Sparrows Part 123

"What's the matter?" he asked, alarmed.

"What you said. Don't, don't say I'm dissatisfied any more."

Thus Mavis and those nearest to her learned of the alteration in her fortunes.

Mavis was not long in discovering that the command of money provided her with a means of escape from the prepossessions afflicting her mind.

The first thing she did was to summon the most renowned nerve specialists to Melkbridge, where they held a lengthy consultation in respect of Harold's physical condition. Mavis was anxious to know if anything could be done to strengthen the slender thread of his life; she was much distressed to learn that the specialists' united skill could do nothing to stay the pitiless course of his disease. This verdict provided a further sorrow for Mavis, which she had to keep resolutely to herself, inasmuch as she told Harold that the doctors had spoken most favourably of the chances of his obtaining considerable alleviation of his physical distresses.

"And then you regret my coming into all this money, when it can do so much for you," she said, with a fine a.s.sumption of cheerfulness.

To get some distraction from her many troubles, Mavis next set about seeking out all the people who had ever been kind to her in order that they should benefit from her good fortune.

It did not take her long to discover that Miss Annie Mee was dead; but for all she and her solicitors were able to do, they could find no trace of 'Melia. Mavis paid Mr Poulter's debts, gave him a present of a hundred pounds (endowing the academy he called it), and, in memory of Miss Nippett, she gave "Turpsichor" two fine new coats of paint. Mavis also discovered where Miss Nippett was buried, and, finding that the grave had no headstone, she ordered one. To Mrs Scatchard and her niece she made handsome presents, and gave Mr Napper a finely bound edition of the hundred best books; whilst Mr and Mrs Trivett were made comfortable for life. Mavis was unable to find two people she was anxious to help. These were the "Permanent" and the "Lil" of Halverton Street days. One day, clad in shabby garments, she went to Mrs Gowler's address at New Cross to get news of the former. But the house of evil remembrance was to let; a woman at the next door house told Mavis that Mrs Gowler had been arrested and had got ten years for the misdeeds which the police had at last been able to prove. Mavis went on a similar errand to Halverton Street, to find that Lil had long since left and that there was no one in the house who knew of her whereabouts. She had been lost in one of the many foul undercurrents of London life. The one remaining person Mavis wished to benefit was Miss Toombs. For a long time, this independent-minded young woman resisted the offers that Mavis made her. One day, however, when Miss Toombs was laid up with acute indigestion, Mavis prevailed on her to accept a handsome cheque which would enable her to do what she pleased for the rest of her life, without endangering the happiness she derived from tea, b.u.t.tered toast, and hot-water bottles in winter.

"It was unkind of you not to take it before," said Mavis.

Miss Toombs looked stupidly at her benefactor.

"Now I know you want to thank me. Good night," said Mavis, as she put out her hand.

Miss Toombs took it, gripped it, and then turned round with her face to the wall. The next morning, Mavis received a letter from her in pencil.

In this, she told Mavis that the desire of her life had been for independence; but that she had held out against taking the money because she had latterly become jealous of Mavis, owing to Windebank's lifelong infatuation for her.

In addition to these benefactions, Mavis insisted on repaying Windebank for all the expense he had been put to for her illness, her child's funeral, and for her long stay at Swanage.

Thus, Mavis's first concern was to benefit those who had shown her kindness; whether or not she added to the sum of their individual happiness is another matter. Mr Poulter, doubtless, thought that dear Mrs Harold Devitt, while she was about it, might just as well have gilded "Turpsichor's" head and face. Mrs Scatchard, and particularly Miss Meakin, were probably resentful that Mavis did not ask them to mix with her swell friends; whilst Miss Toombs had plenty of time on her hands in which to indulge in vain regrets because she was not as attractive and finely formed as Mavis.

Beyond these gifts, it was a long time before Mavis could get into the habit of spending her substance freely, and without thought of whether she could really afford to part with money; the reason being that, for so many years in her life, she had had to consider so carefully every penny she spent, that she found it difficult to break away from these habits of economy. Late in the year, she moved up from her Melkbridge place (which she had long since gone into) to the house in town which Major Perigal had been in the habit of letting, or, if a tenant were not forthcoming, shutting up.

When she got there with Harold and Jill, she welcomed the distractions that London life offered, and in which her husband joined so far as his physical disability would permit. Windebank, to whom Harold took a great liking, and Lady Ludlow introduced Mavis to their many acquaintances. In a very short time, Mavis had more dear, devoted friends than she knew what to do with. The women, who praised her and her devotion "to a perfect dear of a husband" to her face, would, after enjoying her hospitality, go away to discuss openly how soon she would elope with Windebank, or any other man they fancied was paying her attention.

Mavis was not a little surprised by the almost uniform behaviour of the men who frequented her house. Old or young, rich or impecunious, directly they perceived how comely Mavis was, and that her husband was an invalid, did not hesitate to consider her fair game to be bagged as soon as may be. Looks, manners, veiled words, betrayed their thoughts; but, somehow, even the hardiest veteran amongst them did not get so far as a declaration of love. Something in Mavis's demeanour suggested a dispa.s.sionate summing up of their desires and limitations, in which the latter made the former appear a trifle ridiculous, and restrained the words that were ever on their tongues. This propensity on the part of men who, Mavis thought, ought to know better, occasioned her much disquiet. She confided these tribulations to Lady Ludlow's ear.

"Men are all alike all the world over," remarked the latter, on hearing Mavis's complaint. "You can't trust 'em further than you can see 'em."

"Not all, surely," replied Mavis, thinking of the innocuous young men, indigenous to Shepherd's Bush, whom she had so often danced with at "Poulter's."

"Anyhow, men in our cla.s.s of life are all at one on that point.

Directly they see a pretty woman, their one idea is to get hold of her."

"I wouldn't believe it, unless I'd seen for myself the truth of it."

"It's a great pity all of our s.e.x didn't realise it; but then it would make the untempted more morally righteous than ever," declared Lady Ludlow.

"But if a man really and truly loves a woman--"

"That's another story altogether. A woman is always safe with the man who loves her."

"Because his love is her best protection?"

"a.s.suredly."

The sudden reflection that Perigal had never really loved her produced, strangely enough, in Mavis a sharp but short-lived revulsion of feeling in his favour. On the whole, Mavis's, heart inclined to social gaiety.

To begin with, the constant change afforded by a succession of events which, although all of a piece, were to her unseasoned senses ever varying, provided some relief from the remorse and suffering that were always more or less in possession of her heart. Also, having for all her life been cut off from the gaieties natural to her age and kind, her present innocent dissipations were a satisfaction of this long repressed social instinct.

But, at all times, Windebank's conduct was a puzzle. Although he had the run of the house, although scarcely a day pa.s.sed without Mavis seeing a good deal of him, he never betrayed by word or look the love which Miss Toombs declared burned within him for Mavis. He had left the service in order to devote more time to his Wiltshire property, but his duties seemed to consist chiefly in making himself useful to Mavis or her husband. Womanlike, Mavis would sometimes try to discover her power over him, but although no trouble was too great for him to take in order to oblige her, Mavis's most provoking moods neither weakened his allegiance nor made him other than his calm, collected self.

"No! Miss Toombs is mistaken," thought Mavis. "He doesn't love me; he but understands and pities me."

A week before Christmas, Mavis and her husband returned to Melkbridge.

Christmas Day that year fell on a Sunday. Upon the preceding Sat.u.r.day, she bade her many Melkbridge acquaintances to the feast. When this was over, she wished her guests good night and a happy Christmas. After seeing her husband safely abed and asleep, she set about making preparations for a project that she had long had in her mind. Going to her room, she put on the plainest and most inconspicuous hat she could find; she also donned a long cloak and concealed face and hair in a thick veil. Unlocking a box, she got out a cross made of holly, which she concealed under her cloak. Then, after listening to see if the house were quiet, she went downstairs in her stockings, and carrying the thick boots she purposed wearing. Arrived at the front door, the bolts and bars of which she had secretly oiled, she opened this after putting on her boots, and let herself out into the night. Vigorous clouds now and again obscured the stars: the world seemed full of a great peace. Mavis waited to satisfy herself that she had not awakened anyone in the house; she then struck out in the direction of Pennington. It was only on the rarest occasions that Mavis could visit her boy's grave, when she had to employ the greatest circ.u.mspection to avoid being seen. Although since her translation from insignificance to affluence and local importance, she was remarkably well known in and about Melkbridge, and although her lightest acts were subjects of common gossip, she could not let Christmas go by without taking the risk that a visit to the churchyard at Pennington would entail. Her greatest fear of detection was in going through the town, but she kept well under the shadows of the town hall side of the market-place, so that the policeman, who was there on duty, walking-stick in hand, would not see her. Once in the comparative security of the Pennington road, she hurried past dark inanimate cottages and farmsteads, whilst overhead familiar constellations sprawled in a now clear sky. Several times on her progress, she fancied that she heard footsteps striking the hard, firm road behind her, but, whenever she stopped to listen, she could not hear a sound. Just as she reached the brewery at Pennington, clouds obscured the stars; she had some difficulty in picking her way in the darkness. When she got to the churchyard gate, happily unlocked, it was still so dark that she had to light matches in order to avoid stumbling on the graves. Even with the help of matches, it was as much as she could do to find her way to the plain white stone on which only the initials of her boy and the dates of his birth and death were recorded. When she got to the grave, the wind had blown out so many of her matches that she had only four left. One of these she lit in order to place the holly cross on the grave; she had just time to put it where she wanted it to lie, when the match went out. She knelt on the ground, while her heart went out to what was lying so many feet beneath.

"Oh, my dear! my dear!" she cried, but the sound of her own voice startled her into silence. The cry of her heart was:

"What is all that I have worth without you! How gladly would I give up my all, if only I could hold you warm and breathing in my arms!"

Then she fell to thinking what a joyous time would be hers at this season of the year, were her boy alive and if they were going to spend Christmas together. Pain possessed her; its operation seemed to isolate her from the world that she had lately known. She breathed an atmosphere of anguish; the mourning that the presence of those in the churchyard had caused their loved ones seemed to find expression in her heart, till, happily, tears eased her pain.

Then she became conscious of the physical discomfort occasioned by kneeling on the ground in the cold night air.

She got up. In order to take a last look at the grave, she lit another match. This burned steadily, enabling her to glance about her to see what companionship her boy possessed on this drear December night. The feeble match flame intensified the gloom and emphasised the deep, black quietude of the place. This hamlet of the dead was amazingly remote from all suggestions of life. It appeared to hug itself for its complete detachment from human interests. It seemed desolate, alone, forgotten by the world. As Mavis left its stillness, she thought:

"At least he's found a great peace."

Before Mavis left the churchyard, the stars enabled her to discern her path. She hastened in the direction of Melkbridge, wondering if her absence had been discovered. As before, she believed that she was followed, but strove to think that the footsteps she was all but certain she heard were the echo of her own. As she hurried through the town, this impression became a conviction. She was alarmed, and resolved to find out who it was who had elected to spy upon her actions. When she came to the place where the road branched off to her house, she concealed herself in the shadow of the wall. She had not long to wait. Very soon, the tall upright figure of a man swung into the road in which she was standing. One glance was enough to tell her that it was Windebank. As he was about to pa.s.s her, he paused as if to listen.

"Who are you looking for?" asked Mavis, who was anxious to discover what he was doing out of doors.

"Let me see you home," he said coldly.

"If anyone sees us, they will think--" she began.

"We shan't meet anyone. It's not safe for you to be out."

They walked in silence. As he did not express the least surprise at finding her out alone in the small hours of the morning, Mavis believed that he had divined her intention of going to Pennington and had hung about the house till she had come out, when he had followed, all the way to and from her destination, in order to protect her from harm.

"Good night," he said, as he stopped just before they reached the nearest lodge gates of her grounds.

"Good night and thank you," replied Mavis.

"I won't wish you a very happy Christmas."

"May I wish you one?"

"Good night," he answered curtly.