Trewhella gave no sign that he knew anything of the event on the sands;
yet Jenny's instinct was to avoid a meeting with Maurice. Once or twice,
indeed, she was on the point of starting out; but she never brought
herself to the actual effort, and the May days went by without her
leaving the precincts of Bochyn. Maurice had made but a small impression
upon her emotion; had raised not a single heartbeat after the first
shock of his approach over the long sands. She had no curiosity to
discover why he had come down here, with what end in view, with what
impulse. She cared not to know what his life had been in those four
years, what seas or shores he had adventured, what women he had known.
Yet somehow she felt, through a kind of belated sympathy, that every
morning he was out on the cliffs by Crickabella watching for a sight of
her coming up the hill. Should she go? Should she finally dismiss him,
speaking coldly, contemptuously, lashing him with her scorn and wounded
pride and dead love? June was in view, and still she paused. June came
in, royally azure. Yet she hesitated; while young Frank waved to the
butterflies and grew daily in the sun like a peach.
"He do look so happy as the King of Spain," said old Mr. Champion.
"Grand lill chap, he is sure enough. Do 'ee hear what I'm speaking, my
young handsome?"
Granfa bent down and tickled the boy.
"Bless his heart," said Jenny.
"I were down to Trewinnard yesterday," said Granfa, "and I were talking
about him to a gentleman, or I should say an artist, who belongs
painting down along. Says he's in a mind to bide here all the
summertime. He do like it very well, I believe."
"What's he like?" Jenny asked.
"This artist? Oh, he's a decent-looking young chap. Nothing anyone could
dislike about him. Very quiet, they're telling, and a bit melan-choly.
But I believe that's a common case with artists. And I'm not surprised,
for it must be a brim melancholy job painting an old cliff that any
ornary man wouldn't want to look at twice, leave alone days at a
stretch. But he told me he didn't properly belong to paint at all. He
said his own trade was writing."
Unquestionably this was Maurice. All day Jenny thought of him out on the
cliffs. The idea began to oppress her, and she felt haunted by his
presence; it would be better to meet him and forbid his longer stay.
To-morrow would offer a fine opportunity, because Zachary was going to
Plymouth to arrange about the purchase of some farm implements and would
not only be away to-night, but was unlikely to be back till late the
next day. Not that it mattered whether he went away or not; yet somehow
she would like to lie awake thinking of what she would say to Maurice,
and to lie awake beside her husband was inconceivable to Jenny. How much
better to be alone with young Frank. She would certainly go to-morrow.
Maurice might not be there: if he were not, she would be glad, and there
would be an end of the dismay caused by his presence, for she would not
move a step from Bochyn till she heard of his departure.
Trewhella now came out into the garden where they were sitting. He was
equipped for Plymouth, and looked just the same as on the afternoon
Jenny met him at Hagworth Street. He was wearing the same ill-fitting
suit of broadcloth and the same gleaming tie of red satin.
"Well, I'm going Plymouth," he announced.
"You're staying the night?" she asked.
"Ess, I think."
"Well, are you?"
"Ess, I believe."
He never would commit himself to a definite statement.
"What time are you coming back to-morrow?"
"In the afternoon, I suppose."
"In the afternoon?" she repeated.
Trewhella looked at her quickly.
"Kiss me good-bye, my dear."
"No, I don't want to," said Jenny, freezing.
He looked harder at her and pulled his mustache; then he leaned down to
prod a farewell into his son's ribs. Young Frank immediately began to
yell. The father chuckled sardonically and strode off to the cart,
calling loudly as he went for Old Man Veal. He paused, with his foot on
the step, to impress something on the stealthy old man. Then he told
Thomas to get down and Veal to take his place. There was a sound of
wheels, and everybody sighed with relief.
The long drowsy June day buzzed on. They all lay about in the shade,
wishing they could splash through the stream like the cattle.
"I can't think why we don't all go paddling, I can't," said May.
"Oh, why ever not--not with young Frank?" cried Jenny, clapping her
hands.
"Of course."
"And Granfa must come," Jenny insisted.
"Oh, no, no, no," declared Granfa, smiling very proudly at the
suggestion. "No, no, no! But I might go along with 'ee and pick a few
wrinkles off the rocks."
Jenny thought how imperative it was for Maurice to be out of these
planned allurements of summer. She would never enjoy herself, if all the
time she felt he were close by, liable to appear suddenly. Certainly she
would see him to-morrow.
"We might even bathe," said May dauntlessly.
"Well, don't 'ee tell Zack, then," Granfa advised. "For I suppose he can
see the devil in the deep sea so clear as anywhere else. That man's got
a nose for evil, I believe."
The sun was now hanging over the marsh in a dazzling haze of gold in
which the midges danced innumerable. Long shadows threw themselves
across the hills. The stream of light dried up as the sun went down into
the sea. Cool scented airs, heralds of night, traveled up the valley;
traveled swiftly like the spray of fountains.
Jenny went to bed soon after half-past nine. It was scarcely dark. Along
her sill were great crimson roses like cups of cool wine, and from every
ghostly white border of the garden came up the delicious odor of pinks
in full June bloom. Moths were dancing, fluttering, hovering: a large
white owl swept past in a soundless curve. And while she brooded upon
this perfumed silence, away in London the girls were trooping down for
the second ballet, were giving the last touch with a haresfoot to their
carmine beauty, were dabbing the last powder on their cheeks or rubbing
the liquid white upon their wrists and hands. How hot it must be in the
theater. She heard quite plainly the tinkle of the sequins and spangles
as the girls came trooping down the stone stairs into the wings to wait
there for the curtain's rise. Then she perceived in the dim light Old
Man Veal diligently cleaning his master's gun. Wishing he would not sit
there underneath her window, she turned back into the tall, shadowy room
and lit the candle. Soon she heard his retreating footsteps, and watched
him go down the garden path with the slim and wicked gun beneath his
arm. Young Frank, rose-misted with dreams of butterflies and painted
rubber balls, lay in his hooded cot. Shading him with her hand, which
the candlelight made lucent as a shell, she watched him lying there, his
fingers clasped tightly round a coral hung with silver bells, his woolly
lamb beside his cheek. Jenny wondered, if she had been a boy, whether
she would have looked exactly like young Frank. Then she fell to
speculating whether, had he belonged to her and Maurice, he would have
been the same dear rogue as now. Oh, he was hers, hers only, and
whatever man were his father, he would be nothing more than hers!
She went to see how May was getting on, and in company they undressed,
as they used to undress before Jenny went on the stage. Soon both of
them in long white nightgowns, each with a golden candle, pattered in
once more to marvel at young Frank.
"Oh, I must have him in bed with me, May."
"Well, why don't you?"
Carefully they lifted him, and, warm with sun-dyed sleep, laid him in
Jenny's cool bed.
"Light the nightlight, there's a love," said Jenny. "Good night."
"Good night," whispered May, fading like a ghost through the black
doorway, leaving the tall room to Jenny and Frank. Tree shadows,
conjured by the moon, waved on the walls, but very faintly, for the
nightlight burned with steady flame in the opalescent saucer. Jenny
settled herself to think what she should say to Maurice next morning.
But soon she forgot all about Maurice, and "I'd rather like to have a
little girl," was her last thought before she went dreaming.