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.