i
So unexpected was this interruption of her loneliness that Jenny was for
an instant stupefied. She took one step, and then paused, dread firmly
in her mind, paralysing her. What could it be? She could not have been
more frightened if the sound had been the turning of a key in the lock.
Were they back already? Had her hope been spoiled by some accident?
Surely not. It was twenty minutes to nine. They were safe in the theatre
by now. Oh, she was afraid! She was alone in the house--worse than
alone! Jenny cowered. She felt she could not answer the summons.
Tick-tick-tick said the clock, striking across the silences. Again Jenny
made a step forward. Then, terrifying her, the noise began once
more--the thunderous knock, the ping-ping-ping-whir of the bell....
Wrenching her mind away from apprehensiveness she moved quickly to the
kitchen door and into the dimly-lighted dowdy passage-way. Somewhere
beyond the gas flicker and the hat-stand lay--what? With all her
determination she pushed forward, almost running to the door. Her hand
hovered over the little knob of the lock: only horror of a renewal of
that dreadful sound prompted her to open the door quickly. She peered
into the darkness, faintly silhouetted against the wavering light of the
gas. A man stood there.
"Evening, miss," said the man. "Miss Jenny Blanchard?"
She could see there something white. He was holding it out to her. A
letter!
"For me," she asked, her voice still unsteady. She took the letter, a
large square envelope. Mechanically she thanked the man, puzzling at the
letter. From whom could a letter be brought to her?
"There's an answer," she heard. It came from ever so far away, in the
dim distance beyond her vague wonderings. Jenny was lost, submerged in
the sensations through which she had passed during the evening. She was
quite unlike herself, timid and fearful, a frightened girl alone in an
unhappy house.
"Wait a bit!" she said. "Will you wait there?"
"Yes," answered the man, startlingly enough. "I've got the car here."
The car! What did it mean? She caught now, as her eyes were more used to
the darkness, the sheen of light upon a peaked cap such as would be worn
by a chauffeur. It filled her mind that this man was in uniform. But if
so, why? From whom should the letter come? He had said "Miss Jenny
Blanchard."
"You _did_ say it was for me? I'll take it inside. ..." She left the
door unfastened, but the man pulled it right to, so that the catch
clicked. Then Jenny held the letter up under the flame of the passage
gas. She read there by this meagre light her own name, the address,
written in a large hand, very bold, with a sharp, sweeping stroke under
all, such as a man of impetuous strength might make. There was a blue
seal fastening the flap--a great pool of solid wax. Trembling so that
she was hardly able to tear the envelope, Jenny returned to the kitchen,
again scanning the address, the writing, the blue seal with its Minerva
head. Still, in her perplexity, it seemed as though her task was first
to guess the identity of the sender. Who could have written to her? It
was unheard of, a think for wondering jest, if only her lips had been
steady and her heart beating with normal pulsation. With a shrug, she
turned back from the seal to the address. She felt that some curious
mistake had been made, that the letter was not for her at all, but for
some other Jenny Blanchard, of whom she had never until now heard. Then,
casting such a fantastic thought aside with another impatient effort,
she tore the envelope, past the seal, in a ragged dash. Her first
glance was at the signature. "Yours always, KEITH."
Keith! Jenny gave a sob and moved swiftly to the light. Her eyes were
quite blurred with shining mist. She could not read the words. Keith!
She could only murmur his name, holding the letter close against her.
ii
"MY DEAR JENNY," said the letter. "Do you remember? I said I should
write to you when I got back. Well, here I am. I can't come to you
myself. I'm tied here by the leg, and mustn't leave for a moment. But
you said you'd come to me. Will you? Do! If you can come, you'll be a
most awful dear, and I shall be out of my wits with joy. Not really out
of my wits. _Do_ come, there's a dear good girl. It's my only chance, as
I'm off again in the morning. The man who brings this note will bring
you safely to me in the car, and will bring you quite safely home again.
_Do_ come! I'm longing to see you. I trust you to come. I will explain
everything when we meet. Yours always, KEITH."
A long sigh broke from Jenny's lips as she finished reading. She
was transfigured. Gone was the defiant look, gone were the sharpnesses
that earlier had appeared upon her face. A soft colour flooded her
cheeks; her eyes shone. Come to him! She would go to the end of the
world.... Keith! She said it aloud, in a voice that was rich with her
deep feeling, magically transformed.
"Come to you, my dear!" said Jenny. "As if you need ask!"
Then she remembered that Emmy was out, that she was left at home to look
after her father, that to desert him would be a breach of trust. Quickly
her face paled, and her eyes became horror-laden. She was shaken by the
conflict of love and love, love that was pity and love that was the
overwhelming call of her nature. The letter fluttered from her fingers,
swooping like a wounded bird to the ground, and lay unheeded at her
feet.
iii
"What _shall_ I do?" Nobody to turn to; no help from any hand. To stay
was to give up the chance of happiness. To go--oh, she couldn't go! If
Keith was tied, so was Jenny. Half demented, she left the letter where
it had fallen, a white square upon the shabby rug. In a frenzy she wrung
her hands. What could she do? It was a cry of despair that broke from
her heart. She couldn't go, and Keith was waiting. That it should have
happened upon this evening of all others! It was bitter! To send back a
message, even though it be written with all her love, which still she
must not express to Keith in case he should think her lightly won, would
be to lose him for ever. He would never stand it. She saw his quick
irritation, the imperious glance. ... He was a king among men. She must
go! Whatever the failure in trust, whatever the consequences, she must
go. She couldn't go! Whatever the loss to herself, her place was here.
Emmy would not have gone to the theatre if she had not known that Jenny
would stay loyally there. It was too hard! The months, the long months
during which Keith had not written, were upon her mind like a weariness.
She had had no word from him, and the little photograph that he had
laughingly offered had been her only consolation. Yes, well, why hadn't
he written? Quickly her love urged his excuse. She might accuse him of
having forgotten her, but to herself she explained and pardoned all.
That was not for this moment. Keith was not in fault. It was this
dreadful difficulty of occasion, binding her here when her heart was
with him. To sit moping here by the fire when Keith called to her!
Duty--the word was a mockery. "They" would say she ought to stay. Hidden
voices throbbed the same message into her consciousness. But every eager
impulse, winged with love, bade her go. To whom was her heart given? To
Pa? Pity ... pity. ... She pitied him, helpless at home. If anything
happened to him! Nothing would happen. What could happen? Supposing she
had gone to the chandler's shop: in those few minutes all might happen
that could happen in all the hours she was away. Yet Emmy often ran out,
leaving Pa alone. He was in bed, asleep; he would not awaken, and would
continue to lie there at rest until morning. Supposing she had gone to
bed--she would still be in the house; but in no position to look after
Pa. He might die any night while they slept. It was only the idea of
leaving him, the superstitious idea that just _because_ she was not
there something would happen. Suppose she didn't go; but sat in the
kitchen for two hours and then went to bed. Would she ever forgive
herself for letting slip the chance of happiness that had come direct
from the clouds'? Never! But if she went, and something _did_ happen,
would she ever in that event know self-content again in all the days of
her life? Roughly she shouldered away her conscience, those throbbing
urgencies that told her to stay. She was to give up everything for a
fear? She was to let Keith go for ever? Jenny wrung her hands, drawing
sobbing breaths in her distress.
Something made her pick the letter swiftly up and read it through a
second time. So wild was the desire to go that she began to whimper,
kissing the letter again and again, holding it softly to her cold
cheek. Keith! What did it matter? What did anything matter but her love?
Was she never to know any happiness? Where, then, was her reward? A
heavenly crown of martyrdom? What was the good of that? Who was the
better for it? Passionately Jenny sobbed at such a mockery of her
overwhelming impulse. "They" hadn't such a problem to solve. "They"
didn't know what it was to have your whole nature craving for the thing
denied. "They" were cowards, enemies to freedom because they liked the
music of their manacles! They could not understand what it was to love
so that one adored the beloved. Not blood, but water ran in their veins!
They didn't know. ... They couldn't feel. Jenny knew, Jenny felt; Jenny
was racked with the sweet passion that blinds the eyes to consequences.
She _must_ go! Wickedness might be her nature: what then? It was a sweet
wickedness. It was her choice!
Jenny's glance fell upon the trimmed hat which lay upon the table.
Nothing but a cry from her father could have prevented her from taking
it up and setting it upon her head. The act was her defiance. She was
determined. As one deaf and blind, she went out of the kitchen, and to
the hall-stand, fumbling there for her hatpins. She pinned her hat as
deliberately as she might have done in leaving the house any morning.
Her pale face was set. She had flung the gage. There remained only the
acts consequential. And of those, since they lay behind the veil of
night, who could now speak? Not Jenny!
iv
There was still Pa. He was there like a secret, lying snug in his warm
bed, drowsily coaxing sleep while Jenny planned a desertion. Even when
she was in the room, her chin grimly set and her lips quivering, a
shudder seemed to still her heart. She was afraid. She could not forget
him. He lay there so quiet in the semi-darkness, a long mound under the
bedclothes; and she was almost terrified at speaking to him because her
imagination was heightened by the sight of his dim outline. He was so
helpless! Ah, if there had only been two Jennies, one to go, one to
stay. The force of uncontrollable desire grappled with her pity. She
still argued within herself, a weary echo of her earlier struggle. He
would need nothing, she was sure. It would be for such a short time that
she left him. He would hardly know she was not there. He would think she
was in the kitchen. But if he needed her? If he called, if he knocked
with his stick, and she did not come, he might be alarmed, or stubborn,
and might try to find his way through the passage to the kitchen. If he
fell! Her flesh crept as she imagined him helpless upon the floor,
feebly struggling to rise.... It was of no use. She was bound to tell
him....
Jenny moved swiftly from the room, and returned with his nightly glass
and jug of water. There could be nothing else that he would want during
the night. It was all he ever had, and he would sleep so until morning.
She approached the bed upon tiptoe.
"Pa," she whispered. "Are you awake?" He stirred, and looked out from
the bedclothes, and she was fain to bend over him and kiss the tumbled
hair. "Pa, dear ... I want to go out. I've got to go out. Will you be
all right if I leave you? Sure? You'll be a good boy, and not move! I
shall be back before Emmy, and you won't be lonely, or frightened--will
you!" She exhorted him. "See, I've _got_ to go out; and if I can't leave
you.... You _are_ awake, Pa?"
"Yes," breathed Pa, half asleep. "A good boy. Night, Jenny, my dearie
girl."
She drew back from the bed, deeply breathing, and stole to the door. One
last glance she took, at the room and at the bed, closed the door and
stood irresolute for a moment in the passage. Then she whipped her coat
from the peg and put it on. She took her key and opened the front door.
Everything was black, except that upon the roofs opposite the rising
moon cast a glittering surface of light, and the chimney pots made
slanting broad markings upon the silvered slates. The road was quite
quiet but for the purring of a motor, and she could now, as her eyes
were clearer, observe the outline of a large car drawn to the left of
the door. As the lock clicked behind her and as she went forward the
side lights of the motor blazed across her vision, blinding her again.
"Are you there?" she softly called.
"Yes, miss." The man's deep voice came sharply out of the darkness, and
he jumped down from his seat to open the door of the car. The action
startled Jenny. Why had the man done that?
"Did you know I was coming?" she suddenly asked, drawing back with a
sort of chill.
"Yes, miss," said the man. Jenny caught her breath. She half turned
away, like a shy horse that fears the friendly hand. He had been sure of
her, then. Oh, that was a wretched thought! She was shaken to the heart
by such confidence. He had been sure of her! There was a flash of time
in which she determined not to go; but it passed with dreadful speed.
Too late, now, to draw back. Keith was waiting: he expected her! The
tears were in her eyes. She was more unhappy than she had been yet, and
her heart was like water.
The man still held open the door of the car. The inside was warm and
inviting. His hand was upon her elbow; she was lost in the soft
cushions, and drowned in the sweet scent of the great nosegay of flowers
which hung before her in a shining holder. And the car was purring more
loudly, and moving, moving as a ship moves when it glides so gently from
the quay. Jenny covered her face with her hands, which cooled her
burning cheeks as if they had been ice. Slowly the car nosed out of the
road into the wider thoroughfare. Her adventure had begun in earnest.
There was no drawing back now.