Sparrows Part 68

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 a.s.sistance 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 pa.s.sion 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.