harold Devitt's appearance and parts gave to his assemblies a piquancy which was sadly lacking when his friends repaid his hospitality. Mavis, also, pointed out to Devitt the advisability of rescuing from the lumber rooms several fine old pieces of furniture which were hidden away in disgrace, largely because they had belonged to Montague's humble grandfather. The handiwork of Chippendale and Hepplewhite was furbished up and put about the house, replacing Tottenham Court Road monstrosities. When the old furniture epidemic presently seized upon Melkbridge, the Devitts could flatter themselves that they had done much to influence local fashion in the matter.
Montague came to take pleasure in Mavis's society, when he would drop his blustering manner to become his kindly self. They had many long talks together, which enabled Mavis to realise the loneliness of the man's life. The more Montague saw of her the more he disliked his son-in-law's share in the paternity of Mavis's dead child.
Now and again he would discuss business worries with her, which established a community of interest between them. His friendship gave Mavis confidence in her endeavours to placate the female Devitts. This latter was uphill work: Mrs Devitt and her sister entrenched themselves in a civil reserve which resisted Mavis's most strenuous assaults. With Victoria, Mavis believed, at first, that she had better luck, Mrs Charlie Perigal's sentiments and manner of expressing them being all that the most exigent fancy might desire; but as time wore on, Mavis got no further with her sister-in-law; she could never feel that she and Victoria had a single heart beat in common.
As with so many others, Mavis began by liking but ended by being repelled by Victoria's inhuman flawlessness.
Thus Mavis lived for the weeks she stayed at Melkbridge House. But at all times, no matter what she might be doing, she was liable to be attacked by bitter, heart-rending grief at the loss of her child. Mavis had already suffered so much that she was now able to distinguish the pains peculiar to the different varieties of sorrow. This particular grief took the shape of a piteous, persistent heart hunger which nothing could stay. Joined to this was a ceaseless longing for the lost one, which cast drear shadows upon the bright hues of life. The way in which she was compelled to isolate her pain from all human sympathy did not diminish its violence.
One night, when the Devitts were entertaining their kind, the conversation at dinner touched upon a local petty sessions case, in which the nursemaid of one of those present had been punished for concealing the birth of an illegitimate child, who had since died.
"It was a great worry to me," complained the nurse's mistress. "She was such a perfect nurse."
"I hope you'll do something for her when she comes out," urged Harold.
The woman stared at Harold in astonishment.
"Think how the poor girl's suffered," he continued.
"Do you really think so?" asked the woman.
"She's lost her child."
"But I always understood that those who lose children out of wedlock cannot possible grieve like married women who have the same loss."
In a moment Mavis's thoughts flew to Pennington Churchyard, where her heart seemed buried deep below the grass; certain of her facial nerves twitched, while tears filled her eyes. Devitt's voice recalled her to her surroundings; she looked up, to catch his eyes looking kindly into hers. Although she made an effort to join in the talk, she was mentally bowing her head, the while her being ached with anguish. She did not recover her spirits for the rest of the evening.
There came a day when one of the big guns of the financial world was expected to dinner. Mavis had many times met at Melkbridge House some of the lesser artillery of successful business men, when she had been surprised to discover what dull, uninteresting folk they were; apart from their devotion to the cult of money-getting, they did not seem to have another interest in life, the ceaseless quest for gold absorbing all their vitality. This big gun was a Sir Frederick Buntz, whose interest Devitt, as he told Mavis, was anxious to secure in one of his company-promoting schemes. In order to do Devitt a good turn, Mavis laid herself out to please the elderly Sir Frederick, who happened to have an eye for an attractive woman. Sir Frederick scarcely spoke to anyone else but Mavis throughout dinner; at the end of the evening, he asked her if she advised him to join Devitt's venture.
Mavis's behaviour formed the subject of a complaint made by Mrs Devitt when alone with Montague in their bedroom.
"Didn't you notice the shameless way she behaved?" asked Mrs Devitt.
"Nonsense!" replied her well-pleased lord.
"Everyone noticed it. She's rapidly going from bad to worse."
"Anyway, it's as good as put five thousand in my pocket, if not more."
"What do you mean?"
Montague's explanation modified his wife's ill opinion of Mavis. The next morning, when Devitt thanked his daughter-in-law for influencing Sir Frederick in the way she had done, Mavis said:
"I want something in return."
"Some shares for yourself?"
"A rise of a pound a week for Miss Toombs."
"That plain, unhealthy little woman at the boot factory!"
"She's a heart of gold. I know you'll do it for me," said Mavis, who was now conscious of her power over Devitt.
Having won her way, Mavis set out to intercept Miss Toombs, who about this time would be on her way to business. They had not met since Mavis's marriage to Harold, Miss Toombs refusing to answer Mavis's many letters and always being out when her old friend called.
Mavis ran against Miss Toombs by the market-place; her friend looked in worse health than when she had last seen her.
"Good morning," said Mavis.
"Don't talk to me," cried Miss Toombs. "I hate the sight of you."
"No, you don't. And I've done you a good turn."
"I'm sorry to hear it. I wish you good morning."
"What have I done to upset you?" asked Mavis.
"Don't pretend you don't know."
"But I don't."
"What! Then I'll tell you. You've married young Devitt, when there's a man worth all the women who ever lived eating his heart out for you."
Mavis stopped, amazed at the other woman's vehemence.
"A man who you've treated like the beast you are," continued Miss Toombs hotly. "After all that's happened, he longed to marry you, and that's more than most men would have done."
"You don't know—you can't understand," faltered Mavis.
"Yes, I do. You're not really bad; you're only a precious big fool and don't know when you've got a good thing."
"I—I love my husband."
"Rot! You may think you do, but you don't. You're much too hot-blooded to stick that kind of marriage long. I know I wouldn't. And it serves you right if you ever make a mess of it."
"I thought Sir Archibald only pitied me," said Mavis, in extenuation of her marriage.
"Pity! pity! He's a man, not a bloodless nincompoop," said Miss Toombs. "And it's you I have to thank for seeing him so often," she added, as her anger again flamed up.
"Sir Archibald?" asked Mavis.
"He sees me to talk about you," said Miss Toombs sorrowfully. "And he never looks twice at me. He doesn't even like me enough to ask me to go away for a week-end with him. I'm simply nothing to him, and that's the truth."
"I think you a dear, anyway. And I've got you a rise of a pound a week."
"What?"
Mavis repeated her information.
"That'll buy me some summer muslins I've long had my eye on, and one or two bits of jewellery. Then, perhaps, he'll look at me," declared Miss Toombs.
The next moment she caught sight of her reflection in Perrott's (the grocer's) window, at which she cried:
"Just look at me! What on earth could ever make that attractive?"
"Your kind nature," replied Mavis. "You're much too fond of under-valuing your appearance."
"It's all damned unfair!" cried Miss Toombs passionately. "What use are your looks to you? What fun do you get out of life? Why—oh why haven't I your face and figure?"
"What would you do with it?" asked Mavis.
"Get him, get him somehow. If he wouldn't marry me I'd manage to 'live.' And he's not a cad like Charlie Perigal," cried Miss Toombs, as she hurried off to work.
When Mavis got back, she learned that the morning post had brought an invitation for the Devitts and herself for a dinner that Major Perigal was giving in two weeks' time. Major Perigal, also, wrote privately to Mavis, urging her to give him the honour of her company; he assured her that his son would not be present.
Little else but the approaching dinner was discussed by the Devitts for the rest of the day. As if to palliate their interest in the matter, they explained to Mavis how the proffered hospitality was alien to the ways of the giver of the feast. At heart they were greatly pleased with the invitation; it promised a meeting with county folk on equal terms, together with a termination to the aloofness with which Major Perigal had treated the Devitts since his son's marriage to Victoria. They accepted with alacrity. Mavis, alone, hesitated.
Her husband urged her to go, although his physical disability would prevent him from accompanying her.
"I want my dearest to go," he said. "It will give me so much pleasure to know how wonderful you looked, and how everyone admired you."
Mavis decided to accept the invitation, largely because it was her husband's wish; a little, because she had the curiosity to meet those who would have been acquaintances and friends had her father been alive. Her lot had been thrown so much among those who worked for daily bread, that she was not a little eager to mix, if it were only for a few hours, with her own social kind.
Mavis, again at Harold's wish, reluctantly ordered an expensive frock for the dinner. It was of grey taffetas embroidered upon bodice and skirt with black velvet butterflies. The night of the dinner, when Mavis was ready to go, she showed herself to her husband before setting out. He looked at her long and intently before saying:
"I shall always remember you like this."
"What do you mean?" she asked, a little afraid.
"It isn't what I expect. It's what I deserve for marrying a glorious young creature like you."
"Am I discontented?" she asked proudly.
"God bless you. You're as good as you're beautiful," he replied.
As she stooped to kiss him, the prayer of her heart was:
"May he never know why I married him."
His eyes, alight with love, followed her as she left the room.
Major Perigal received his guests in the drawing-room. The first person whom Mavis encountered after she had greeted her host was Windebank. She recalled that she had not seen him since her illness at Mrs Trivett's, He had written to congratulate her on her marriage when she had come to stay with the Devitts; since then, she had not heard from him.
Although Mavis knew that she might see him to-night, she was so taken aback at meeting him that she could think of nothing to say. He relieved her embarrassment by talking commonplace.
"Here's someone who much wishes to meet you," he said presently. "It's Sir William Ludlow; he served with your father in India."
Mavis knew the name of Sir William Ludlow as that of a general with a long record of distinguished service.
When he was introduced by Windebank, Mavis saw that he had soldier written all over his wiry, spare person; she congratulated herself upon meeting a man who might talk of the stirring events in which he had taken so prominent a part. He had only time to tell Mavis how she more resembled her mother than her father when a move was made for the dining-room. Mavis was taken down by Windebank.
"Thank you," she said in an undertone, when they had reached the landing.
"What for?"
"All you've done."
He turned on her such a look of pain that she did not say any more.
Windebank sat on her right; General Sir William Ludlow on her left. Directly opposite was a little pasty-faced woman with small, bright eyes. Victoria, by virtue of her relationship to Major Perigal, faced her father-in-law at the bottom of the table; upon her right sat the most distinguished-looking man Mavis had ever seen. Tall, finely proportioned, with noble, regular features, surmounted by grey hair, he suggested to Mavis a fighting bishop of the middle ages: she wondered who he was. The soldier on her left talked incessantly, but, to Mavis's surprise, he made no mention of his campaigns; he spoke of nothing else but rose culture, his persistent ill-luck at flower shows, the unfairness of the judging. The meal was long and, even to Mavis, to whom a dinner party was in the nature of an experience, tedious.
Infrequent relief was supplied by the pasty-faced woman opposite, who was the General's wife; she did her best to shock the susceptibilities of those present by being in perpetual opposition to their stolid views.
An elderly woman, whose face showed the ravages of time upon what must have been considerable beauty (somehow she looked rather disreputable), had referred to visits she had paid, when in London for the season, to a sister who lived in Eccleston Square.
"Such a dreadful neighbourhood!" she complained. "It made me quite ill to go there."
"I love it," declared Lady Ludlow.
"That part of London!" exclaimed the faded beauty.
"Why not? Whatever life may be there, it is honest in its unconcealment. And to be genuine is to be noble."
"You're joking, Kate," protested the faded beauty.
"I'm doing nothing of the kind. Give me Pimlico," declared Lady Ludlow emphatically.
At mention of Pimlico, Mavis and Windebank involuntarily glanced into each other's eyes; the name of this district recalled many memories to their minds.
When dinner was over, Mavis had hardly reached the drawing-room with the women-folk, when Lady Ludlow pounced upon her.
"I've been so anxious to meet you," she declared. "You're one of the lucky ones."
"Since when am I lucky?" asked Mavis.
"Since your father died and you had to earn your living till you were married. Old Jimmy Perigal told me all about it. You're to be envied."
"I fail to see why."
"You've mixed with the world and have escaped living with all these stuffy bores."
"They don't know how lucky they are," remarked Mavis with conviction.
"Nonsense! Give me life and the lower orders. What did my husband talk about during dinner?"
"Roses."
"Of course. When he was at his wars, I had some peace. Now I'm bored to death with flowers."
"Who was that distinguished-looking man who sat on Mrs Charles Perigal's right?" asked Mavis.
"That's Lord Robert Keevil, whose brother is the great tin-god 'Seend.'"
"The Marquis of Seend?" queried Mavis.
"That's it: he was foreign minister in the last Government. But Bobbie Keevil is adorable till he's foolish enough to open his mouth. Then he gives the game away."
"What do you mean?"
"He's the complete fool. If he would only hold his tongue, he might be a success. His wife is over there. Her eyes are always weeping for the loss of her beauty. Your father wanted to marry her in his youth. But give me people who don't bother about such tiresome conventionalities as marriage."
Mavis looked curiously at the woman whom her father had loved. Doubtless, she was comely in her youth, but now Mavis saw pouched eyes, thin hair, a care-lined face not altogether innocent of paint and powder. And it was those cracked lips her father had longed to kiss; those dim eyes, the thought of which had, perhaps, shortened his hours of rest! The sight of the faded beauty brought home to Mavis the vanity of earthly love, till she reflected that, had the one-time desire of her father's heart been gratified, the sorrow they would have shared in common would ever endear her to his heart, and keep her the fairest woman the earth possessed, for all the defacement time might make in her appearance.
When the men came up from the dining-room, there was intermittent music in which Mavis took part. The sincerity of her voice, together with its message of tears, awoke genuine approval in her audience.
"An artiste, my dear," declared Lady Ludlow. "Artistes have always a touch of vulgarity in their natures, or they wouldn't make their appeal. We must be great friends. I'm sick to death of correct people."
For the rest of the evening, Mavis noticed how she herself was constantly watched by Windebank and Major Perigal, the former of whom dropped his eyes when he saw that Mavis perceived the direction of his glance. As the evening wore on, Mavis was faintly bored and not a little troubled. She reflected that it was in these very rooms that Charlie Perigal had read her piteous little letters from London, and from where he probably penned his lying replies. Mavis would have liked to have been alone so that she could try to appreciate the whys and wherefores of the most significant events in her life. The conditions of her last stay in London and those of her present life were as the poles apart so far as material well-being was concerned; her mind ached to fasten upon some explanation that would reconcile the tragic events in her life with her one-time implicit faith in the certain protection extended by a Heavenly Father to His trusting children. Perhaps it was as well that Mavis was again asked to sing; the effort of remembering her words put all such thoughts from her mind.
Whatever clouds may have gathered about Mavis's appreciation of the evening, there was no doubt of the enjoyment of those Devitts who were present. The dinner was, to them, an event of social moment in their lives. Although they looked as if they had got into the dignified atmosphere of Major Perigal's drawing-room by mistake, they were greatly delighted with their evening; afterwards, they did not fail to make copious references to those they had met at dinner to their Melkbridge friends.
A month after the dinner, Major Perigal died suddenly in his chair. Two days after he was buried, Mavis received an intimation from his solicitors, which requested her presence at the reading of his will. Wondering what was toward, Mavis made an appointment. To her boundless astonishment, she learned that Major Perigal, "on account of the esteem in which he held the daughter of his old friend, Colonel Keeves," had left Mavis all his worldly goods, with the exception of bequests to servants and five hundred pounds to his son Charles.
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