Days passed swiftly for Mavis; weeks glided into months, months into seasons. When the anniversary of the day on which she had commenced work at the boot factory came round, she could not believe that she had been at Melkbridge a year. When she had padded the streets of London in quest of work, she had many times told herself that she had only to secure a weekly wage in order to be happy. Now this desire was attained, she found (as who has not?) that satisfaction in one direction breeds hunger in another. Although her twenty shillings a week had been increased to twenty-five, and she considerably augmented this sum by teaching music to pupils to whom Mr Medlicott recommended her, Mavis was by no means content. Her regular hours, the nature of her employment, the absence of friendship in the warm-hearted girl's life, all irked her; she fearfully wondered if she were doomed to spend her remaining days in commencing work at nine-thirty and leaving off at half-past four upon five days of the week, and one on Saturdays. If the fifty-two weeks spent in Melkbridge had not brought contentment to her mind, the good air of the place, together with Mrs Farthing's wholesome food, had wrought a wondrous change in her appearance. The tired girl with the hunted look in her eyes had developed into an amazingly attractive young woman. Her fair skin had taken on a dazzling whiteness; her hair was richer and more luxuriant than of yore; but it was her eyes in which the chief alteration had occurred. These now held an unfathomable depth of tenderness, together with a roguish fear that the former alluring quality might be discovered. If her figure were not as unduly stout as the skinny virgins of Melkbridge declared it to be, there was no denying the rude health apparent in the girl's face and carriage.
So far as her colleagues at the boot factory were concerned, Miss Toombs hardly took any notice of her, whilst Miss Hunter gave her the impression of being extremely insincere, all her words and actions being the result of pose rather than of conviction.
The only people Mavis was at all friendly with were Mr and Mrs Medlicott, whom she often visited on Sunday evenings, when they would all sing Moody and Sankey's hymns to the accompaniment of the cabinet piano.
When she had been some months at Melkbridge, a new interest had come into her life. One day, Mr Devitt, who, with his family, had showed no disposition to cultivate Mavis's acquaintance, sent for her and asked her if she would like to have a dog.
"Nothing I should like better," she replied.
"There's only one objection."
"One can't look gift dogs in the mouth."
"It's a she, a lady dog: there's risk of an occasional family."
"I'll gladly take that."
"She's rather a dear, but she's lately had pups, and some people might object to her appearance."
"I know I should love her."
"She's a cocker spaniel—her name's Jill. She belongs to my boy, Harold. But as he's away—"
"Then we've already met. I saw her the day I came down to see you from London. You're right—she is a dear."
"My boy, who is still away for his health—"
"I am sorry," Mavis interrupted.
"Thanks. He wrote to say that, as we—some of us—appeared to find her a nuisance, we'd better try and find her a happy home."
"I'm sure she'd be happy with me."
"What about your landlady?"
"I'd forgotten her. I must ask."
"If she doesn't mind, Jill's licence is paid till the end of the year."
"I do hope Mrs Farthing won't mind," declared Mavis hopefully.
Rather to her surprise, Mrs Farthing made little objection to Jill's coming to live with Mavis, her surrender being partly due to the fact of the girl's winsome presence having softened the elder woman's heart, but largely because it had got about Melkbridge that Mavis came of a local county family.
Mr Devitt, being told of this decision, sent Jill up in charge of a maid, who asked that its collar and chain might be returned to Melkbridge House.
Mavis took Jill in her arms, when it would seem by the dog's demonstrations of delight as if it had long been a stranger to affectionate regard.
"Be you agoing to keep un?" asked the maid.
"Why not?"
"I shouldn't. Hev a good look at un."
Mavis looked, to see that Jill's comparatively recent litter had been responsible for the temporary abnormal development of the parts of her body by which she had nourished her young.
"It's why Mrs Devitt wouldn't have un in the house. I don't blame her. I call it disgusting," continued this chip of Puritanical stock.
"I see nothing to object to. It's nature," retorted Mavis, who inwardly smiled to see how the Puritanical-minded young woman, who had looked askance at Jill's appearance, did not hesitate to grab the girl's proffered shilling.
Jill and Mavis were at once fast friends. The dog accompanied her mistress in all her rambles, where its presence routed the forces of loneliness which were beginning to lay siege to the girl's peace of mind. Jill slept on Mavis's bed, pined when she left her in the morning, madly rejoiced at her mistress' return from work, when the vigorous wagging of Jill's tail, together with the barks of delight which greeted Mavis, gave her a suggestion of home which she had never experienced since the days of Brandenburg College.
This year, spring came early, like a beautiful mistress who joins an enraptured lover before he dares to hope for her coming. With the lengthening days Mavis knew an increasing distress of mind. She became unsettled: outbreaks of violent energy alternated with spells of laziness, which, more often than not, were accompanied by headaches. Books of historical memoirs, hitherto an unfailing solace, failed to interest her. Love stories she would avoid for weeks on end, as if they were the plague, suddenly to fall to and devour them with avidity, when the inclination seized her.
It was not yet warm enough for her to sit in her nook; it was doubtful if she would have done so if the weather had been sufficiently propitious. The reason for her present indifference to the spot, which she had always loved, was that it bordered the Avon, and just now the river was swollen and turbulent with spring rains. Her soul ached for companionship with something stable, soothing, still. Perhaps this was why she preferred to walk by the canal that touched Melkbridge in its quiet and lonely course. The canal had a beauty of its own in Mavis' eyes: its red-brick, ivy-grown bridges, its wooden drawbridges, deep locks, and deserted grass-grown tow-paths were all eloquent of the waterways having arrived at a certain philosophic repose, which was in striking contrast to the girl's unquiet thoughts. Soon, as if in celebration of spring, both banks were gay with borders of great yellow butter-cups. It seemed to Mavis as if they decorated the tables of a feast to which she had not been asked. The great awakening in the heart of life proceeded exquisitely, inevitably. Mavis believed that, as the sun's rays had no real meaning for her, it was only by some cruel mischance that she was enabled to bear witness to their daily increasing warmth. She would tell the troubles of her disturbed mind to Jill, who tried to show her sympathy by licking her face. At night, she would often waken out of a deep sleep with a start, when her eagerly outstretched arms would grasp a vast emptiness. The sight of lovers walking together would bring hot blood to her head; the proximity of a young man would make her heart beat strangely.
She frequently found herself wondering why intercourse between man and woman was hedged about by innumerable restrictions. It seemed to her that what people called the conventionalities were a device of the far-seeing eye of the Most High to regulate the relations of His children. If any of these appeared to escape the ends for which they were made, she put down the failure to the imperfect construction of the human organism, the constant aberrations of which necessitated the restraints imposed by religion and morality.
Mavis soon descended from the general to the particular. Her mind continually dwelt on every incident of her brief acquaintance with Windebank: she found that it was as much as she could do to justify the exigent scruples which had made her repel the man's approaches. One day, the scales fell from her eyes. She had deserted the canal and was sitting in a field, some two miles from the town, where the few trees it contained were disposed as if they were continually setting to partners, in some arboreous quadrille. The surrounding fields were tipped at all angles, as if in petulant discontent of one-time flatness. With an effort she could discern, Jill's tail wagging delightedly from a hole in a ditch, where she was hunting a rabbit. The voice, the sights, the sounds of nature, all served to obliterate the effect of life, as she had, hitherto, regarded it, upon her processes of thought. Archie Windebank's wealth, social position and career were as nought to her; he appealed to her only as a man, and her conceivable relationship to him was but as female to male.
All other considerations, which she had before believed of importance, now seemed trivial and inept. She wondered how she could have been blinded for so long. She bitterly reproached herself for her high-flown scruples, which now savoured of unwholesome affectation; but for these, she might not only have been a happy wife, but she might, also, have proved the means of conferring happiness upon another, and he a dearly loved one.
She called to Jill and sorrowfully went home. Three weeks later was Whit Monday, a day which, being a holiday, she was able to devote to her own uses. She had planned to walk to the village of Preen, an ancient hamlet set upon a hill that overlooked Salisbury Plain, which was distant some five miles from Melkbridge; but, at the last moment, her distress of mind was such that she abandoned the excursion. Lethargy had succeeded to her disturbed thoughts—lethargy that made her look on life through grey spectacles. Instead of setting out for Preen, she walked aimlessly about the town, accompanied by Jill. Presently she went up Church Walk, at the top of which she saw that the church door was open. She had a fancy for walking by the grave-stones, so Mavis tied Jill up to the gate of the churchyard with the lead which she usually carried.
As Mavis wandered among the moss-grown stones, which bore almost undecipherable inscriptions, she wondered if those they covered had led happy, contented lives, or if they were afflicted with unquiet thoughts, unsatisfied longings, and dull despair, as she was. The church was empty and cool; she walked inside, to sit in the first pew she chanced upon. It was the first time that she had sat all alone in the church; its venerable appearance now cried aloud for recognition and appreciation. As if to accentuate its antiquity, some of the aisles and walls bore the disfiguring evidences of an unfinished electric light and electric organ-blowing installation, which was in the process of being made, despite the protests of the more conservative among the worshippers. She did not know whether to stay or to go; she seemed incapable of making up her mind. Then, almost before she was aware of it, the organ commenced to play softly, appealingly; very soon, the fane was filled with majestic notes. Mavis was always acutely sensitive to music. In a moment, her troubles were forgotten; she listened enrapt to the soaring melody. The player was not the humdrum organist of the church, neither did his music savour of the ecclesiastical inspiration which makes its conventional appeal on Sundays and holy days. Instead, it spoke to Mavis of the travail, the joy of being, the night, sunlight, sea, air, the gay and grey pageant of life: the player appeared to be moved by all these influences. Not only was he eloquent of life, but he seemed to read and understand Mavis' soul and the perplexities with which it was confronted. Her heart went out to this sympathetic and intimate understanding of her needs; body and soul, she surrendered herself to the musician's mood. Very soon, he was playing upon her being as if she were but another instrument, of which he had acquired the mastery. Her imagination, stirred to its depths, took instant wing. It seemed as if the hand of time were put back for many hundreds of years to a day in a remote century. The building, bare of memorial inscriptions, was crowded with ecclesiastics, monks, nobles and simple; she could see the gorgeous ceremonial incidental to the occasion; the chanting of monks filled her ears; the rich scent of incense lay heavy on the air; lights flickered on the altar. Night came, when silence seemed to have forever enshrouded the world; many nights, till one on which the moonlight shone upon the figure of a young man keeping his vigil beside his armour and arms. Then, in a moment, the church was filled with sunlight, and gay with garlands and bright frocks. The knight and his bride stood before the altar, while the world seemed to laugh for very joy. As the newly-made man and wife left the church, old-world wedding music sounded strangely in Mavis' ears. The best part of a year passed. A little group stood about the font, where the life, that love had called into being, was purged of taint of sin by holy church.
Next, martial music rent the air; a venerable ecclesiastic blessed the arms and aims of a goodly company of stout-hearted men. When the echoes of the martial music had died away, the fane was deserted, save for one lone woman, who offered up continual supplication for her absent lord.
Cries and lamentations fell on Mavis' ears: to the music of a military march, the brave young knight was borne to burial. Soon, the moonlight fell upon the church's first monument, beside which the tearless and kneeling figure of a woman often prayed. It was not so very long before the widow was carried to rest beside her husband; it seemed but little longer when the offspring of her love stood before the altar with the bride of his choice.
The foregoing scenes were many times repeated, as, thus, life moved down the centuries, differing not at all but for changes in personality and dress. The church looked on, unmoved, unaltered, save for signs of age and an increasing number of memorials raised to the dead. The procession of life began by fascinating and ended by paining Mavis.
It was as if she were the spectator of a crowd in which her heart ached to mix, despite the distressing penalties of pain to which those she envied were, at all times, subject. It was as if she were forever cut off from the pleasures of her kind, to gain which the risk of mental and physical torments was well worth the running. It seemed as if her youth, sweetness, and immense capacity for loving, were doomed to wither unsought, unappreciated in the desert of her destiny. As if to save herself from such an unkind fate, she involuntarily fell on her knees; but she did not pray, indeed, she made no attempt to formulate prayer in her heart. Perhaps she thought that her dumb, bruised loneliness was more eloquent than words. She remained on her knees for quite a long time. When she got up, the music stopped. The contrast between the sound and the succeeding silence was such that the latter seemed to be more emphatic than the melody.
When she, presently, rose to go, she saw a man standing just behind her in the aisle; he was elderly and homely-looking, with soft, far-away eyes.
"Good morning, miss," said the man.
"Good morning," replied Mavis, wondering who he could be.
"I hoped—you zeemed to like my playing."
"Was it you who played so beautifully?"
"I was up there practising just now."
"Do you often practise like that?"
"It isn't often I get the chance; I'm mostly busy varming."
"Farming?"
"That's it. And what with bad times, one doesn't get much time for the organ. And when one does, one's vingers run away with one."
"You a farmer?"
"At Pennington Varm. My name's Trivett, miss. If ever you would come in to tea, Mrs Trivett would be proud to welcome 'ee."
"I should be delighted. Perhaps, if you would like to teach me, I'd have organ lessons."
"I get so little time, miss. What day will 'ee come to the varm?"
"Next Saturday, if I may,"
"That's zettled. I'm glad you be coming zoon; the colour of the young grass be wonderful."
"Indeed!" remarked Mavis, as she looked at him, surprised.
"That's the advantage of varming," continued Trivett: "you zee natur in zo many colours and zo many moods."
Thus talking, they reached the churchyard gates, where Mavis released Jill, who was delighted at being set at liberty.
Mavis said goodbye to Trivett and recrossed the churchyard on her way to the river. As she walked, she wondered at Trivett's strange conjunction of pursuits; also, if he were as good a farmer as he was a musician.
She found the part of the river nearest to the church crowded with holiday bathers, so turned aside in the direction of her nook, where she was tolerably certain of getting quiet. Arrived there, she found her expectation was not belied. She felt dazed and tired with the emotions she had experienced; she reclined on the ground to look lazily at the beauty spread so bountifully about her.
Nature was now at her best. She was like a fair young mother radiant with the joys attaching to the birth of her firstborn. The striking of the quarter on the church clock was borne to her on the light wind; she heard a rumble and caught a glimpse through the young foliage of the white panelled carriages of a train speeding to Weymouth.
She settled herself for a repose of suspended thought, thankful that there was no prospect of her peace being interfered with. She had not lain long when she was disturbed by a plashing of water, at which Jill was vigorously barking.
She raised her head to see a man swimming; her eyes were fascinated by the whiteness of the man's flesh. After a while, he returned, to pass and repass her two or three times. Then, to her consternation, he approached the bank near to where she lay. She sat up; a few moments later, the man's head and shoulders appeared among the grasses upon the river bank.
"Good morning," said the man.
Mavis took no notice, but called to Jill.
"Good morning," repeated the man, who was young and pleasant-looking.
Mavis did not reply.
"Would little Mavis mind moving a little further up the bank?" continued the man.
Mavis looked at him in astonished anger.
"Because I can't get to my clothes until you do."
Mavis got up, called to Jill, and turned her back on the nook, wondering how on earth the man could have known her name; also, why he had the impertinence to address her so familiarly.
She did not get very far, because, call as she might to Jill, the spoiled dog took no notice of her summons, but remained about the place that her mistress had left.
Mavis called vainly for some minutes, till, at last, Jill appeared, carrying the man's collar in her mouth. Mavis tried to induce the dog to come to her, but, instead, Jill raced madly round and round, delighted with her find.
Very soon the man appeared, now dressed in a flannel suit, but collarless; a bath towel was thrown over his shoulder. He advanced to Mavis in leisurely fashion.
"Bother the man!" she thought.
"May I introduce myself?" he asked, as he lifted his hat.
"No, thank you," she replied coldly.
"There's no occasion. We've already met," he continued.
"I'm sure we haven't, and I haven't the least wish to know you."
"Rot! I'm Charlie Perigal."
"Charlie Perigal!"
"Yes. And how is little Mavis after all these years? But there's little need to ask."
Here he stared at her with an immense admiration in his eyes.
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.