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.