Part 71 (2/2)
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 s.e.x, 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 pa.s.sion than those of the opposite s.e.x; 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 s.e.xual 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 un.o.bserved; 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!”
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