Nocturne

CHAPTER VIII: PENALTIES

i

“Poor old Jenny,” Keith was saying, stroking her arm and holding his cheek against hers.

“You don’t want me ...” groaned Jenny.

“Yes.”

“I can tell you don’t. You don’t mean it. D’you think I can’t tell!”

Keith raised a finger and lightly touched her hair. He rubbed her cheek with his own, so that she could feel the soft bristles of his shaven beard. And he held her more closely within the circle of his arm.

“Because I’m clumsy?” he breathed. “You know too much, Jenny.”

“No: I can tell.... It’s all the difference in the world.”

“Well, then; how many others have kissed you?... Eh?”

“Keith!” Jenny struggled a little. “Let me go now.”

“How many?” Keith kissed her cheek. “Tell the whole dreadful truth.”

“If I asked you how many girls ... what would you say then?” Jenny’s sombre eyes were steadily watching him, prying into the secrets of his own. He gave a flashing smile, that lighted up his brown face.

“We’re both jealous,” he told her. “Isn’t that what’s the matter?”

“You don’t trust me. You don’t want me. You’re only teasing.” With a vehement effort she recovered some of her self-control. Pride was again active, the dominant emotion. “So am I only teasing,” she concluded. “You’re too jolly pleased with yourself.”

“How did you know I was clumsy?” Keith asked. “I shall bite your old face. I shall nibble it ... as if I was a horse ... and you were a bit of sugar. Fancy Jenny going home with half a face!” He laughed excitedly at his forced pleasantry, and the sound of his laugh was music to Jenny’s ears. He was excited. He was moved. Quickly the melancholy pressed back upon her after this momentary surcease. He was excited because she was in his arms—not because he loved her.

“Why did you send for me?” she suddenly said. “In your letter you said you’d explain everything. Then you said you’d tell me about yourself. You’ve done nothing but tease all the time.... Are you afraid, or what? Keith, dear: you don’t know what it means to me. If you don’t want me—let me go. I oughtn’t to have come. I was silly to come; but I had to. But if you only wanted somebody to tease ... one of the others would have done quite as well.”

Again the smile spread across Keith’s face, brightening his eyes and making his teeth glisten.

“I said you were jealous,” he murmured in her ear. “One of the others, indeed! Jenny, there’s no other—nobody like you, my sweet. There couldn’t be. Do you think there could be?”

“Nobody such a fool,” Jenny said, miserably.

“Who’s a fool? You?” He seemed to think for a moment; and then went on: “Well, I’ve told you I planned the supper.... That was true.”

“Let me go. I’m getting cramped.” Jenny drew away; but he followed, holding her less vigorously, but in no way releasing her. “No: really let me go.” Keith shook his head.

“I shan’t let you go,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I only make myself miserable.” Jenny felt her hair, which was loosened. Her cheeks were hot.

“Are you sorry you came?”

“Yes.” Keith pressed closer to her, stifling her breath. She saw his brown cheeks for an instant before she was again enveloped in his strong embrace; and then she heard a single word breathed in her ear.

“Liar!” said Keith. In a moment he added: “Sorry be pole-axed.”

ii

It was the second time in that evening that Jenny had been accused of lying; and when the charge had been brought by Alf she had flamed with anger. Now, however, she felt no anger. She felt through her unhappiness a dim motion of exulting joy. Half suffocated, she was yet thrilled with delight in Keith’s strength, with belief in his love because it was ardently shown. Strength was her god. She worshipped strength as nearly all women worship it. And to Jenny strength, determination, manhood, were Keith’s attributes. She loved him for being strong; she found in her own weakness the triumph of powerlessness, of humiliation.

“You’re suffocating me,” she warned him, panting.

“D’you love me a little?”

“Yes. A little.”

“A lot! Say you love me a lot! And you’re glad you came ...”

Jenny held his face to hers, and kissed him passionately.

“Dear!” she fiercely whispered.

Keith slowly released her, and they both laughed breathlessly, with brimming, glowing eyes. He took her hand, still smiling and watching her face.

“Old silly,” Keith murmured. “Aren’t you an old silly! Eh?”

“So you say. You ought to know.... I suppose I am ...”

“But a nice old silly.... And a good old girl to come to-night.”

“But then you knew I should come,” urged Jenny, drily, frowningly regarding him.

“You can’t forgive that, can you! You think I ought to have come grovelling to you. It’s not proper to ask you to come to me ... to believe you might come ... to have everything ready in case you might come. Prude, Jenny! That’s what you are.”

“A prude wouldn’t have come.”

“That’s all you know,” said Keith, teasingly. “She’d have come—out of curiosity; but she’d have made a fuss. That’s what prudes are. That’s what they do.”

“Well, I expect you know,” Jenny admitted, sarcastically. The words wounded her more than they wounded him. Where Keith laughed, Jenny quivered. “You don’t know what it means to me—” she began again, and checked her too unguarded tongue.

“To come?” He bent towards her. “Of course, it’s marvellous to me! Was that what you meant?”

“No. To think ... other girls ...” She could not speak distinctly.

“Other girls?” Keith appeared astonished. “Do you really believe ...” He too paused. “No other girls come on this yacht to see me. I’ve known other girls. I’ve made love to other girls—what man hasn’t? You don’t get to my age without ...”

“Without what?” Jenny asked coolly.

“I’m not pretending anything to you. I’m thirty and a bit over. A man doesn’t get to my age...No man does, without having been made a fool of.”

“Oh, I don’t mind that,” Jenny said sharply. “It’s the girls you’ve fooled.”

“Don’t you believe it, Jenny. They’ve always been wiser than me. Say they’ve known a bit more. You’re different ...” Jenny shook her head, sighing.

“I bet they’ve all been that,” she slowly said. “Till the next one.” The old unhappiness had returned, gripping her heart. She no longer looked at him, but stared away, straight in front of her.

“Well, what if they had all been different?” Keith persisted. “Supposing I were to tell you about them, each one.... There’s no time for it, Jenny. You’ll have to take my word for it. You’ll do that if you want to. If you want to believe in me. Do you?”

“Of course I do!” Jenny blazed. “I can’t! Be different if I was at home. But I’m here, and you knew I’d come. D’you see what I mean?”

“You’re not in a trap, old girl,” said Keith. “You can go home this minute if you think you are.” His colour also rose. “You make too much fuss. You want me to tell you good fat lies to save your face. Don’t be a juggins, Jenny! Show your spirit! Jenny!”

Keith still held her hand. He drew it towards him, and Jenny was made to lean by his sudden movement. He slipped his arm again round her. Jenny did not yield herself. He was conscious of rebuff, although she did not struggle.

“You want me to trust you blindfold,” she said in a dreary voice. “It’s not good enough, Keith. Really it isn’t! When you don’t trust me. You sent for me, and I came. As soon as I was here you ... you were as beastly as you could be ...” Her voice trembled.

“Not really beastly ...” Keith urged, and his coaxing tone and concerned expression shook her. “Nice beastly, eh?”

“You weren’t nice. You weren’t ...” Jenny hesitated. “You didn’t ... you weren’t nice.”

“I didn’t want to frighten you.”

Jenny drew herself up, frantically angry.

“Now who’s lying!” she savagely cried, and put her hands to disengage herself. “Oh Keith, I’m so sick of it!” He held her more tightly. All her efforts were unavailing against that slowly increased pressure from his strong arms.

“Listen, Jenny,” Keith said. “I love you. That’s that. I wanted to see you more than anything on earth. I wanted to kiss you. Good God, Jen.... D’you think you’re the easiest person in the world to manage?”

iii

The bewilderment that succeeded clove the silence. Jenny gasped against her will.

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“You think I’m looking on you as cheap ... when I’m in an absolute funk of you!” Keith cried.

“O-oh!” Her exclamation was incredulity itself. Keith persisted warmly:

“I’m not lying. It’s all true. And you’re a termagant, Jenny. That’s what you are. You want it all your own way! Anything that goes wrong is my fault—not yours! You don’t think there’s anything that’s your fault. It’s all mine. But, my good girl, that’s ridiculous. What d’you think I know about you? Eh? Nothing whatever! Absolutely nothing! You think you’re as clear as day! You’re not. You’re a dark horse. I’m afraid of you—afraid of your temper ... your pride. You won’t see that. You think it’s my fault that ...” Keith’s excitement almost convinced Jenny.

“Shouting won’t do any good,” she said, deeply curious and overwhelmed by her bewilderment.

“Pull yourself together, Jenny!” he urged. “Look at it from my side if you can. Try! Imagine I’ve got a side, that is. And now I’ll tell you something about myself ... no lies; and you’ll have to make the best of the truth. The Truth!” Laughing, he kissed her; and Jenny, puzzled but intrigued, withheld her indignation in order to listen to the promised account. Keith began. “Well, Jenny: I told you I was thirty. I’m thirty-one in a couple of months. I’ll tell you the date, and you can work me a sampler. And I was born in a place you’ve never set eyes on—and I hope you never will set eyes on it. I was born in Glasgow. And there’s a smelly old river there, called the Clyde, where they launch big ships ... a bit bigger than the Minerva. The Minerva was built in Holland. Well, my old father was a tough old chap—not a Scotchman, though my mother was Scotch—with a big business in Glasgow. He was as rich as—well, richer than anybody you ever met. Work that out! And he was as tough as a Glasgow business man. They’re a special kind. And I was his little boy. He had no other little boys. You interested?”

Jenny nodded sharply, her breast against his, so that she felt every breath he drew.

“Yes: well, my father was so keen that I should grow up into a Glasgow business man that he nearly killed me. He hated me. Simply because when I did anything it was always something away from the pattern—the plan. D’you see? And he’d nearly beat my head in each time.... Yes, wasn’t it!... Well, when I was ten he and I had got into such a way that we were sworn enemies. He’d got a strong will; but so had I, even though I was such a kid. And I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—do what he told me to. And when I was thirteen, I ran away. I’d always loved the river, and boats, and so on; and I ran away from my old father. And he nearly went off his head...and he brought me back. Didn’t take him long to find me! That was when I began to hate him. I’d only been afraid of him before; but I was growing up. Well, he put me to a school where they watched me all the time. I sulked, I worked, I did every blessed thing; and I grew older still, and more afraid of my father, and somehow less afraid of him, too. I got a sort of horror of him. I hated him. And when he said I’d got to go into the business I just told him I’d see him damned first. That was when he first saw that you can’t make any man a slave—not even your own son—as long as he’s got enough to eat. He couldn’t starve me. It’s starved men who are made slaves, Jenny. They’ve got no guts. Well, he threw me over. He thought I should starve myself and then go back to him, fawning. I didn’t go. I was eighteen, and I went on a ship. I had two years of it; and my father died. I got nothing. All went to a cousin. I was nobody; but I was free. Freedom’s the only thing that’s worth while in this life. And I was twenty or so. It was then that I picked up a girl in London and tried to keep her—not honest, but straight to me. I looked after her for a year, working down by the river. But it was no good. She went off with other men because I got tired of her. I threw her over when I found that out. I mean, I told her she could stick to me or let me go. She wanted both. I went to sea again. It was then I met Templecombe. I met him in South America, and we got very pally. Then I came back to England. I got engaged to a girl—got married to her when I was twenty-three ...”

“Married!” cried Jenny, pulling herself away. She had flushed deeply. Her heart was like lead.

“I’m not lying. You’re hearing it all. And she’s dead.”

“What was her name?”

“Adela.... She was little and fair; and she was a little sport. But I only married her because I was curious. I didn’t care for her. In a couple of months I knew I’d made a mistake. She told me herself. She knew much more than I did. She was older than I was; and she knew a lot for her age—about men. She’d been engaged to one and another since she was fifteen; and in ten years you get to know a good deal. I think she knew everything about men—and I was a boy. She died two years ago. Well, after I’d been with her for a year I broke away. She only wanted me to fetch and carry.... She ‘took possession’ of me, as they say. I went into partnership with a man who let me in badly; and Adela went back to her work and I went back to sea. And a year later I went to prison because a woman I was living with was a jealous cat and got the blame thrown on to me for something I knew nothing about. D’you see? Prison. Never mind the details. When I came out of prison I was going downhill as fast as a barrel; and then I saw an advertisement of Templecombe’s for a skipper. I saw him, and told him all about myself; and he agreed to overlook my little time in prison if I signed on with him to look after this yacht. Now you see I haven’t got a very good record. I’ve been in prison; and I’ve lived with three women; and I’ve got no prospects except that I’m a good sailor and know my job. But I never did what I was sent to prison for; and, as I told you, the three women all knew more than I did. I’ve never done a girl any harm intentionally; and the last of them belongs to six years ago. Since then I’ve met other girls, and some of them have run after me because I was a sailorman. They do, you know. You’re the girl I love; and I want you to remember that I was a kid when I got married. That’s the tale, Jenny; and every word of it’s true. And now what d’you think of it? Are you afraid of me now? Don’t you think I’m a bit of a fool? Or d’you think I’m the sort of fellow that fools the girls?”

There was no reply to his question for a long time; until Keith urged her afresh.

“What I’m wondering,” said Jenny, in a slow and rather puzzled way, “is, what you’d think of me if I’d lived with three different men. Because I’m twenty-five, you know.”

iv

It might have checked Keith in mid-career. His tone had certainly not been one of apology. But along with a natural complacency he had the honesty that sometimes accompanies success in affairs.

“Well,” he said frankly, “I shouldn’t like it, Jen.”

“How d’you think I like it?”

“D’you love me? Jenny, dear!”

“I don’t know. I don’t see why you should be different.”

“Nor do I. I am, though. I wish I wasn’t. Can you see that? Have you ever wished you weren’t yourself! Of course you have. So have I. Have you had men running after you all the time? Have you been free night and day, with time on your hands, and temptations going. You haven’t. You don’t know what it is. You’ve been at home. And what’s more, you’ve been tied up because...because people think girls are safer if they’re tied up.”

“Men do!” flashed Jenny. “They like to have it all to themselves.”

“Well, if you’d ever been on your own for days together, and thinking as much about women as all young men do ...”

“I wonder if I should boast of it,” Jenny said drily. “To a girl I was pretending to love.”

Keith let his arm drop from her waist. He withdrew it, and sighed. Then he moved forward upon the settee, half rising, with his hands upon his knees.

“Ah well, Jenny: perhaps I’d better be taking you ashore,” he said in a constrained, exasperated tone.

“You don’t care if you break my heart,” Jenny whispered. “It’s all one to you.”

“That’s simply not true.... But it’s no good discussing it.” He had lost his temper, and was full of impatience. He sat frowning, disliking her, with resentment and momentary aversion plainly to be seen in his bearing.

“Just because I don’t agree that it’s mighty kind of you to ... condescend!” Jenny was choking. “You thought I should jump for joy because other women had had you. I don’t know what sort of girl you thought I was.”

“Well, I thought ... I thought you were fond of me,” Keith slowly said, making an effort to speak coldly. “That was what I thought.”

“Thought I’d stand anything!” she corrected. “And fall on your neck into the bargain.”

“Jenny, old girl.... That’s not true. But I thought you’d understand better than you’ve done. I thought you’d understand why I told you. You think I thought I was so sure of you.... I wish you’d try to see a bit further.” He leaned back again, not touching her, but dejectedly frowning; his face pale beneath the tan. His anger had passed in a deeper feeling. “I told you because you wanted to know about me. If I’d been the sort of chap you’re thinking I should have told a long George Washington yarn, pretending to be an innocent hero. Well, I didn’t. I’m not an innocent hero. I’m a man who’s knocked about for fifteen years. You’ve got the truth. Women don’t like the truth. They want a yarn. A yappy, long, sugar-coated yarn, and lots of protestations. This is all because I haven’t asked you to forgive me—because I haven’t sworn not to do it again if only you’ll forgive me. You want to see yourself forgiving me. On a pinnacle.... Graciously forgiving me—”

“Oh, you’re a beast!” cried Jenny. “Let me go home.” She rose to her feet, and stood in deep thought. For a moment Keith remained seated: then he too rose. They did not look at one another, but with bent heads continued to reconsider all that had been said.

v

“I’ve all the time been trying to show you I’m not a beast,” Keith urged at last. “But a human being. It takes a woman to be something above a human being.” He was sneering, and the sneer chilled her.

“If you’d been thinking of somebody for months,” she began in a trembling tone. “Thinking about them all the time, living on it day after day ... just thinking about them and loving them with all your heart.... You don’t know the way a woman does it. There’s nothing else for them to think about. I’ve been thinking every minute of the day—about how you looked, and what you said; and telling myself—though I didn’t believe it—that you were thinking about me just the same. And I’ve been planning how you’d look when I saw you again, and what we’d say and do.... You don’t know what it’s meant to me. You’ve never dreamed of it. And now to come to-night—when I ought to be at home looking after my dad. And to hear you talk about ... about a lot of other girls as if I was to take them for granted. Why, how do I know there haven’t been lots of others since you saw me?”

“Because I tell you it’s not so,” he interposed. “Because I’ve been thinking of you all the time.”

“How many days at the seaside was it? Three?”

“It was enough for me. It was enough for you.”

“And now one evening’s enough for both of us,” Jenny cried sharply. “Too much!”

“You’ll cry your eyes out to-morrow,” he warned.

“Oh, to-night!” she assured him recklessly.

“Because you don’t love me. You throw all the blame on me; but it’s your own pride that’s the real trouble, Jenny. You want to come round gradually; and time’s too short for it. Remember, I’m away again to-morrow. Did you forget that?”

Jenny shivered. She had forgotten everything but her grievance.

“How long will you be away?” she asked.

“Three months at least. Does it matter?” She reproached his bitterness by a glance. “Jenny, dear,” he went on; “when time’s so short, is it worth while to quarrel? You see what it is: if you don’t try and love me you’ll go home unhappy, and we shall both be unhappy. I told you I’m not a free man. I’m not. I want to be free. I want to be free all the time; and I’m tied ...”

“You’re still talking about yourself,” said Jenny, scornfully, on the verge of tears.

vi

Well, they had both made their unwilling attempts at reconciliation; and they were still further estranged. They were not loving one another; they were just quarrelsome and unhappy at being able to find no safe road of compromise. Jenny had received a bitter shock; Keith, with the sense that she was judging him harshly, was sullen with his deeply wounded heart. They both felt bruised and wretched, and deeply ashamed and offended. And then they looked at each other, and Jenny gave a smothered sob. It was all that was needed; for Keith was beside her in an instant, holding her unyielding body, but murmuring gentle coaxing words into her ear. In an instant more Jenny was crying in real earnest, buried against him; and her tears were tears of relief as much as of pain.

CHAPTER IX: WHAT FOLLOWED

i

The Minerva slowly and gently rocked with the motion of the current. The stars grew brighter. The sounds diminished. Upon the face of the river lights continued to twinkle, catching and mottling the wavelets. The cold air played with the water, and flickered upon the Minerva’s deck; strong enough only to appear mischievous, too soft and wayward to make its presence known to those within. And in the Minerva’s cabin, set as it were in that softly rayed room of old gold and golden brown, Jenny was clinging to Keith, snatching once again at precarious happiness. Far off, in her aspirations, love was desired as synonymous with peace and contentment; but in her heart Jenny had no such pretence. She knew that it was otherwise. She knew that passive domestic enjoyment would not bring her nature peace, and that such was not the love she needed. Keith alone could give her true love. And she was in Keith’s arms, puzzled and lethargic with something that was only not despair because she could not fathom her own feelings.

“Keith,” she said, presently. “I’m sorry to be a fool.”

“You’re not a fool, old dear,” he assured her. “But I’m a beast.”

“Yes, I think you are,” Jenny acknowledged. There was a long pause. She tried to wipe her eyes, and at last permitted Keith to do that for her, flinching at contact with the handkerchief, but aware all the time of some secret joy. When she could speak more calmly, she went on: “Suppose we don’t talk any more about being...what we are...and forgiving, and all that. We don’t mean it. We only say it...”

“Well, I mean it—about being a beast,” Keith said humbly. “That’s because I made you cry.”

“Well,” said Jenny, agreeingly, “you can be a beast—I mean, think you are one. And if I’m miserable I shall think I’ve been a fool. But we’ll cut out about forgiving. Because I shall never really forgive you. I couldn’t. It’ll always be there, till I’m an old woman—”

“Only till you’re happy, dear,” Keith told her. “That’s all that means.”

“I can’t think like that. I feel it’s in my bones. But you’re going away. Where are you going? D’you know? Is it far?”

“We’re going back to the South. Otherwise it’s too cold for yachting. And Templecombe wants to keep out of England at the moment. He’s safe on the yacht. He can’t be got at. There’s some wretched predatory woman of title pursuing him....”

“Here ... here!” cried Jenny. “I can’t understand if you talk pidgin-English, Keith.”

“Well ... you know what ravenous means? Hungry. And a woman of title—you know what a lord is.... Well, and she’s chasing about, dropping little scented notes at every street corner for him.”

“Oh they are awful!” cried Jenny. “Countesses! Always in the divorce court, or something. Somebody ought to stop them. They don’t have countesses in America, do they? Why don’t we have a republic, and get rid of them all? If they’d got the floor to scrub they wouldn’t have time to do anything wrong.”

“True,” said Keith. “True. D’you like scrubbing floors?”

“No. But I do it. And keep my hands nice, too.” The hands were inspected and approved.

“But then you’re more free than most people,” Keith presently remarked, in a tone of envy.

“Free!” exclaimed Jenny. “Me! In the millinery! When I’ve got to be there every morning at nine sharp or get the sack, and often, busy times, stick at it till eight or later, for a few bob a week. And never have any time to myself except when I’m tired out! Who gets the fun? Why, it’s all work, for people like me; all work for somebody else. What d’you call being free? Aren’t they free?”

“Not one. They’re all tied up. Templecombe’s hawk couldn’t come on this yacht without a troop of friends. They can’t go anywhere they like unless it’s ‘the thing’ to be done. They do everything because it’s the right thing—because if they do something else people will think it’s odd—think they’re odd. And they can’t stand that!”

“Well, but Keith! Who is it that’s free?”

“Nobody,” he said.

“I thought perhaps it was only poor people ... just because they were poor.”

“Well, Jenny.... That’s so. But when people needn’t do what they’re told they invent a system that turns them into slaves. They have a religion, or they run like the Gadarine swine into a fine old lather and pretend that everybody’s got to do the same for some reason or other. They call it the herd instinct, and all sorts of names. But there’s nobody who’s really free. Most of them don’t want to be. If they were free they wouldn’t know what to do. If their chains were off they’d fall down and die. They wouldn’t be happy if there wasn’t a system grinding them as much like each other as it can.”

“But why not? What’s the good of being alive at all if you’ve got to do everything whether you want to do it or not? It’s not sense!”

“It’s fact, though. From the king to the miner—all a part of a big complicated machine that’s grinding us slowly to bits, making us all more and more wretched.”

“But who makes it like that, Keith?” cried Jenny. “Who says it’s to be so?”

Keith laughed grimly.

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” he urged. “No good talking about it. The only thing to do is to fight it—get out of the machine ...”

“But there’s nowhere to go, is there?” asked Jenny. “I was thinking about it this evening. ‘They’ve’ got every bit of the earth. Wherever you go ‘they’re’ there ... with laws and police and things all ready for you. You’ve got to give in.”

“I’m not going to,” said Keith. “I’ll tell you that, Jenny.”

“But Keith! Who is it that makes it so? There must be somebody to start it. Is it God?”

Keith laughed again, still more drily and grimly.

ii

Jenny was not yet satisfied. She still continued to revolve the matter in her mind.

“You said nobody was free, Keith. But then you said you were free—when you got married.”

“Till I got married. Then I wasn’t. I fell into the machine and got badly chawed then.”

“Don’t you want to get married?” Jenny asked. “Ever again?”

“Not that way.” Keith’s jaw was set. “I’ve been there; and to me that’s what hell is.”

How Jenny wished she could understand! She did not want to get married herself—that way. But she wanted to serve. She wanted Keith to be her husband; she wanted to make him happy, and to make his home comfortable. She felt that to work for the man she loved was the way to be truly happy. Did he not think that he could be happy in working for her? She couldn’t understand. It was all so hard that she sometimes felt that her brain was clamped with iron bolts and chains.

“What way d’you want to get married?” Jenny asked.

“I want to marry you. Any old way. And I want to take you to the other end of the world—where there aren’t any laws and neighbours and rates and duties and politicians and imitations of life.... And I want to set you down on virgin soil and make a real life for you. In Labrador or Alaska ...” He glowed with enthusiasm. Jenny glowed too, infected by his enthusiasm.

“Sounds fine!” she said. Keith exclaimed eagerly. He was alive with joy at her welcome.

“Would you come?” he cried. “Really?”

“To the end of the world?” Jenny said. “Rather!”

They kissed passionately, carried away by their excitement, brimming with joy at their agreement in feeling and desire. The cabin seemed to expand into the virgin forest and the open plain. A new vision of life was opened to Jenny. Exultingly she pictured the future, bright, active, occupied—away from all the old cramping things. It was the life she had dreamed, away from men, away from stuffy rooms and endless millinery, away from regular hours and tedious meals, away from all that now made up her daily dullness. It was splendid! Her quick mind was at work, seeing, arranging, imagining as warm as life the changed days that would come in such a terrestrial Paradise. And then Keith, watching with triumph the mounting joy in her expression, saw the joy subside, the brilliance fade, the eagerness give place to doubt and then to dismay.

“What is it?” he begged. “Jenny, dear!”

“It’s Pa!” Jenny said. “I couldn’t leave him ... not for anything!”

“Is that all? We’ll take him with us!” cried Keith. Jenny sorrowfully shook her head.

“No. He’s paralysed,” she explained, and sighed deeply at the faded vision.

iii

“Well, I’m not going to give up the idea for that,” Keith resumed, after a moment. Jenny shook her head, and a wry smile stole into her face, making it appear thinner than before.

“I didn’t expect you would,” she said quietly. “It’s me that has to give it up.”

“Jenny!” He was astonished by her tone. “D’you think I meant that? Never! We’ll manage something. Something can be done. When I come back ...”

“Ah, you’re going away!” Jenny cried in agony. “I shan’t see you. I shall have every day to think of ... day after day. And you won’t write. And I shan’t see you....” She held him to her, her breast against his, desperate with the dread of being separated from him. “It’s easy for you, at sea, with the wind and the sun; and something fresh to see, and something happening all the time. But me—in a dark room, poring over bits of straw and velvet to make hats for soppy women, and then going home to old Em and stew for dinner. There’s not much fun in it, Keith.... No, I didn’t mean to worry you by grizzling. It’s too bad of me! But seeing you, and hearing that plan, it’s made me remember how beastly I felt before your letter came this evening. I was nearly mad with it. I’d been mad before; but never as bad as this was. And then your letter came—and I wanted to come to you; and I came, and we’ve wasted such a lot of time not understanding each other. Even now, I can’t be sure you love me—not sure! I think you do; but you only say so. How’s anyone ever to be sure, unless they know it in their bones? And I’ve been thinking about you every minute since we met. Because I never met anybody like you, or loved anybody before...”

She broke off, her voice trembling, her face against his, breathless and exhausted.

iv

“Now listen, Jenny,” said Keith. “This is this. I love you, and you love me. That’s right, isn’t it? Well. I don’t care about marriage—I mean, a ceremony; but you do. So we’ll be married when I come back in three months. That’s all right, isn’t it? And when we’re married, we’ll either take your father with us, whatever his health’s like; or we’ll do something with him that’ll do as well. I should be ready to put him in somebody’s care; but you wouldn’t like that...”

“I love him,” Jenny said. “I couldn’t leave him to somebody else for ever.”

“Yes. Well, you see there’s nothing to be miserable about. It’s all straightforward now. Nothing—except that we’re going to be apart for three months. Now, Jen: don’t let’s waste any more time being miserable; but let’s sit down and be happy for a bit...How’s that?”

Jenny smiled, and allowed him to bring her once again to the settee and to begin once more to describe their future life.

“It’s cold there, Jenny. Not warm at all. Snow and ice. And you won’t see anybody for weeks and months—anybody but just me. And we shall have to do everything for ourselves—clothes, house-building, food catching and killing... Trim your own hats... Like the Swiss Family Robinson; only you won’t have everything growing outside as they did. And we’ll go out in canoes if we go on the water at all; and see Indians—‘Heap big man bacca’ sort of business—and perhaps hear wolves (I’m not quite sure of that); and go about on sledges... with dogs to draw them. But with all that we shall be free. There won’t be any bureaucrats to tyrannise over us; no fashions, no regulations, no homemade laws to make dull boys of us. Just fancy, Jenny: nobody to make us do anything. Nothing but our own needs and wishes...”

“I expect we shall tyrannise—as you call it—over each other,” Jenny said shrewdly. “It seems to me that’s what people do.”

“Little wretch!” cried Keith. “To interrupt with such a thing. When I was just getting busy and eloquent. I tell you: there’ll be inconveniences. You’ll find you’ll want somebody besides me to talk to and look after. But then perhaps you’ll have somebody!”

“Who?” asked Jenny, unsuspiciously. “Not Pa, I’m sure.”

Keith held her away from him, and looked into her eyes. Then he crushed her against him, laughing. It took Jenny quite a minute to understand what he meant.

“Very dull, aren’t you!” cried Keith. “Can’t see beyond the end of your nose.”

“I shouldn’t think it was hardly the sort of place for babies,” Jenny sighed. “From what you say.”

v

Keith roared with laughter, so that the Minerva seemed to shake in sympathy with his mirth.

“You’re priceless!” he said. “My bonny Jenny. I shouldn’t think there was ever anybody like you in the world!”

“Lots of girls,” Jenny reluctantly suggested, shaking a dolorous head at the ghost of a faded vanity. “I’m afraid.” She revived even as she spoke; and encouragingly added: “Perhaps not exactly like.”

“I don’t believe it! You’re unique. The one and only Jenny Redington!”

“Red—!” Jenny’s colour flamed. “Sounds nice,” she said; and was then silent.

“When we’re married,” went on Keith, watching her; “where shall we go for our honeymoon? I say!... how would you like it if I borrowed the yacht from Templecombe and ran you off somewhere in it? I expect he’d let me have the old Minerva. Not a bad idea, eh what!”

“When we’re married,” Jenny said breathlessly, very pale.

“What d’you mean?” Keith’s eyes were so close to her own that she was forced to lower her lids. “When I come back from this trip. Templecombe says three months. It may be less.”

“It may be more.” Jenny had hardly the will to murmur her warning—her distrust.

“Very unlikely; unless the weather’s bad. I’m reckoning on a mild winter. If it’s cold and stormy then of course yachting’s out of the question. But we’ll be back before the winter, any way. And then—darling Jenny—we’ll be married as soon as I can get the licence. There’s something for you to look forward to, my sweet. Will you like to look forward to it?”

Jenny could feel his breath upon her face; but she could not move or speak. Her breast was rising to quickened breathing; her eyes were burning; her mouth was dry. When she moistened her lips she seemed to hear a cracking in her mouth. It was as though fever were upon her, so moved was she by the expression in Keith’s eyes. She was neither happy nor unhappy; but she was watching his face as if fascinated. She could feel his arm so gently about her shoulder, and his breast against hers; and she loved him with all her heart. She had at this time no thought of home; only the thought that they loved each other and that Keith would be away for three months; facing dangers indeed, but all the time loving her. She thought of the future, of that time when they both would be free, when they should no longer be checked and bounded by the fear of not having enough food. That was the thing, Jenny felt, that kept poor people in dread of the consequences of their own acts. And Jenny felt that if they might live apart from the busy world, enduring together whatever ills might come to them from their unsophisticated mode of life, they would be able to be happy. She thought that Keith would have no temptations that she did not share; no other men drawing him by imitativeness this way and that, out of the true order of his own character; no employer exacting in return for the weekly wage a servitude that was far from the blessed ideal of service. Jenny thought these things very simply—impulsively—and not in a form to be intelligible if set down as they occurred to her; but the notions swam in her head along with her love for Keith and her joy in the love which he returned. She saw his dear face so close to her own, and heard her own heart thumping vehemently, quicker and quicker, so that it sounded thunderously in her ears. She could see Keith’s eyes, so easily to be read, showing out the impulses that crossed and possessed his mind. Love for her she was sure she read, love and kindness for her, and mystification, and curiosity, and the hot slumbering desire for her that made his breathing short and heavy. In a dream she thought of these things, and in a dream she felt her own love for Keith rising and stifling her, so that she could not speak, but could only rest there in his arms, watching that beloved face and storing her memory with its precious betrayals.

Keith gently kissed her, and Jenny trembled. A thousand temptations were whirling in her mind—thoughts of his absence, their marriage, memory, her love... With an effort she raised her lips again to his, kissing him in passion, so that when he as passionately responded it seemed as though she fainted in his arms and lost all consciousness but that of her love and confidence in him and the eager desire of her nature to yield itself where love was given.