Part 127 (2/2)

”I'm going to be honest at last and tell you something,” he declared.

”More insults!”

”It is an insult this time, but all the same you'll hear it.”

Mavis was a little awed by the resolution in his face and manner. He went on now a trifle hoa.r.s.ely:

”Little Mavis, I love you more than I ever believed it possible for man to love woman. I've tried to forget you, but I want you more and more.”

”How--how dare you!” she cried.

”Because I love you. And because I do, I've fought against seeing you; but as you've come to me and you're going away to-morrow, I must tell you.”

Mavis was less resentful of his words; she resisted an inclination to tremble violently.

”Don't go,” urged Windebank.

”Where?”

”Abroad. Don't go and leave me. I love you.”

”How can you! Harold was your friend.”

”My enemy. He took you from me when I was sure of you; my enemy, I tell you. Oh, little Mavis, let me make you happy. You can do no good going with him, so why not stay? I'd give my life to hold you in my arms, and I know I'd make you happy.”

”You mustn't; you mustn't,” murmured Mavis, as she strove to believe that his words and the grasp of his hand on her arm did not minister to the repressed, but, none the less ardent longings of her being.

”I must. I tell you I haven't been near a woman since I struck you again in Pimlico, and all for love of you. I've waited. Now, I'll get you.”

Windebank placed his arms about her and kissed her lips, eyes, and hair many, many times. Then he held her at arm's length, while his eyes looked fixedly into hers.

A delicious inertia stole over Mavis's senses. He had only to kiss her again for her to fall helplessly into his arms.

Although she realised the enormity of his offence, something within her seemed to impel her to wind her arm about his neck and draw his lips to hers. Instead, she summoned all her resolution; striking him full in the face, she freed herself to run quickly from him. As she ran, she strove to hide from herself that, in her inmost heart, she was longing for him to overtake her, seize her about the body, and carry her off, as might some primeval man, to some lair of his own, where he would defend her with his life against any who might seek to disturb her peace.

But Windebank did not follow her. That night she sobbed herself to sleep. The next morning, Mavis left with Harold for Southampton.

Many months later, Mavis, clad in black, stood, with Jill at her side, on the deck of a s.h.i.+p that was rapidly steaming up Southampton water.

Her eyes were fixed on the place where they told her she would land.

The faint blurs on the landing pier gradually a.s.sumed human shape; one on which she fixed her eyes became suspiciously like Windebank. When she could no longer doubt that he was waiting to greet her, she went downstairs to her cabin, to pin a bright ribbon on her frock. When he joined her on the steamer, neither of them spoke for a few moments.

”I got your letter from--” he began.

”Don't say anything about it,” she interrupted. ”I know you're sorry, but I'd rather not talk of it.”

Windebank turned his attentions to Jill, to say presently to Mavis:

”Are you staying here or going on?”

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