Nocturne

CHAPTER VI: THE YACHT

i

To lie deep among cushions, and gently to ride out along streets and roads that she had so often tramped in every kind of weather, was enough to intoxicate Jenny. She heard the soft humming of the engine, and saw lamps and other vehicles flashing by, with a sense of effortless speed that was to her incomparable. If only she had been mentally at ease, and free from distraction, she would have enjoyed every instant of her journey. Even as it was, she could not restrain her eagerness as they overtook a tramcar, and the chauffeur honked his horn, and they glided nearer and nearer, and passed, and seemed to leave the tram standing. Each time this was in process of happening Jenny gave a small excited chuckle, thinking of the speed, and the ease, and of how the people in the tram must feel at being defeated in the race. Every such encounter became a race, in which she pressed physically forward as if to urge her steed to the final effort. Never had Jenny teen so eager for victory, so elated when its certainty was confirmed. It was worth while to live for such experience. How she envied her driver! With his steady hands upon the steering wheel.... Ah, he was like a sailor, like the sailor of romance, with the wind beating upon his face and his eyes ever-watchful. And under his hand the car rode splendidly to Keith.

Jenny closed her eyes. She could feel her heart beating fast, and the blood heating her cheeks, reddening them. The blood hurt her, and her mouth seemed to hurt, too, because she had smiled so much. She lay back, thinking of Keith and of their meetings—so few, so long ago, so indescribably happy and beautiful. She always remembered him as he had been when first he had caught her eye, when he had stood so erect among other men who lounged by the sea, smoking and lolling at ease. He was different, as she was different. And she was going to him. How happy she was! And why did her breath come quickly and her heart sink? She could not bother to decide that question. She was too excited to do so. In all her life she had never known a moment of such breathless anticipation, of excitement which she believed was all happiness.

There was one other thought that Jenny shirked, and that went on nevertheless in spite of her inattention, plying and moulding somewhere deep below her thrilling joy. The thought was, that she must not show Keith that she loved him, because while she knew—she felt sure—that He loved her, she must not be the smallest fraction of time before him in confession. She was too proud for that. He would tell her that he loved her; and the spell would be broken. Her shyness would be gone; her bravado immediately unnecessary. But until then she must beware. It was as necessary to Keith’s pride as to her own that he should win her. The Keith she loved would not care for a love too easily won. The consciousness of this whole issue was at work below her thoughts; and her thoughts, from joy and dread, to the discomfort of doubt, raced faster than the car, speedless and headlong. Among them were two that bitterly corroded. They were of Pa and of Keith’s confidence that she would come. Both were as poison in her mind.

ii

And then there came a curious sense that something had happened. The car stopped in darkness, and through the air there came in the huge tones of Big Ben the sound of a striking hour. It was nine o’clock. They were back at Westminster. Before her was the bridge, and above was the lighted face of the clock, like some faded sun. And the strokes rolled out in swelling waves that made the whole atmosphere feel soundladen. The chauffeur had opened the door of the car, and was offering his free hand to help Jenny to step down to the ground.

“Are we there?” she asked in a bewildered way, as if she had been dreaming. “How quick we’ve been!”

“Yes, miss. Mr. Redington’s down the steps. You see them steps. Mr. Redington’s down there in the dinghy. Mind how you go, miss. Hold tight to the rail....” He closed the door of the car and pointed to the steps.

The dinghy! Those stone steps to the black water! Jenny was shaken by a shudder. The horror of the water which had come upon her earlier in the evening returned more intensely. The strokes of the clock were the same, the darkness, the feeling of the sinister water rolling there beneath the bridge, resistlessly carrying its burdens to the sea. If Keith had not been there she would have turned and run swiftly away, overcome by her fear. She timidly reached the steps, and stopped, peering down through the dimness. She put her foot forward so that it hung dubiously beyond the edge of the pavement.

“What a coward!” she thought, violently, with self-contempt. It drove her forward. And at that moment she could see below, at the edge of the lapping water, the outline of a small boat and of a man who sat in it using the oars against the force of the current so as to keep the boat always near the steps. She heard a dear familiar voice call out with a perfect shout of welcome:

“Jenny! Good girl! How are you! Come along; be careful how you come. That’s it.... Six more, and then stop!” Jenny obeyed him—she desired nothing else, and her doubtings were driven away in a breath. She went quickly down. The back water lapped and wattled against the stone and the boat, and she saw Keith stand up, drawing the dinghy against the steps and offering her his hand. He had previously been holding up a small lantern that gilded the brown mud with a feeble colour and made the water look like oil. “Now!” he cried quickly. “Step!” The boat rocked, and Jenny crouched down upon the narrow seat, aflame with rapture, but terrified of the water. It was so near, so inescapably near. The sense of its smooth softness, its yieldingness, and the danger lurking beneath the flowing surface was acute. She tried more desperately to sit exactly in the middle of the boat, so that she should not overbalance it. She closed her eyes, sitting very still, and heard the water saying plup-plup-plup all round her, and she was afraid. It meant soft death: she could not forget that. Jenny could not swim. She was stricken between terror and joy that overwhelmed her. Then:

“That’s my boat,” Keith said, pointing. “I say, you are a sport to come!” Jenny saw lights shining from the middle of the river, and could imagine that a yacht lay there stubbornly resisting the current of the flowing Thames.

iii

Crouching still, she watched Keith bend to his oars, driving the boat’s nose beyond the shadowy yacht because he knew that he must allow for the current. Her eyes devoured him, and her heart sang. Plup-plup-plup-plup said the water. The oars plashed gently. Jenny saw the blackness gliding beside her, thick and swift. They might go down, down, down in that black nothingness, and nobody would know of it.... The oars ground against the edge of the dinghy—wood against wood, grumbling and echoing upon the water. Behind everything she heard the roaring of London, and was aware of lights, moving and stationary, high above them. How low upon the water they were! It seemed to be on a level with the boat’s edges. And how much alone they were, moving there in the darkness while the life of the city went on so far above. If the boat sank! Jenny shivered, for she knew that she would be drowned. She could imagine a white face under the river’s surface, lanterns flashing, and then—nothing. It would be all another secret happening, a mystery, the work of a tragic instant; and Jenny Blanchard would be forgotten for ever, as if she had never been. It was a horrid sensation to her as she sat there, so near death.

And all the time that Jenny was mutely enduring these terrors they were slowly nearing the yacht, which grew taller as they approached, and more clearly outlined against the sky. The moon was beginning to catch all the buildings and to lighten the heavens. Far above, and very pale, were stars; but the sky was still murky, so that the river remained in darkness. They came alongside the yacht. Keith shipped his oars, caught hold of something which Jenny could not see; and the dinghy was borne round, away from the yacht’s side. He half rose, catching with both his hands at an object projecting from the yacht, and hastily knotting a rope. Jenny saw a short ladder hanging over the side, and a lantern shining.

“There you are!” Keith cried. “Up you go! It’s quite steady. Hold the brass rail....”

After a second in which her knees were too weak to allow of her moving, Jenny conquered her tremors, rose unsteadily in the boat, and cast herself at the brass rail that Keith had indicated. To the hands that had been so tightly clasped together, steeling her, the rail was startlingly cold; but the touch of it nerved her, because it was firm. She felt the dinghy yield as she stepped from it, and she seemed for one instant to be hanging precariously in space above the terrifying waters. Then she was at the top of the ladder, ready for Keith’s warning shout about the descent to the deck. She jumped down. She was aboard the yacht; and as she glanced around Keith was upon the deck beside her, catching her arm. Jenny’s triumphant complacency was so great that she gave a tiny nervous laugh. She had not spoken at all until this moment: Keith had not heard her voice.

“Well!” said Jenny. “That’s over!” And she gave an audible sigh of relief. “Thank goodness!”

“And here you are!” Keith cried. “Aboard the Minerva.”

iv

He led her to a door, and down three steps. And then it seemed to Jenny as if Paradise burst upon her. She had never before seen such a room as this cabin. It was a room such as she had dreamed about in those ambitious imaginings of a wondrous future which had always been so vaguely irritating to Emmy. It seemed, partly because the ceiling was low, to be very spacious; the walls and ceiling were of a kind of dusky amber hue; a golden brown was everywhere the prevailing tint. The tiny curtains, the long settees into which one sank, the chairs, the shades of the mellow lights—all were of some variety of this delicate golden brown. In the middle of the cabin stood a square table; and on the table, arrayed in an exquisitely white tablecloth, was laid a wondrous meal. The table was laid for two: candles with amber shades made silver shine and glasses glitter. Upon a fruit stand were peaches and nectarines; upon a tray she saw decanters; little dishes crowding the table bore mysterious things to eat such as Jenny had never before seen. Upon a side table stood other dishes, a tray bearing coffee cups and ingredients for the provision of coffee, curious silver boxes. Everywhere she saw flowers similar to those which had been in the motor car. Under her feet was a carpet so thick that she felt her shoes must be hidden in its pile. And over all was this air of quiet expectancy which suggested that everything awaited her coming. Jenny gave a deep sigh, glanced quickly at Keith, who was watching her, and turned away, her breath catching. The contrast was too great: it made her unhappy. She looked down at her skirt, at her hands; she thought of her hat and her hidden shoes. She thought of Emmy, the bread and butter pudding, of Alf Rylett ... of Pa lying at home in bed, alone in the house.

v

Keith drew her forward slightly, until she came within the soft radiance of the cabin lights.

“I say, it is sporting of you to come!” he said. “Let’s have a look at you—do!”

They stood facing one another. Keith saw Jenny, tall and pale, looking thin in her shabby dress, but indescribably attractive and beautiful even in her new shyness. And Jenny saw the man she loved: her eyes were veiled, but they were unfathomably those of one deeply in love. She did not know how to hide the emotions with which she was so painfully struggling. Pride and joy in him; shyness and a sort of dread; hunger and reserve—Keith might have read them all, so plainly were they written. Yet her first words were wounded and defiant.

“The man ... that man.... He knew I was coming,” she said, in a voice of reproach. “You were pretty sure I should come, you know.”

Keith said quietly:

“I hoped you would.” And then he lowered his eyes. She was disarmed, and they both knew.

Keith Redington was nearly six feet in height. He was thin, and even bony; but he was very toughly and strongly built, and his face was as clean and brown as that of any healthy man who travels far by sea. He was less dark than Jenny, and his hair was almost auburn, so rich a chestnut was it. His eyes were blue and heavily lashed; his hands were long and brown, with small freckles between the knuckles. He stood with incomparable ease, his hands and arms always ready, but in perfect repose. His lips, for he was clean-shaven, were keen and firm. His glance was fearless. As the phrase is, he looked every inch a sailor, born to challenge the winds and the waters. To Jenny, who knew only those men who show at once what they think or feel, his greater breeding made Keith appear inscrutable, as if he had belonged to a superior race. She could only smile at him, with parted lips, not at all the baffling lady of the mirror, or the contemptuous younger sister, or the daring franctireur of her little home at Kennington Park. Jenny Blanchard she remained, but the simple, eager Jenny to whom these other Jennies were but imperious moods.

“Well, I’ve come,” she said. “But you needn’t have been so sure.”

Keith gave an irrepressible grin. He motioned her to the table, shaking his head at her tone.

“Come and have some grub,” he said cheerfully. “I was about as sure as you were. You needn’t worry about that, old sport. There’s so little time. Come and sit down; there’s a good girl. And presently I’ll tell you all about it.” He looked so charming as he spoke that Jenny obediently smiled in return, and the light came rushing into her eyes, chasing away the shadows, so that she felt for that time immeasurably happy and unsuspicious. She sat down at the laden table, smiling again at the marvels which it carried.

“My word, what a feast!” she said helplessly. “Talk about the Ritz!”

Keith busied himself with the dishes. The softly glowing cabin threw over Jenny its spell; the comfort, the faint slow rocking of the yacht, the sense of enclosed solitude, lulled her. Every small detail of ease, which might have made her nervous, merged with the others in a marvellous contentment because she was with Keith, cut off from the world, happy and at peace. If she sighed, it was because her heart was full. But she had forgotten the rest of the evening, her shabbiness, every care that troubled her normal days. She had cast these things off for the time and was in a glow of pleasure. She smiled at Keith with a sudden mischievousness. They both smiled, without guilt, and without guile, like two children at a reconciliation.

vi

“Soup?” said Keith, and laid before her a steaming plate. “All done by kindness.”

“Have you been cooking?” Some impulse made Jenny motherly. It seemed a strange reversal of the true order that he should cook for her. “It’s like The White Cat to have it....”

“It’s a secret,” Keith laughed. “Tell you later. Fire away!” He tasted the soup, while Jenny looked at five little letter biscuits in her own plate. She spelt them out E T K I H—KEITH. He watched her, enjoying the spectacle of the naove mind in action as the light darted into her face. “I’ve got JENNY,” he said, embarrassed. She craned, and read the letters with open eyes of marvel. They both beamed afresh at the primitive fancy.

“How did you do it?” Jenny asked inquisitively. “But it’s nice.” They supped the soup. Followed, whitebait: thousands of little fish.... Jenny hardly liked to crunch them. Keith whipped away the plates, and dived back into the cabin with a huge pie that made her gasp. “My gracious!” said Jenny. “I can never eat it!”

“Not all of it,” Keith admitted. “Just a bit, eh?” He carved.

“Oh, thank goodness it’s not stew and bread and butter pudding!” cried Jenny, as the first mouthful of the pie made her shut her eyes tightly. “It’s like heaven!”

“If they have pies there.” Jenny had not meant that: she had meant only that her sensations were those of supreme contentment. “Give me the old earth; and supper with Jenny!”

“Really?” Jenny was all brimming with delight.

“What will you have to drink? Claret? Burgundy?” Keith was again upon his feet. He poured out a large glass of red wine and laid it before her. Jenny saw with marvel the reflections of light on the wine and of the wine upon the tablecloth. She took a timid sip, and the wine ran tingling into her being.

“High life,” she murmured. “Don’t make me tipsy!” They exchanged overjoyed and intimate glances, laughing.

There followed trifle. Trifle had always been Jenny’s dream; and this trifle was her dream come true. It melted in the mouth; its flavours were those of innumerable spices. She was transported with happiness at the mere thought of such trifle. As her palate vainly tried to unravel the secrets of the dish, Keith, who was closely observant, saw that she was lost in a kind of fanatical adoration of trifle.

“You like it?” he asked.

“I shall never forget it!” cried Jenny. “Never as long as I live. When I’m an old ... great-aunt....” She had hesitated at her destiny. “I shall bore all the kids with tales about it. I shall say ‘That night on the yacht ... when I first knew what trifle meant....’ They won’t half get sick of it. But I shan’t.”

“You’ll like to think about it?” asked Keith. “Like to remember to-night?”

“Will you?” parried Jenny. “The night you had Jenny Blanchard to supper?” Their eyes met, in a long and searching glance, in which candour was not unmixed with a kind of measuring distrust.

vii

Keith’s face might have been carven for all the truth that Jenny got from it then. There darted across her mind the chauffeur’s certainty that she was to be his passenger. She took another sip of wine.

“Yes,” she said again, very slowly. “You were sure I was coming. You got it all ready. Been a bit of a sell if I hadn’t come. You’d have had to set to and eat it yourself.... Or get somebody else to help you.”

She meant “another girl,” but she did not know she meant that until the words were spoken. Her own meaning stabbed her heart. That icy knowledge that Keith was sure of her was bitterest of all. It made her happiness defiant rather than secure. He was the only man for her. How did she know there were not other women for Keith! How could she ever know that? Rather, it sank into her consciousness that there must be other women. His very ease showed her that. The equanimity of his laughing expression brought her the unwelcome knowledge.

“I should have looked pretty small if I’d made no preparations, shouldn’t I?” Keith inquired in a dry voice. “If you’d come here and found the place cold and nothing to eat you’d have made a bit of a shindy.”

A reserve had fallen between them. Jenny knew she had been unwise. It pressed down upon her heart the feeling that he was somehow still a stranger to her. And all the time they had been apart he had not seemed a stranger, but one to whom her most fleeting and intimate thoughts might freely have been given. That had been the wonderful thought to her—that they had met so seldom and understood each other so well. She had made a thousand speeches to him in her dreams. Together, in these same dreams, they had seen and done innumerable things together, always in perfect confidence, in perfect understanding. Yet now, when she saw him afresh, all was different. Keith was different. He was browner, thinner, less warm in manner; and more familiar, too, as though he were sure of her. His clothes were different, and his carriage. He was not the same man. It was still Keith, still the man Jenny loved; but as though he were also somebody else whom she was meeting for the first time. Her love, the love intensified by long broodings, was as strong; but he was a stranger. All that intimacy which seemed to have been established between them once and for ever was broken by the new contact in unfamiliar surroundings. She was shy, uncertain, hesitating; and in her shyness she had blundered. She had been unwise, and he was offended when she could least afford to have him so offended. It took much resolution upon Jenny’s part to essay the recovery of lost ground. But the tension was the worse for this mistake, and she suffered the more because of her anxious emotions.

“Oh, well,” she said at last, as calmly as she could. “I daresay we should have managed. I mightn’t have come. But I’ve come, and you had all these beautiful things ready; and....” Her courage to be severe abruptly failed; and lamely she concluded: “And it’s simply like fairyland.... I’m ever so happy.”

Keith grinned again, showing perfect white teeth. For a moment he looked, Jenny thought, quite eager. Or was that only her fancy because she so desired to see it? She shook her head; and that drew Keith’s eye.

“More trifle?” he suggested, with an arch glance. Jenny noticed he wore a gold ring upon the little finger of his right hand. It gleamed in the faint glow of the cabin. So, also, did the fascinating golden hairs upon the back of his hand. Gently the cabin rose and fell, rocking so slowly that she could only occasionally be sure that the movement was true. She shook her head in reply.

“I’ve had one solid meal to-night,” she explained. “Wish I hadn’t! If I’d known I was coming out I’d have starved myself all day. Then you’d have been shocked at me!”

Keith demurely answered, as if to reassure her:

“Takes a lot to shock me. Have a peach?”

“I must!” she breathed. “I can’t let the chance slip. O-oh, what a scent!” She reached the peach towards him. “Grand, isn’t it!” Jenny discovered for Keith’s quizzical gaze an unexpected dimple in each pale cheek. He might have been Adam, and she the original temptress.

“Shall I peel it?”

“Seems a shame to take it off!” Jenny watched his deft fingers as he stripped the peach. The glowing skin of the fruit fell in lifeless peelings upon his plate, dying as it were under her eyes, Keith had poured wine for her in another, smaller, glass. She shook her head.

“I shall be drunk!” she protested. “Then I should sing! Horrible, it would be!”

“Not with a little port ... I’m not pressing you to a lot. Am I?” He brought coffee to the table, and she began to admire first of all the pattern of the silver tray. Jenny had never seen such a tray before, outside a shop, nor so delicately porcelain a coffee-service. It helped to give her the sense of strange, unforgettable experience.

“You didn’t say if you’d remember this evening,” she slowly reflected. Keith looked sharply up from the coffee, which he was pouring, she saw, from a thermos flask.

“Didn’t I?” he said. “Of course I shall remember it. I’ve done better. I’ve looked forward to it. That’s something you’ve not done. I’ve looked forward to it for weeks. You don’t think of that. We’ve been in the Mediterranean, coasting about. I’ve been planning what I’d do when we got back. Then Templecombe said he’d be coming right up to London; and I planned to see you.”

“Templecombe?” Jenny queried. “Who’s he?”

“He’s the lord who owns this yacht. Did you think it was my yacht?”

“No.... I hoped it wasn’t....” Jenny said slowly.

viii

Keith’s eyes were upon her; but she looked at her peach stone, her hand still lightly holding the fruit knife, and her fingers half caught by the beam of a candle which stood beside her. He persisted:

“Well, Templecombe took his valet, who does the cooking; and my hand—my sailorman—wanted to go and visit his wife ... and that left me to see after the yacht. D’you see? I had the choice of keeping Tomkins aboard, or staying aboard myself.”

“You might almost have given me longer notice,” urged Jenny. “It seems to me.”

“No. I’m under instructions. I’m not a free man,” said Keith soberly. “I was once; but I’m not now. I’m captain of a yacht. I do what I’m told.”

Jenny fingered her port-wine glass, and in looking at the light upon the wine her eyes became fixed.

“Will you ever do anything else?” she asked. Keith shrugged slightly.

“You want to know a lot,” he said.

“I don’t know very much, do I?” Jenny answered, in a little dead voice. “Just somewhere about nothing at all. I have to pretend the rest.”

“D’you want to know it?”

Jenny gave a quick look at his hands which lay upon the table. She could not raise her eyes further. She was afraid to do so. Her heart seemed to be beating in her throat.

“It’s funny me having to ask for it, isn’t it!” she said, suddenly haggard.

CHAPTER VII: MORTALS

i

Keith did not answer. That was the one certainty she had; and her heart sank. He did not answer. That meant that really she was nothing to him, that he neither wanted nor trusted her. And yet she had thought a moment before—only a moment before—that he was as moved as herself. They had seemed to be upon the brink of confidences; and now he had drawn back. Each instant deepened her sense of failure. When Jenny stealthily looked sideways, Keith sat staring before him, his expression unchanged. She had failed.

“You don’t trust me,” she said, with her voice trembling. There was another silence. Then:

“Don’t I?” Keith asked, indifferently. He reached his hand out and patted hers, even holding it lightly for an instant. “I think I do. You don’t think so?”

“No.” She merely framed the word, sighing.

“You’re wrong, Jenny.” Keith’s voice changed. He deliberately looked round the table at the little dishes that still lay there untouched. “Have some of these sweets, will you.... No?” Jenny could only draw her breath sharply, shaking her head. “Almonds, then?” She moved impatiently, her face distorted with wretched exasperation. As if he could see that, and as if fear of the outcome hampered his resolution, Keith hurried on. “Well, look here: we’ll clear the table together, if you like. Take the things through the other cabin—that one—to the galley; root up the table by its old legs—I’ll show you how its’ done;—and then we can have a talk. I’ll ... I’ll tell you as much as I can about everything you want to know. That do?”

“I can’t stay long. I’ve left Pa in bed.” She could not keep the note of roughness from her pleading voice, although shame at being petulant was struggling with her deeper feeling.

“Well, he won’t want to get up again yet, will he?” Keith answered composedly. Oh, he had nerves of steel! thought Jenny. “I mean, this is his bedtime, I suppose?” There was no answer. Jenny looked at the tablecloth, numbed by her sensations. “Do you have to look after him all the time? That’s a bit rough...”

“No,” was forced from Jenny. “No, I don’t ... not generally. But to-night—but that’s a long story, too. With rows in it.” Which made Keith laugh. He laughed not quite naturally, forcing the last several jerks of his laughter, so that she shuddered at the thought of his possible contempt. It was as if everything she said was lost before ever it reached his heart—as if the words were like weak blows against an overwhelming strength. Discouragement followed and deepened after every blow—every useless and baffled word. There was again silence, while Jenny set her teeth, forcing back her bitterness and her chagrin, trying to behave as usual, and to check the throbbing within her breast. He was trying to charm her, teasingly to wheedle her back into kindness, altogether misunderstanding her mood. He was guarded and considerate when she wanted only passionate and abject abandonment of disguise.

“We’ll toss up who shall begin first,” Keith said in a jocular way. “How’s that for an idea?”

Jenny felt her lips tremble. Frantically she shook her head, compressing the unruly lips. Only by keeping in the same position, by making herself remain still, could she keep back the tears. Her thought went on, that Keith was cruelly playing with her, mercilessly watching the effect of his own coldness upon her too sensitive heart. Eh, but it was a lesson to her! What brutes men could be, at this game! And that thought gave her, presently, an unnatural composure. If he were cruel, she would never show her wounds. She would sooner die. But her eyes, invisible to him, were dark with reproach, and her face drawn with agony.

“Well, we’d better do something,” she said, in a sharp voice; and rose to her feet. “Where is it the things go?” Keith also rose, and Jenny felt suddenly sick and faint at the relaxation of her self-control.

ii

“Hullo, hullo!” Keith cried, and was at once by her side. “Here; have a drink of water.” Jenny, steadying herself by the table, sipped a little of the water.

“Is it the wine that’s made me stupid?” she asked. “I feel as if my teeth were swollen, and my skin was too tight for my bones. Beastly!”

“How horrid!” Keith said lightly, taking from her hand the glass of water. “If it’s the wine you won’t feel the effects long. Go on deck if you like. You’ll feel all right in the air. I’ll clear away.” Jenny would not leave him. She shook her head decidedly. “Wait a minute, then. I’ll come too!”

They moved quickly about, leaving the fruit and little sweets and almonds upon the sidetable, but carrying everything else through a sleeping-cabin into the galley. It was this other cabin that still further deepened Jenny’s sense of pain—of inferiority. That was the feeling now most painful. She had just realised it. She was a common girl; and Keith—ah, Keith was secure enough, she thought.

In that moment Jenny deliberately gave him up. She felt it was impossible that he should love her. When she looked around it was with a sorrowfulness as of farewell. These things were the things that Keith knew and had known—that she would never again see but in the bitter memories of this night. The night would pass, but her sadness would remain. She would think of him here. She gave him up, quite humble in her perception of the disparity between them. And yet her own love would stay, and she must store her memory full of all that she would want to know when she thought of his every moment. Jenny ceased to desire him. She somehow—it may have been by mere exhausted cessation of feeling—wished only to understand his life and then never to see him again. It was a kind of numbness that seized her. Then she awoke once again, stirred by the bright light and by the luxury of her surroundings.

“This where you sleep?” With passionate interest in everything that concerned him, Jenny looked eagerly about the cabin. She now indicated a broad bunk, with a beautifully white counterpane and such an eiderdown quilt as she might optimistically have dreamed about. The tiny cabin was so compact, and so marvellously furnished with beautiful things that it seemed to Jenny a kind of suite in tabloid form. She did not understand how she had done without all these luxurious necessities for five-and-twenty years.

“Sometimes,” Keith answered, having followed her marvelling eye from beauty to beauty. “When there’s company I sleep forward with the others.” He had been hurrying by with a cruet and the bread dish when her exclamation checked him.

“Is this lord a friend of yours, then?” Jenny asked.

“Sometimes,” Keith dryly answered. “Understand?” Jenny frowned again at his tone.

“No,” she said. Keith passed on.

Jenny stood surveying the sleeping-cabin. A whole nest of drawers attracted her eye, deep drawers that would hold innumerable things. Then she saw a hand-basin with taps for hot and cold water. Impulsively she tried the hot-water tap, and was both relieved and disappointed when it gasped and offered her cold water. There were monogramed toilet appointments beautiful to see; a leather-cased carriage clock, a shelf full of books that looked fascinating; towels; tiny rugs; a light above the hand-basin, and another to switch on above the bunk.... It was wonderful! And there was a looking-glass before her in which she could see her own reflection as clear as day—too clearly for her pleasure!

The face she irresistibly saw in this genuine mirror looked pale and tired, although upon each white cheek there was a hard scarlet flush. Her eyes were liquid, the pupils dilated; her whole appearance was one of suppressed excitement. She had chagrin, not only because she felt that her appearance was unattractive, but because it seemed to her that her face kept no secrets. Had she seen it as that of another, Jenny would unerringly have read its painful message.

“Eh, dear,” she said aloud. “You give yourself away, old sport! Don’t you, now!” The mirrored head shook in disparaging admission of its own shortcoming. Jenny bent nearer, meeting the eyes with a clear stare. There were wretched lines about her mouth. For the first time in her life she had a horrified fear of growing older. It was as though, when she shut her eyes, she saw herself as an old woman. She felt a curious stab at her heart.

Keith, returning, found Jenny still before the mirror, engaged in this unsparing scrutiny; and, laughing gently, he caught her elbow with his fingers. In the mirror their glances met. At his touch Jenny thrilled, and unconsciously leaned towards him. From the mirrored glance she turned questioningly, to meet upon his face a beaming expression of tranquil enjoyment that stimulated her to candid remark. Somehow it restored some of her lost ease to be able to speak so.

“I look funny, don’t I?” She appealed to his judgment. Keith bent nearer, as for more detailed examination, retaining hold upon her elbow. His face was tantalisingly close to hers, and Jenny involuntarily turned her head away, not coquettishly, but through embarrassment at a mingling of desire and timidity.

“Is that the word?” he asked. “You look all right, my dear.”

My dear! She knew that the words meant more to her than they did to him, so carelessly were they uttered; but they sent a shock through her. How Jenny wished that she might indeed be dear to Keith! He released her, and she followed him, laden, backwards and forwards until the table was cleared. Then he unscrewed the table legs, and the whole thing came gently away in his hands. There appeared four small brass sockets imbedded in the carpet’s deep pile; and the centre of the room was clear. By the same dexterous use of his acquaintance with the cabin’s mechanism, Keith unfastened one of the settees, and wheeled it forward so that it stood under the light, and in great comfort for the time when they should sit to hear his story.

“Now!” he said. “We’ll have a breather on deck to clear your old head.”

iii

By this time the moon was silvering the river, riding high above the earth, serenely a thing of eternal mystery to her beholders. With the passing of clouds and the deepening of the night, those stars not eclipsed by the moon shone like swarmed throbbing points of silver. They seemed more remote, as though the clearer air had driven them farther off. Jenny, her own face and throat illumined, stared up at the moon, marvelling; and then she turned, without speaking, to the black shadows and the gliding, silent water. Upon every hand was the chequer of contrast, beautiful to the eye, and haunting to the spirit. A soft wind stirred her hair and made her bare her teeth in pleasure at the sweet contact.

Keith led her to the wide wooden seat which ran by the side of the deck, and they sat together there. The noise of the city was dimmer; the lamps were yellowed in the moon’s whiter light; there were occasional movements upon the face of the river. A long way away they heard a sharp panting as a motor boat rushed through the water, sending out a great surging wave that made all other craft rise and fall and sway as the river’s agitation subsided. The boat came nearer, a coloured light showing; and presently it hastened past, a moving thing with a muffled figure at its helm; and the Minerva rocked gently almost until the sound of the motor boat’s tuff-tuff had been lost in the general noise of London. Nearer at hand, above them, Jenny could hear the clanging of tram-gongs and the clatter and slow boom of motor omnibuses; but these sounds were mellowed by the evening, and although they were near enough to be comforting they were too far away to interrupt this pleasant solitude with Keith. The two of them sat in the shadow, and Jenny craned to hear the chuckle of the water against the yacht’s sides. It was a beautiful moment in her life.... She gave a little moan, and swayed against Keith, her delight succeeded by deadly languor.

iv

So for a moment they sat, Keith’s arm around her shoulders; and then Jenny moved so as to free herself. She was restless and unhappy again, her nerves on edge. The moon and the water, which had soothed her, were now an irritation. Keith heard her breath come and go, quickly, heavily.

“Sorry, Jenny,” he said, in a tone of puzzled apology. She caught his fallen hand, pressing it eagerly.

“It’s nothing. Only that minute. Like somebody walking on my grave.”

“You’re cold. We’ll go down to the cabin again.” He was again cool and unembarrassed. Together they stood upon the deck in the moonlight, while the water flowed rapidly beneath them and the night’s mystery emphasised their remoteness from the rest of the world. They had no part, at this moment, in the general life; but were solitary, living only to themselves....

Keith’s arm was about her as they descended; but he let it drop as they stood once more in the golden-brown cabin. “Sit here!” He plumped a cushion for her, and Jenny sank into an enveloping softness that rose about her as water might have done, so that she might have been alarmed if Keith had not been there looking down with such an expression of concern.

“I’m really all right,” she told him, reassuringly. “Miserable for a tick—that’s all!”

“Sure?” He seemed genuinely alarmed, scanning her face. She had again turned sick and faint, so that her knees were without strength. Was he sincere? If only she could have been sure of him. It meant everything in the world to her. If only Keith would say he loved her: if only he would kiss her! He had never done that. The few short days of their earlier comradeship had been full of delight; he had taken her arm, he had even had her in his arms during a wild bluster of wind; but always the inevitable kiss had been delayed, had been averted; and only her eager afterthoughts had made romance of their meagre acquaintance. Yet now, when they were alone, together, when every nerve in her body seemed tense with desire for him, he was somehow aloof—not constrained (for then she would have been happy, at the profoundly affecting knowledge that she had carried the day), but unsympathetically and unlovingly at ease. She could not read his face: in his manner she read only a barren kindness that took all and gave nothing. If he didn’t love her she need not have come. It would have been better to go on as she had been doing, dreaming of him until—until what? Jenny sighed at the grey vision. Only hunger had driven her to his side on this evening—the imperative hunger of her nature upon which Keith had counted. He had been sure she would come—that was unforgivable. He had welcomed her as he might have welcomed a man; but as he might also have welcomed any man or woman who would have relieved his loneliness upon the yacht. Not a loved friend. Jenny, with her brain restored by the gentle breeze to its normal quickness of action, seemed dartingly to seek in every direction for reassurance! and she found in everything no single tone or touch to feed her insatiable greed for tokens of his love. Oh, but she was miserable indeed—disappointed in her dearest and most secret aspirations. He was perhaps afraid that she wanted to attach herself to him? If that were so, why couldn’t he be honest, and tell her so? That was all she wanted from him. She wanted only the truth. She felt she could bear anything but this kindness, this charming detached thought for her. He was giving her courtesy when all she needed was that his passion should approach her own. And when she should have been strong, mistress of herself, she was weak as water. Her strength was turned, her self-confidence mocked by his bearing. She trembled with the recurring vehemence of her love, that had been fed upon solitude, upon the dreariness in which she spent her mere calendared days. Her eyes were sombrely glowing, dark with pain; and Keith was leaning towards her as he might have leant towards any girl who was half fainting. She could have cried, but that she was too proud to cry. She was not Emmy, who cried. She was Jenny Blanchard, who had come upon this fool’s trip because a force stronger than her pride had bidden her to forsake all but the impulse of her love. And Keith, secure and confident, was coolly, as it were, disentangling himself from the claim she had upon him by virtue of her love. It seemed to Jenny that he was holding her at a distance. Nothing could have hurt her more. It shamed her to think that Keith might suspect her honesty and her unselfishness. When she had thought of nothing but her love and the possibility of his own.

She read now, in this moment of descent into misery, a dreadful blunder made by her own overweening eagerness. She saw Keith, alone, thinking that he would be at a loss to fill his time, suddenly remembering her, thinking in a rather contemptuous way of their days together, and supposing that she would do as well as another for an hour’s talk to keep him from a stagnant evening. If that were so, good-bye to her dreams. If she were no more to him than that there was no hope left in her life. For Keith might ply from port to port, seeing in her only one girl for his amusement; but he had spoilt her for another man. No other man could escape the withering comparison with Keith. To Jenny he was a king among men, incomparable; and if he did not love her, then the proud Jenny Blanchard, who unhesitatingly saw life and character with an immovable reserve, was the merest trivial legend of Kennington Park. She was like every other girl, secure in her complacent belief that she could win love—until the years crept by, and no love came, and she must eagerly seek to accept whatever travesty of love sidled within the radius of her attractiveness.

Suddenly Jenny looked at Keith.

“Better now,” she said harshly. “You’ll have to buck up with your tale—won’t you! If you’re going to get it out before I have to toddle home again.”

“Oh,” said Keith, in a confident tone. “You’re here now. You’ll stay until I’ve quite finished.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jenny sharply. “Don’t talk rubbish!”

Keith held up a warning forefinger. He stretched his legs and drew from his pocket a stout pipe.

“I mean what I say.” He looked sideways at her. “Don’t be a fool, Jenny.”

Her heart was chilled at the menace of his words no less than by the hardness of his voice.

v

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Keith; but you’ll take me back to the steps when I say,” she said. Keith filled his pipe. “I suppose you think it’s funny to talk like that.” Jenny looked straight in front of her, and her heart was fluttering. It was not her first tremor; but she was deeply agitated. Keith, with a look that was almost a smile, finished loading the pipe and struck a match. He then settled himself comfortably at her side.

“Don’t be a juggins, Jenny,” he remarked, in a dispassionate way that made her feel helpless.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I’ve got the jumps. I’ve had awful rows to-night ... before coming out.”

“Tell me about them,” Keith urged. “Get ‘em off your chest.” She shook her head. Oh no, she wanted something from him very different from such kindly sympathy.

“Only make it worse,” she claimed. “Drives it in more. Besides, I don’t want to. I want to hear about you.”

“Oh, me!” he made a laughing noise. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“You said you would.” Jenny was alarmed at his perverseness; but they were not estranged now.

Keith was smiling rather bitterly at his own thoughts, it seemed.

“I wonder why it is women want to know such a lot,” he said, drowsily.

“All of them?” she sharply countered. “I suppose you ought to know.”

“You look seedy still.... Are you really feeling better?” Jenny took no notice. “Well, yes: I suppose all of them. They all want to take possession of you. They’re never satisfied with what they’ve got.”

“Perhaps they haven’t got anything,” Jenny said. And after a painful pause: “Oh, well: I shall have to be going home.” She wearily moved, in absolute despair, perhaps even with the notion of rising, though her mind was in turmoil.

“Jenny!” He held her wrist, preventing any further movement. He was looking at her with an urgent gaze. Then, violently, with a rapid motion, he came nearer, and forced his arm behind Jenny’s waist, drawing her close against his breast, her face averted until their cheeks touched, when the life seemed to go out of Jenny’s body and she moved her head quickly in resting it on his shoulder, Keith’s face against her hair, and their two hearts beating quickly. It was done in a second, and they sat so, closely embraced, without speech. Still Jenny’s hands were free, as if they had been lifeless. Time seemed to stand still, and every noise to stop, during that long moment. And in her heart Jenny was saying over and over, utterly hopeless, “It’s no good; it’s no good; it’s no good....” Wretchedly she attempted to press herself free, her elbow against Keith’s breast. She could not get away; but each flying instant deepened her sense of bitter failure.

“It’s no use,” she said at last, in a dreadful murmur. “You don’t want me a bit. Far better let me go.”

Keith loosed his hold, and she sat away from him with a little sigh that was almost a shudder. Her hands went as if by instinct to her hair, smoothing it. Another instinct, perhaps, made her turn to him with the ghost of a reassuring smile.

“Silly, we’ve been,” she said, huskily. “I’ve been thinking about you all this time; and this is the end of it. Well, I was a fool to come....” She sat up straight, away from the back of the settee; but she did not look at Keith. She was looking at nothing. Only in her mind was going on the tumult of merciless self-judgment. Suddenly her composure gave way and she was again in his arms, not crying, but straining him to her. And Keith was kissing her, blessed kisses upon her soft lips, as if he truly loved her as she had all this time hoped. She clung to him in a stupor.