Sparrows Part 70

"Not the remotest. If he once gets a thing into his head, as he has this, nothing on earth will move him."

"I won't let it make any difference to you," she declared.

"What do you mean?" he asked quickly.

"That nothing, nothing will persuade me to marry you on Thursday."

"What?"

"I mean it. I have made up my mind."

"But I've set my mind on it, darling."

"I'm doing it for your good."

He argued, threatened, cajoled, pleaded for the best part of two hours, but nothing would shake her resolution. To all of his arguments, she would reply in a tone admitting no doubt of the unalterable nature of her determination:

"I'm doing it for your good, beloved."

Shadows grew apace; light clouds laced the west; a hush was in the air, as if trees, bushes, and flowers were listening intently for a message which had evaded them all the day.

Perigal's distress wrung Mavis' heart.

"I can bear it no longer," she presently cried.

"Bear what, sweetheart?"

"Your pain. My heart isn't made of stone. I almost wish it were.

Listen. You want me?"

"What a question!"

"Then you shall have me."

He looked at her quickly. She went on:

"We will not get married. But I give you myself."

"Mavis!"

"Yes; I give you myself."

Perigal was silent for some minutes; he was, evidently, in deep thought. When he spoke, it was to say with deliberation:

"No, no, little Mavis. I may be bad; but I'm not up to that form--not yet."

"I love you all the more for saying that," she murmured.

"Since I can't move you, I'll go to Wales tomorrow," he said.

"Then that means--"

"Wait, wait, little Mavis; wait and hope."

"I shall never love anyone else."

"Not even Windebank?"

She cried out in agony of spirit.

"Forgive me, darling," he said. "I will keep faithful too."

They walked for some moments in silence.

"Do one thing for me," pleaded Mavis.

"And that?"

"We are near my nook--at least I call it that. Let us sit there for just three minutes and think Thursday was--was going to be our--" She could not trust her voice to complete the sentence.

"If you wish it."

"Only--"

"Only what?"

"Promise--promise you won't kiss me."

"But--"

"I'm not myself. Promise."

He promised. They repaired to Mavis' nook, where they sat in silence, while night enwrapped them in gloom. Instinctively, their hands clasped. Mavis had realised that she was with her lover perhaps for the last time. She wished to s.n.a.t.c.h a moment of counterfeit joy by believing that the immense happiness which had been hers was to continue indefinitely. But her imaginative effort was a dismal failure.

Her mind was a blank with the promise of unending pain in the background.

Perigal felt the pressure of Mavis's hand instinctively tighten on his; it gripped as if she could never let him go: tears fell from her eyes on to his fingers. With an effort he freed himself and, without saying a word, walked quickly away. With all her soul, she listened to his retreating steps. It seemed as if her life were departing, leaving behind the cold sh.e.l.l of the Mavis she knew, who was now dead to everything but pain. His consideration for her helplessness illumined her suffering. The next moment, she was on her knees, her heart welling with love, grat.i.tude, concern for the man who had left her.

"Bless him! Bless him, oh G.o.d! He's good; he's good; he's good! He's proved it to a poor, weak girl like me!"

Thus she prayed, all unconscious that Perigal's consideration in leaving her was the high-water mark of his regard for her welfare.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

O LOVE, FOR DELIGHTS!