i
Through the darkness, and into the brightness of the moon's light, the
rolling notes of Big Ben were echoing and re-echoing, as each stroke
followed and drove away the lingering waves of its predecessor and was
in turn dispersed by the one that came after. The sounds made the street
noises sharper, a mere rattle against the richness of the striking
clock. It was an hour that struck; and the quarters were followed by
twelve single notes. Midnight. And Jenny Blanchard was still upon the
_Minerva;_ and Emmy and Alf had left the theatre; and Pa Blanchard was
alone in the little house in Kennington Park.
The silvered blackness of the _Minerva_ was disturbed. A long streak of
yellow light showed from the door leading into the cabin while yet the
sounds of the clock hung above the river. It became ghostly against the
moonlight that bleached the deck, a long grey-yellow finger pointing the
way to the yacht's side.
Jenny and Keith made their way up the steps and to the deck, and Jenny
shivered a little in the strong light. Her face was in shadow. She
hurried, restored to sanity by the sounds and the thought of her
father. Horror and self-blame were active in her mind--not from the fear
of discovery; but from shame at having for so long deserted him.
"Oh, hurry!" Jenny whispered, as Keith slipped over the side of the
yacht into the waiting dinghy. There was a silence, and presently the
heavy cludder of oars against the boat's side.
"Jenny! Come along!" called Keith from the water.
Not now did Jenny shrink from the running tide. Her one thought was to
get home; and she had no inclination to think of what lay between her
and Kennington Park. She hardly understood what Keith said as he rowed
to the steps. She saw the bridge looming, its black shadow cutting the
water that sparkled so dully in the moonlight; and then she saw the
steps leading from the bridge to the river's edge. They were alongside;
she was ashore; and Keith was pressing her hand in parting. Still she
could not look at him until she was at the top of the steps, when she
turned and raised her hand in farewell.
ii
She knew she had to walk for a little way down the road in the direction
of her home, and then up a side street, where she had been told that
she would find the motor car awaiting her. And for some seconds she
could not bear the idea of speaking to the chauffeur, from the sense
that he must know exactly how long she had been on board the yacht. The
hesitation caused her to linger, as the cold air had caused her to
think. It was as though she feared that when he was found the man would
be impudent to her, and leer, behaving familiarly as he might have done
to a common woman. Because she was alone and unprotected. It was
terrible. Her secret filled her with the sense of irremediable guilt.
Already she was staled with the evening's excitement. She stopped and
wavered, her shadow, so black and small, hesitating as she did. Could
she walk home? She looked at the black houses, and listened to the
terrifying sinister roar that continued faintly to fill the air. Could
she go by tram? If she did--whatever she did--the man might wait for her
all night, and Keith would know how cowardly she had been. It might even
come to the ears of Lord Templecombe, and disgrace Keith before him. To
go or to stay was equally to bring acute distress upon herself, the
breathless shame of being thought disgraced for ever. Already it seemed
to her that the shadows were peopled with observers ready to spy upon
her, to seize her, to bear her away into hidden places...
At last, her mind resolved by her fears, which crowded upon her in a
tumult, Jenny stepped fearfully forward. The car was there, dimly
outlined, a single light visible to her eye. It was drawn upon at the
side of the street; and the chauffeur was fast asleep, his head upon his
arms, and his arms spread upon the steering-wheel.
"I say!" cried Jenny in a panic, her glance quickly over her shoulder at
unseen dangers. "Wake up! Wake up!"
She stepped into the car, and it began to quiver with life as the engine
was started. Then, as if drowned in the now familiar scent of the
hanging bouquet, Jenny lay back once more in the soft cushions; bound
for home, for Emmy and Alf and Pa; her evening's excursion at an end,
and only its sequel to endure.
PART THREE
MORNING