Mavis looked at the friend of her youth. As she saw him now, he was, in appearance, but a grown-up replica of the boy she remembered. There were the same steely blue eyes, curly hair, and thin, almost bloodless lips. With years and inches, the man had acquired a certain defiant self-possession which was not without a touch of recklessness; this last rather appealed to Mavis; she soon forgot the resentment which his earlier familiarity had excited.
"You haven't altered a bit!" she declared.
"But you have."
"I know. I'm quite an old woman."
"That's what I was going to say."
"Thanks."
"I knew you'd be pleased. May I have my collar?"
"It's that naughty Jill. I am so sorry."
Mavis rescued the collar from the dog's unwilling mouth.
"How did you know it was me?"
"I guessed."
"Nonsense!"
"Why nonsense?"
"You aren't clever enough."
"Quite right. The pater told me you were to be found in Melkbridge."
"Your father! How did he know?"
"He knows everything that goes on here, although he never goes anywhere. And then, when I asked one or two people about you, they said you were always about with a black cocker."
"Is this the first time you've seen me?"
"Why shouldn't it be?"
"I've been here fifteen months."
"Working for old Devitt. I've only been back a week."
"From where?"
"Riga."
"In Russia! How interesting!"
"Don't you believe it. Beastly hole."
"It's abroad."
"Any place is beastly when one has to be there. And you've been here a whole fifteen months. Think what I've missed!"
Mavis had, by now, got over her first excitement at meeting her old friend: her habitual prudence essayed to work—essayed, because its customary vigour was just now somewhat impaired.
"I'm glad to have met you again. Good-bye," she said.
"Eh!"
"It's time I got back."
The man stared at her in some astonishment.
"Perhaps you're right," he remarked presently.
"Right!" she echoed, faintly surprised.
"I'm only a waster. Nobody wants anything to do with me."
Something in the tone of the man's voice stirred her heart to pity.
"I'm not a bit like that," she said.
"Rot! All women are alike. When a chap's down, they jump on him. After all, you can't blame 'em."
Mavis stood irresolute.
"Good-bye," said Perigal.
"One moment!"
"I can't wait. I must be off too."
"I want to ask you something."
"What is it? Remember, I didn't ask you to wait."
"Who has given you a bad name, and why?"
"Most people who know me."
"I read the other day that majorities are always wrong," she remarked.
"Majorities are always right, just the same as minorities and everybody else."
"Everybody right!"
"According to their lights. We are as we are made, and, whatever some people say, we can never be anything else. And that's the devil of it. It's all so unfair."
"Why unfair?"
"It's just one's confounded luck what temperament one's inflicted with. I should think you were to be congratulated. You look as if you could be infernally happy."
"Aren't you?"
"Who is?"
"Loads of people," she declared emphatically.
"The very vain and the very stupid. Who else?"
Mavis was beginning to be interested. It amused and, at the same time, touched her to notice the difference between the dreary nature of the sentiments and the youthful, comely face of the speaker.
"I'm going now," she said.
"Frightened of being seen with me?" he asked.
"When I've Jill for a chaperone?"
"Why don't you come as far as Broughton with me?"
"Across the river?"
"I've a punt moored not far from here."
"But I've got to get back to a meal."
"We can get something to eat there."
"I don't think I will."
"Is it too far?"
"I can walk any distance."
"Someone was asking about you the other day."
"Who?"
"Archie Windebank. He wrote from India."
"What did he say?" asked Mavis, striving to conceal the interest she felt.
"I forget, for the moment, what it was. If I remember, I'll tell you."
"Don't forget."
"He's rather keen on you, isn't he?"
"How should I know?"
"He's a fool if he isn't."
"What makes you think he is?"
"I'd only an idea. Are you coming to Broughton?"
"I'll compromise. I'll come as far as your punt."
"Spoken like a good little Mavis."
They followed the course of the river. The stream's windings were so vigorous that, when they had walked for some way, they had made small progress in the direction in which Perigal was going.
Mavis was strangely happy. With the exception of her brief acquaintance with Windebank, she had never before enjoyed the society of a man, who was a gentleman, on equal terms. And Windebank was coming home unharmed from the operations in which he had won distinction; she had read of his brave doings from time to time in the papers: she rejoiced to learn that he had not forgotten her.
"Thinking of Windebank?" asked Perigal, noticing her silence.
"Yes."
"Lucky chap! But he's an awfully good sort, straight-forward and all that."
Mavis again assented.
"A bit obvious, though."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Eh! Oh, well, you always know what his opinions are going to be on any given subject."
"I think he's delightful."
"So do I," assented Perigal, to add, as a qualifying afterthought, "A bit tiring to live with."
"I'm sorry, but I can't speak from experience," retorted Mavis, who disliked Perigal to criticise her friend.
They had now reached the spot where the punt was moored. It was a frail craft; the bows seemed disposed to let in water.
"Is it goodbye?" asked Perigal.
"Of course," replied Mavis irresolutely.
"Then it isn't good-bye," smiled Perigal.
"Why?"
"Because you're going to do what I wish."
Mavis was sure that she was going to do nothing of the kind, but as Perigal looked at her and smiled she became conscious of a weakening in her resolution: it was as if he had fascinated her; as if, for his present purpose, she were helpless in his hands. Consequently, she said:
"To disappoint you, I'll come as far as the other side of the river."
"What did I tell you? But it's only fair to let you know the river runs a bit just here, and it's too deep to pole, so you have to hit the opposite bank when you can."
"Is there any danger?"
"Nothing to speak of."
"I'd love to cross."
"Jump in, then."
"You don't mind if I leave you on the other side?"
"Yes, I do. You hang on to Jill."
Mavis enticed Jill into the punt, where the dog sat in the stern in her usual self-possessed manner. Perigal struggled with the rope by which the punt was moored to the stump of a tree. Very soon, they were all adrift on the stream. They made little progress at first, merely scraping along the overhanging branches of pollard willows; now and again, the punt would disturb long-forgotten night lines, which, more often than not, had hooked eels that had been dead for many days. Mavis began to wonder if they would ever get across.
"Stand by!" cried Perigal suddenly, at which Mavis gripped both sides of the punt.
It was well she did so, for the next moment the punt swerved violently, to blunder quickly down stream as it felt the strength of the current.
"Are you frightened?" asked Perigal.
"Not a bit."
"Hold tight to the bank if your end strikes first."
"Right you are."
Perigal did his best to steer the punt, but without much success. Presently, the bows hit the side, at which Perigal clutched at the growth on the bank.
"Step ashore quickly," he cried. "It's beginning to let in water."
"How exciting!" remarked Mavis, as she stepped on to the bank.
"Just wait till I tie her up."
"Where's Jill?" asked Mavis suddenly.
"Isn't she with you?"
"See if she's in the river."
"If she is, the punt striking the bank must have knocked her overboard."
They looked, but no sign could be seen of the dog. Mavis called her name loudly, frantically, but no Jill appeared.
"What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?" she cried helplessly.
"Look!" cried Perigal suddenly. "Look, those weeds!"
Mavis looked in the direction indicated. About six feet from the bank was a growth of menacing-looking weeds under the water, which just now were violently agitated.
"I'll bet anything it's Jill. She's caught in the weeds," said Perigal.
"Let me come. Let me come," cried Mavis.
"It's ten feet deep. You're surely not going in?"
"I can't let her drown."
"Let me—"
"But—"
"I'm going in. I can swim."
Perigal had thrown off his coat, kicked off his boots.
The next moment, he had dived in the direction in which he believed Jill to be.
Mavis was all concern for her pet. Although she knew that, more likely than not, she would never see her alive again, she scarcely suffered pain at all. Although incapable of feeling, her mind noted trivial things with photographic accuracy—a bit of straw on a bush, a white cloud near the sun, the lonely appearance of an isolated pollard willow. Meantime, Perigal had unsuccessfully dived once; the second time, he was under the water for such a long time that Mavis was tempted to cover her eyes with her hands. Then, to her unspeakable relief, he reappeared, much exhausted, but holding out of the water a bedraggled and all but drowned Jill.
"Bravo! bravo!" cried Mavis.
"Give me a hand, or have Jill!" gasped Perigal.
Mavis put one foot in the punt in order to take Jill. She held her beloved friend for a moment against her heart, to put her on the floor of the punt and extend a helping hand to Perigal.
"How can I ever thank you?" she asked, as he stood upon the bank with the water dripping from his clothes.
"Easily."
"How?"
"By coming with me to Broughton."
"But Jill!"
"She'll be all right. See, she's better already."
He spoke truly. Jill was alternately licking her paws and feebly shaking herself.
"But what about you? You ought to go home at once and run all the way."
"I shall be all right. Are you going to Broughton?"
"On one condition."
"And what might that be—that I don't go with you?"
"That you run all the way and, when you get there, you borrow a change of clothes."
"Then you'll really come?"
"Since you wish it. I couldn't do less."
"What did I tell you? But there's an inn on the left, the first one you come to. Wait for me there; if they can't lend me a change I'll have to get one somewhere else and come back there."
"Only if you go at once. You've waited too long already."
Perigal started, carrying his dry boots and coat.
"Faster! faster!" cried Mavis, seeing that he was inclined to linger.
She followed behind; she did not move with her customary swinging stride, Jill's extremity having sapped her strength. Directly Perigal was out of sight, she caught Jill in her arms, to smother her wet head and body with kisses.
"Oh, my darling! my darling!" she murmured. "To think how nearly we were parted forever!"
It was with something of an effort that she pursued her way to Broughton. Her steps dragged; her mind was filled with a picture of her dearly loved Jill, cold, lifeless, unresponsive to her caress.
When she reached the inn, she learned that Perigal was upstairs changing into the landlord's clothes. When he came down, clad in corduroys, with a silk handkerchief about his throat, she was surprised to see how handsome he looked.
"So you've got here!" he remarked, as he saw Mavis.
"Didn't I say I was coming?" she asked, as she sank on a seat in the tiny sitting-room.
"You look bad. You must have something."
"I'd like a little milk, please."
"Rot! You must have brandy."
"I'd prefer milk."
"You do as you're told," replied Perigal.
Fortunately, the inn had a spirit licence, so Mavis sipped the stuff that Perigal brought her, to feel better at once. She then soaked a piece of biscuit in the remainder of the brandy, to force it down Jill's throat. Next, she turned to Perigal.
"Have you had any?" she asked.
"What do you think?"
"I don't know how to thank you for saving Jill's life."
"Rot!"
"If you won't let me thank you, perhaps you'll let Jill."
Mavis held Jill in Perigal's face, when, to the girl's surprise, Jill growled angrily.
"What wicked ingratitude!" cried Mavis. "Oh, you naughty Jill!"
"Perhaps she's sorry I didn't let her drown," remarked Perigal.
"What!" cried Mavis.
"She may have wanted to commit suicide."
"Jill want to leave me?"
"She felt unworthy of you. I suppose she growls because she sees right through me."
"Don't be so fond of disparaging yourself. It was very brave of you to dive in as you did."
"I'm going to ask you to do something really brave."
"What's that?"
"Tackle eggs and bacon for lunch. It's all they've got."
"I'll be very brave. I'm hungry."
A red-cheeked, bright-eyed young woman laid a coarse cloth, and, upon this, black-handled knives and forks.
"What will you have to drink?" asked Perigal.
"Milk."
"Have some wine."
"I always drink milk."
"Not in honour of our meeting?"
"You seem to forget I've got to walk home."
"Perhaps you're right. Goodness knows what they'd give you here. Not like the Carlton or the Savoy."
"I've never been to such places."
"Not?" he asked, in some surprise, to remain silent till the fried eggs and bacon were brought in.
"You ought to drink something warm," said Mavis, as he piled food on her plate.
"I've ordered ginger brandy. It's the safest thing they've got."
The food enabled Mavis to recover her spirits. It appeared to have a contrary effect on Perigal; the little he ate seemed to incline him to gloomy thoughts.
"I'm afraid you're going to be ill," she remarked.
"I'm all right. Don't worry about me."
"I won't. I'll worry the eggs and bacon instead."
Presently, he raised the glass of ginger brandy in his hands.
"Here's to the unattainable!" he said.
"And that?"
"Happiness."
"Nonsense! Everyone can be happy if they like."
"Little Mavis, let me tell you something."
"Something dismal?"
"No one ever was, is, or can be really happy: it's a law of nature."
"I've come across people who're absolutely happy."
"Listen. Nature, for her own ends, the survival of the fittest, has arranged matters so that we're always, always striving. We think that a certain end will bring happiness, and struggle like blazes to get it, to find that satisfaction is a myth; to discover that, no sooner do we possess a thing than we weary of what was once so ardently desired, and immediately crave for something else which, if obtained, gives no more satisfaction than the last thing hungered for."
"I don't believe it for a moment. Besides, why should it be?"
"Because it's necessary to keep the species going. By constantly fighting with others for some goal, it sharpens our faculties and makes us more fitted to hold our own; if it weren't for this struggle, we should stagnate and very soon go under."
"Even if some of what you say is true, there's the pleasure of getting."
"At first. But if one 'spots' this clever trick of nature and one is convinced that nothing, nothing on earth is worth struggling for—what then?"
"That it's a very foolish state of mind to get into, and the sooner you get out of it the better."
"You said just now there was the pleasure of getting. I know something better."
"And that?"
"The pleasure of forgetting."
He glanced meaningly at her.
"Are you forgetting now?" she asked.
"Can you ask?"
Mavis blushed; she bent down to pat Jill in order to conceal the pleasure his words gave her.
"Tell me what Archie Windebank said about me," she presently said.
"Blow Windebank!"
"I want to know."
"Then I suppose I must tell you."
"Of course: out with it and get it over."
"You met him once in town, didn't you?"
"Only once."
"Where?"
"Quite casually. Tell me what he said."
"He wanted to know if I'd ever run across you, and, if I did, I was at once to wire to him and let him know."
"Are you going to?"
"No fear," replied Perigal emphatically.
"Aren't men very selfish?" she asked.
"They are where those women they admire are concerned."
At the conclusion of the meal, they sat in the inn garden. They spoke of old times, old associations. Mavis gave Perigal an abridged account of her doings since she had last seen him, omitting to mention her experience with Mr Orgles, Mrs Hamilton, and Miss Ewer.
"I suppose you've run across a lot of chaps in London?" he presently remarked.
"No, I haven't run against any 'chaps', as you call them."
"Rot!"
"It's a fact."
"Do you mean to say you've never yet had a love affair?"
"That's a business that requires two, isn't it?"
"Usually."
"Well, I've always made a point of standing out."
"Eh!"
"I suppose it's vanity—call it that if you like—but I think too much of myself to be a party to a mere love affair, as you would call it."
Perigal glanced at her as if to see if she were speaking seriously. Then he was lost in thought for some minutes, during which he often looked in her direction.
"What are you thinking of?" she asked.
"That, to a decent chap, little Mavis would be something of a find, as women go."
"You don't think much of women, then?"
"What's it my pater's always saying?"
"I can tell you: Always learn the value of money and the worthlessness of most women."
"Eh!"
"Don't look so astonished. It's the advice he gave to Archie Windebank."
"I see: and he told you. But the pater's right over that."
"How do you know?"
"That's telling."
Later in the afternoon, at tea, Mavis learned from Perigal much of his life since they had last met. It appeared that he had been to Oxford, to be sent down during his first term; that he had tried (and failed) for Sandhurst; also a variety of occupations, all apparently without success, until his father, angered at some scrape he had got into, had packed him off to Riga, where he had secured some sort of a billet for his son. Finally, in defiance of parental orders, he had left that "beastly hole" and was living at home until his father should turn him out.
"Isn't it all rather a pity?" Mavis asked.
"All what?"
"Your wasted life? And you've had so many good chances."
"I've had some fun out of it all. And, after all, what's the use of trying?"
"Just think of the thousands who would give their eyes for your chances," she urged.
"If their fathers had plenty of money like mine, they'd probably do as I."
"Your father wants to see you worthy of it."
"I am. I've all sorts of expensive tastes."
Later, when they walked in the direction of Melkbridge, it seemed to Mavis as if she were talking to a friend of many years; he seemed to comprehend her so intimately that she felt wholly at home with him. He had changed into his flannel suit, which had been dried before the inn kitchen fire. He walked with his careless stride, his cap thrust into his pocket. Now and again, Mavis found herself glancing at his fair young face, his steely blue eyes, the wind-disturbed curls upon his head. Their way led them past a field carpeted with cowslips.
"Oh, look!" she cried, delightedly.
"Cowslips! Are you keen on wildflowers?"
"They're the only ones I care for."
"I only care for artificial ones. Shall I get you some cowslips?"
"If you wouldn't mind. We'll both go."
They gathered between them a big bunch. Now and again they would race like children for a promising clump.
"This bores you awfully," she remarked presently.
"I don't believe I've ever been so happy in my life," he replied seriously.
"Nonsense!"
"A fact. Am I not with you?"
Mavis did not reply.
"And, again, it's all so natural, you and I being here alone with nature; it's all so wonderful; one can forget the beastly worries of life."
He spoke truly. Although it was getting late, the light persisted, as if reluctant to leave the gladness of newborn things. All about her, Mavis could see the trees were decked in fresh green foliage, virginal, unsoiled; everywhere she saw a modest pride in unaffected beauty. Human interests and emulations seemed to have no lot in this serenity: no habitation was in sight; it was hard for Mavis to believe how near she was to a thriving country town. Strange unmorality, with which immersion in nature affects ardent spirits, influenced Mavis; nothing seemed to matter beyond present happiness. She made Perigal carry the cowslips, the while she frolicked with Jill. He watched her coolly, critically, appraisingly; she had no conception how desirable she appeared in his eyes. Lengthening shadows told them that it was time to go home. They left the cowslip field regretfully to walk the remaining two miles to Melkbridge.
"I want you to promise me something," she said, after some moments of silence.
"What?"
"To promise me to do something with your life."
"Why should you wish that?"
"You saved Jill's life. If you hadn't, I should now be miserable and heart-broken, whereas—Will you promise me what I ask?"
He did not speak immediately; she put her hand on his arm.
"I was wondering if it were any use promising," he said, "I've had so many tries."
"Will you promise you'll try once more?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
"I promise I'll try, for your sake."
They talked till they were within half a mile of the town. Then he said:
"I'm going to leave you here."
"Ashamed of being seen with me?"
"Why should I be ashamed?" he asked.
"I'm only a clerk in a boot factory."
"You needn't rub it in. No, I was thinking how people in Melkbridge would talk if they saw you with me or any other chap."
"People aren't quite so bad as that," she urged.
"No woman would ever forgive you for your looks."
"Well, goodbye; thank you for saving Jill's life, and thank you for a very happy day."
"Rot! It's I who should be thankful. You've taken me out of myself."
Neither of them made any move. Mavis caught hold of Jill and held her towards Perigal as she said:
"Thank him for saving your life, you ungrateful girl."
Jill growled at Perigal even more angrily than before.
"Oh, you naughty Jill!" cried Mavis.
"Not a bit of it; she's cleverer than you; she's a reader of character," said Perigal.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg