NOCTURNE

 By FRANK SWINNERTON

 1917

TO MARTIN SECKER

THIS "NOCTURNE"

INTRODUCTION BY H. G. WELLS

"'But do I see afore me, him as I ever sported with in his times ofhappy infancy? And may I--_may_ I?'

"This May I, meant might he shake hands?"

--DICKENS, _Great Expectations_. 

I do not know why I should be so overpoweringly reminded of theimmortal, if at times impossible, Uncle Pumblechook, when I sit down towrite a short preface to Mr. Swinnerton's _Nocturne_. Jests come attimes out of the backwoods of a writer's mind. It is part of theliterary quality that behind the writer there is a sub-writer, making acommentary. This is a comment against which I may reasonablyexpostulate, but which nevertheless I am indisposed to ignore. 

The task of introducing a dissimilar writer to a new public has its ownpeculiar difficulties for the elder hand. I suppose logically a writershould have good words only for his own imitators. For surely he haschosen what he considers to be the best ways. What justification has hefor praising attitudes he has never adopted and commending methods oftreatment from which he has abstained? The reader naturally receives hiscommendations with suspicion. Is this man, he asks, stricken withpenitence in the flower of his middle-age? Has he but just discoveredhow good are the results that the other game, the game he has neverplayed, can give? Or has he been disconcerted by the criticism of theYoung? The Fear of the Young is the beginning of his wisdom. Is hetaking this alien-spirited work by the hand simply to say defensivelyand vainly: "I assure you, indeed, I am _not_ an old fogy; I _quite_understand it. " (There it is, I fancy, that the Pumblechook quotationcreeps in. ) To all of which suspicions, enquiries and objections, I willquote, tritely but conclusively: "In my Father's house are manyMansions, " or in the words of Mr. Kipling:

"There are five and forty waysOf composing tribal laysAnd every blessed one of them is right. "

Indeed now that I come to think it over, I have never in all my liferead a writer of closely kindred method to my own that I have greatlyadmired; the confessed imitators give me all the discomfort without therelieving admission of caricature; the parallel instances I have alwayswanted to rewrite; while, on the other hand, for many totally dissimilarworkers I have had quite involuntary admirations. It isn't merely that Idon't so clearly see how they are doing it, though that may certainly bea help; it is far more a matter of taste. As a writer I belong to oneschool and as a reader to another--as a man may like to make opticalinstruments and collect old china. Swift, Sterne, Jane Austen, Thackerayand the Dickens of _Bleak House_ were the idols of my youthfulimitation, but the contemporaries of my early praises were JosephConrad, W. H. Hudson, and Stephen Crane, all utterly remote from thatEnglish tradition. With such recent admirations of mine as James Joyce, Mr. Swinnerton, Rebecca West, the earlier works of Mary Austen or ThomasBurke, I have as little kindred as a tunny has with a cuttlefish. Wemove in the same medium and that is about all we have in common. 

This much may sound egotistical, and the impatient reader may ask when Iam coming to Mr. Swinnerton, to which the only possible answer is that Iam coming to Mr. Swinnerton as fast as I can and that all this leads asstraightly as possible to a definition of Mr. Swinnerton's position. Thescience of criticism is still crude in its classification, there are amultitude of different things being done that are all lumped togetherheavily as novels, they are novels as distinguished from romances, solong as they are dealing with something understood to be real. All thatthey have in common beyond that is that they agree in exhibiting a sortof story continuum. But some of us are trying to use that storycontinuum to present ideas in action, others to produce powerfulexcitements of this sort or that, as Burke and Mary Austen do, whileothers again concentrate upon the giving of life as it is, seen onlymore intensely. Personally I have no use at all for life as it is, except as raw material. It bores me to look at things unless there isalso the idea of doing something with them. I should find a holiday, doing nothing amidst beautiful scenery, not a holiday, but a torture. The contemplative ecstacy of the saints would be hell to me. In the--Iforget exactly how many--books I have written, it is always about lifebeing altered I write, or about people developing schemes for alteringlife. And I have never once "presented" life. My apparently mostobjective books are criticisms and incitements to change. Such a writeras Mr. Swinnerton, on the contrary, sees life and renders it with asteadiness and detachment and patience quite foreign to my disposition. He has no underlying motive. He sees and tells. His aim is theattainment of that beauty which comes with exquisite presentation. Seenthrough his art, life is seen as one sees things through a crystal lens, more intensely, more completed, and with less turbidity. There thebusiness begins and ends for him. He does not want you or any one to doanything. 

Mr. Swinnerton is not alone among recent writers in this clear, detachedobjectivity. We have in England a writer, Miss Dorothy Richardson, whohas probably carried impressionism in fiction to its furthest limit. Ido not know whether she will ever make large captures of the generalreader, but she is certainly a very interesting figure for the criticand the amateur of fiction. In _Pointed Roofs_ and _Honeycomb_, forexample, her story is a series of dabs of intense superficialimpression; her heroine is not a mentality, but a mirror. She goes aboutover her facts like those insects that run over water sustained bysurface tension. Her percepts never become concepts. Writing as I do atthe extremest distance possible from such work, I confess I find italtogether too much--or shall I say altogether too little?--for me. ButMr. Swinnerton, like Mr. James Joyce, does not repudiate the depths forthe sake of the surface. His people are not splashes of appearance, butliving minds. Jenny and Emmy in this book are realities inside and out;they are imaginative creatures so complete that one can think with easeof Jenny ten years hence or of Emmy as a baby. The fickle Alf is one ofthe most perfect Cockneys--a type so easy to caricature and so hard toget true--in fiction. If there exists a better writing of vulgarlovemaking, so base, so honest, so touchingly mean and so touchinglyfull of the craving for happiness than this that we have here in thechapter called _After the Theatre_, I do not know of it. Only anovelist who has had his troubles can understand fully what a danceamong china cups, what a skating over thin ice, what a tight-ropeperformance is achieved in this astounding chapter. A false note, onefatal line, would have ruined it all. On the one hand lay brutality; ahundred imitative louts could have written a similar chapter brutally, with the soul left out, we've loads of such "strong stuff" and it isnothing; on the other side was the still more dreadful fall intosentimentality, the tear of conscious tenderness, the redeeming glimpseof "better things" in Alf or Emmy that would at one stroke haveconverted their reality into a genteel masquerade. The perfection of Alfand Emmy is that at no point does a "nature's gentleman" or a "nature'slady" show through and demand our refined sympathy. It is only bycomparison with this supreme conversation that the affair of Keith andJenny seems to fall short of perfection. But that also is at lastperfected, I think, by Jenny's final, "Keith. .. . Oh, Keith!. .. "

Above these four figures again looms the majestic invention of "Pa. "Every reader can appreciate the truth and humour of Pa, but I doubt ifany one without technical experience can realise how the atmosphere ismade and completed and rounded off by Pa's beer, Pa's needs, and Pa'saccident, how he binds the bundle and makes the whole thing one, andwhat an enviable triumph his achievement is. 

But the book is before the reader and I will not enlarge upon its meritsfurther. Mr. Swinnerton has written four or five other novels beforethis one, but none of them compare with it in quality. His earlier bookswere strongly influenced by the work of George Gissing; they havesomething of the same fatigued greyness of texture and little of theartistic completeness and intense vision of _Nocturne_. He has also madetwo admirable and very shrewd and thorough studies of the work and livesof Robert Louis Stevenson and George Gissing. Like these two, he has hadgreat experience of illness. He is a young man of so slender a health, so frequently ill, that even for the most sedentary purposes of thiswar, his country will not take him. It was in connection with hisGissing volume, for which I possessed some material he needed, that Ifirst made his acquaintance. He has had something of Gissing'srestricted and grey experiences, but he has nothing of Gissing's almostperverse gloom and despondency. Indeed he is as gay a companion as he isfragile. He is a twinkling addition to any Christmas party, and thetwinkle is here in the style. And having sported with him "in his timesof happy infancy, " I add an intimate and personal satisfaction to mypleasant task of saluting this fine work that ends a brilliantapprenticeship and ranks Swinnerton as Master. This is a book that willnot die. It is perfect, authentic, and alive. Whether a large andimmediate popularity will fall to it I cannot say, but certainly thediscriminating will find it and keep it and keep it alive. If Mr. Swinnerton were never to write another word I think he might count onthis much of his work living, as much of the work of Mary Austen, W. H. Hudson, and Stephen Crane will live, when many of the more portentousreputations of to-day may have served their purpose in the world andbecome no more than fading names. 

DECEMBER, 1917

CONTENTS

PART ONE: EVENING

CHAPTER

 I. SIX O'CLOCK

 II. THE TREAT

 III. ROWS

 IV. THE WISH

PART TWO: NIGHT

 V. THE ADVENTURE

 VI. THE YACHT

 VII. MORTALS

 VIII. PENALTIES

 IX. WHAT FOLLOWED

 X. CINDERELLA

PART THREE: MORNING

 XI. AFTER THE THEATRE

 XII. CONSEQUENCES

PART ONE

EVENING

CHAPTER I: SIX O'CLOCK

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Six o'clock was striking. The darkness by Westminster Bridge wasintense; and as the tramcar turned the corner from the Embankment Jennycraned to look at the thickly running water below. The glistening ofreflected lights which spotted the surface of the Thames gave its rapidcurrent an air of such mysterious and especially sinister power that shewas for an instant aware of almost uncontrollable terror. She could feelher heart beating, yet she could not withdraw her gaze. It was nothing:no danger threatened Jenny but the danger of uneventful life; and hersense of sudden yielding to unknown force was the merest fancy, to bequickly forgotten when the occasion had passed. None the less, for thatinstant her dread was breathless. It was the fear of one who walks in awood, at an inexplicable rustle. The darkness and the sense of movingwater continued to fascinate her, and she slightly shuddered, not at athought, but at the sensation of the moment. At last she closed hereyes, still, however, to see mirrored as in some visual memory thepicture she was trying to ignore. In a faint panic, hardly conscious toher fear, she stared at her neighbour's newspaper, spelling out theheadings to some of the paragraphs, until the need of such protectionwas past. 

As the car proceeded over the bridge, grinding its way through the stillrolling echoes of the striking hour, it seemed part of an endlesssuccession of such cars, all alike crowded with homeward-boundpassengers, and all, to the curious mind, resembling ships that passvery slowly at night from safe harbourage to the unfathomable elementsof the open sea. It was such a cold still night that the sliding windowsof the car were almost closed, and the atmosphere of the covered upperdeck was heavy with tobacco smoke. It was so dark that one could not seebeyond the fringes of the lamplight upon the bridge. The moon was in itslast quarter, and would not rise for several hours; and while theglitter of the city lay behind, and the sky was greyed with light frombelow, the surrounding blackness spread creeping fingers of night inevery shadow. 

The man sitting beside Jenny continued to puff steadfastly at his pipe, lost in the news, holding mechanically in his further hand the returnticket which would presently be snatched by the hurrying tram-conductor. He was a shabby middle-aged clerk with a thin beard, and so he had notthe least interest for Jenny, whose eye was caught by other beautiesthan those of assiduous labour. She had not even to look at him to bequite sure that he did not matter to her. Almost, Jenny did not carewhether he had glanced sideways at herself or not. She presently gave aquiet sigh of relief as at length the river was left behind and thecurious nervous tension--no more lasting than she might have felt atseeing a man balancing upon a high window-sill--was relaxed. Shebreathed more deeply, perhaps, for a few instants; and then, quitenaturally, she looked at her reflection in the sliding glass. That hat, as she could see in the first sure speedless survey, had got the droops. "See about you!" she said silently and threateningly, jerking her head. The hat trembled at the motion, and was thereafter ignored. StealthilyJenny went back to her own reflection in the window, catching theclearly-chiselled profile of her face, bereft in the dark mirror of allits colour. She could see her nose and chin quite white, and her lips aspart of the general colourless gloom. A little white brooch at her neckstood boldly out; and that was all that could be seen with anyclearness, as the light was not directly overhead. Her eyes were quitelost, apparently, in deep shadows. Yet she could not resist the delightof continuing narrowly to examine herself. The face she saw was hardlyrecognisable as her own; but it was bewitchingly pale, a study in blackand white, the kind of face which, in a man, would at once have drawnher attention and stimulated her curiosity. She had longed to be pale, but the pallor she was achieving by millinery work in a stuffy room wasnot the marble whiteness which she had desired. Only in the slidingwindow could she see her face ideally transfigured. There it had thebrooding dimness of strange poetic romance. You couldn't know about thatgirl, she thought. You'd want to know about her. You'd wonder all thetime about her, as though she had a secret. .. . The reflection becamecuriously distorted. Jenny was smiling to herself. 

As soon as the tramcar had passed the bridge, lighted windows above theshops broke the magic mirror and gave Jenny a new interest, until, asthey went onward, a shopping district, ablaze with colour, crowded withloitering people, and alive with din, turned all thoughts from herselfinto one absorbed contemplation of what was beneath her eyes. Soabsorbed was she, indeed, that the conductor had to prod her shoulderwith his two fingers before he could recover her ticket and exchange itfor another. "'Arf asleep, some people!" he grumbled, shoving aside theprojecting arms and elbows which prevented his free passage between theseats. "Feyuss please!" Jenny shrugged her shoulder, which seemed asthough it had been irritated at the conductor's touch. It felt quitebruised. "Silly old fool!" she thought, with a brusque glance. Then shewent silently back to the contemplation of all the life that gatheredupon the muddy and glistening pavements below. 

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In a few minutes they were past the shops and once again in darkness, grinding along, pitching from end to end, the driver's bell clangingevery minute to warn carts and people off the tramlines. Once, with anawful thunderous grating of the brakes, the car was pulled up, andeverybody tried to see what had provoked the sense of accident. Therewas a little shouting, and Jenny, staring hard into the roadway, thoughtshe could see as its cause a small girl pushing a perambulator loadedwith bundles of washing. Her first impulse was pity--"Poor littlething"; but the words were hardly in her mind before they were chasedaway by a faint indignation at the child for getting in the tram's way. Everybody ought to look where they were going. Ev-ry bo-dy ought to lookwhere they were go-ing, said the pitching tramcar. Ev-ry bo-dy. .. . Oh, sickening! Jenny looked at her neighbour's paper--her refuge. "Strikingspeech, " she read. Whose? What did it matter? Talk, talk. .. . Why didn'tthey do something? What were they to do? The tram pitched to the refrainof a comic song: "Actions speak louder than words!" That kid who waswheeling the perambulator full of washing. .. . Jenny's attention driftedaway like the speech of one who yawns, and she looked again at herreflection. The girl in the sliding glass wouldn't say much. She'd thinkthe more. She'd say, when Sir Herbert pressed for his answer, "Mythoughts are my own, Sir Herbert Mainwaring. " What was it the girl in_One of the Best_ said? "You may command an army of soldiers; but youcannot still the beating of a woman's heart!" Silly fool, she was. Jennyhad felt the tears in her eyes, burning, and her throat very dry, whenthe words had been spoken in the play; but Jenny at the theatre andJenny here and now were different persons. Different? Why, there werefifty Jennys. But the shrewd, romantic, honest, true Jenny was behindthem all, not stupid, not sentimental, bold as a lion, destructivelyexperienced in hardship and endurance, very quick indeed to single outand wither humbug that was within her range of knowledge, but innocentas a child before any other sort of humbug whatsoever. That was why shecould now sneer at the stage-heroine, and could play with the mysteriousbeauties of her own reflection; but it was why she could also be ledinto quick indignation by something read in a newspaper. 

Tum-ty tum-ty tum-ty tum, said the tram. There were some more shops. There were straggling shops and full-blazing rows of shops. There werestalls along the side of the road, women dancing to an organ outside apublic-house. Shops, shops, houses, houses, houses . .. Light, darkness. .. . Jenny gathered her skirt. This was where she got down. Oneglance at the tragic lady of the mirror, one glance at the rising smokethat went to join the general cloud; and she was upon the iron-shodstairs of the car and into the greasy roadway. Then darkness, as sheturned along beside a big building into the side streets among rows androws of the small houses of Kennington Park. 

iii

It was painfully dark in these side streets. The lamps drew beams such ashort distance that they were as useless as the hidden stars. Only downeach street one saw mild spots starting out of the gloom, fascinating intheir regularity, like shining beads set at prepared intervals in a bodyof jet. The houses were all in darkness, because evening meals were laidin the kitchens: the front rooms were all kept for Sunday use, exceptingwhen the Emeralds and Edwins and Geralds and Dorises were practisingupon their mothers' pianos. Then you could hear a din! But not now. Nowall was as quiet as night, and even doors were not slammed. Jennycrossed the street and turned a corner. On the corner itself was a smallchandler's shop, with "Magnificent Tea, per 2/- lb. "; "Excellent Tea, per1/8d. Lb"; "Good Tea, per 1/4d. Lb. " advertised in great bills upon itswindows above a huge collection of unlikely goods gathered together likea happy family in its tarnished abode. Jenny passed the dully-lightedshop, and turned in at her own gate. In a moment she was inside thehouse, sniffing at the warm odour-laden air within doors. Her mouth drewdown at the corners. Stew to-night! An amused gleam, lost upon the dowdypassage, fled across her bright eyes. Emmy wouldn't have thanked her forthat! Emmy--sick to death herself of the smell of cooking--would haveslammed down the pot in despairing rage. 

In the kitchen a table was laid; and Emmy stretched her head back topeer from the scullery, where she was busy at the gas stove. She did notsay a word. Jenny also was speechless; and went as if without thinkingto the kitchen cupboard. The table was only half-laid as usual; but thatfact did not make her action the more palatable to Emmy. Emmy, who wasolder than Jenny by a mysterious period--diminished by herself, but keptat its normal term of three years by Jenny, except in moments of someheat, when it grew for purposes of retort, --was also less effective inmany ways, such as in appearance and in adroitness; and Jenny comprisedin herself, as it were, the good looks of the family. Emmy was thehousekeeper, who looked after Pa Blanchard; Jenny was the roving bladewho augmented Pa's pension by her own fluctuating wages. That wasanother slight barrier between the sisters. Nevertheless, Emmy was quitegenerous enough, and was long-suffering, so that her resentment took thegeneral form of silences and secret broodings upon their differentfortunes. There was a great deal to be said about this difference, andthe saying grew more and more remote from explicit utterance as thoughtof it ground into Emmy's mind through long hours and days and weeks ofsolitude. Pa could not hear anything besides the banging of pots, and hewas too used to sudden noises to take any notice of such a thing; butthe pots themselves, occasionally dented in savage dashes against eachother or against the taps, might have heard vicious apostrophes if theyhad listened intently to Emmy's ejaculations. As it was, with theendurance of pots, they mutely bore their scars and waited dumbly forsuperannuation. And every bruise stood to Emmy when she renewedacquaintance with it as mark of yet another grievance against Jenny. ForJenny enjoyed the liberties of this life while Emmy stayed at home. Jenny sported while Emmy was engaged upon the hideous routine of kitchenaffairs, and upon the nursing of a comparatively helpless old man whocould do hardly anything at all for himself. 

Pa was in his bedroom, --the back room on the ground-floor, chosenbecause he could not walk up the stairs, but must have as little troublein self-conveyance as possible, --staggeringly making his toilet for themeal to come, sitting patiently in front of his dressing-table by thelight of a solitary candle. He would appear in due course, when he wasfetched. He had been a strong man, a runner and cricketer in his youth, and rather obstreperously disposed; but that time was past, and hisstrength for such pursuits was as dead as the wife who had sufferedbecause of its vagaries. He could no longer disappear on the Saturdays, as he had been used to do in the old days. His chair in the kitchen, thehorse-hair sofa in the sitting-room, the bed in the bedroom, were theonly changes he now had from one day's end to another. Emmy and Jenny, pledges of a real but not very delicate affection, were all thatremained to call up the sorrowful thoughts of his old love, and thoseold times of virility, when Pa and his strength and his roughboisterousness had been the delight of perhaps a dozen regularcompanions. He sometimes looked at the two girls with a passionlessscrutiny, as though he were trying to remember something buried inancient neglect; and his eyes would thereafter, perhaps at the meresense of helplessness, fill slowly with tears, until Emmy, smotheringher own rough sympathy, would dab Pa's eyes with a harsh handkerchiefand would rebuke him for his decay. Those were hard moments in theBlanchard home, for the two girls had grown almost manlike in abhorrenceof tears, and with this masculine distaste had arisen a correspondingfeeling of powerlessness in face of emotion which they could not share. It was as though Pa had become something like an old and beloved dog, unable to speak, pitied and despised, yet claiming by his very dumbnesssomething that they could only give by means of pats and half-bullyingkindness. At such times it was Jenny who left her place at the table andpopped a morsel of food into Pa's mouth; but it was Emmy who bestunderstood the bitterness of his soul. It was Emmy, therefore, who wouldsnap at her sister and bid her get on with her own food; while PaBlanchard made trembling scrapes with his knife and fork until the moodpassed. But then it was Emmy who was most with Pa; it was Emmy who hatedhim in the middle of her love because he stood to her as the livingsymbol of her daily inescapable servitude in this household. Jennycould never have felt that she would like to kill Pa. Emmy sometimesfelt that. She at times, when he had been provoking or obtuse, so shookwith hysterical anger, born of the inevitable days in his society and inthe kitchen, that she could have thrown at him the battered pot whichshe carried, or could have pushed him passionately against themantelpiece in her fierce hatred of his helplessness and his occasionalperverse stupidity. He was rarely stupid with Jenny, but giggled at herteasing. 

Jenny was taller than Emmy by several inches. She was tall and thin anddark, with an air of something like impudent bravado that made herexpression sometimes a little wicked. Her nose was long and straight, almost sharp-pointed; her face too thin to be a perfect oval. Her eyeswere wide open, and so full of power to show feeling that they seemedconstantly alive with changing and mocking lights and shadows. If shehad been stouter the excellent shape of her body, now almost too thickin the waist, would have been emphasised. Happiness and comfort, adecrease in physical as in mental restlessness, would have made her morethan ordinarily beautiful. As it was she drew the eye at once, as thoughshe challenged a conflict of will: and her movements were so swift andeager, so little clumsy or jerking, that Jenny had a carriage tocommand admiration. The resemblance between the sisters was ordinarilynot noticeable. It would have needed a photograph--because photographs, besides flattening the features, also in some manner "compose" anddistinguish them--to reveal the likenesses in shape, in shadow, even inoutline, which were momentarily obscured by the natural differences ofcolouring and expression. Emmy was less dark, more temperamentallyunadventurous, stouter, and possessed of more colour. She wastwenty-eight or possibly twenty-nine, and her mouth was rather too hardfor pleasantness. It was not peevish, but the lips were set as thoughshe had endured much. Her eyes, also, were hard; although if she criedone saw her face soften remarkably into the semblance of that of alittle girl. From an involuntary defiance her expression changed tosomething really pathetic. One could not help loving her then, not withthe free give and take of happy affection, but with a shamed hope thatnobody could read the conflict of sympathy and contempt which made one'slove frigid and self-conscious. Jenny rarely cried: her cheeks reddenedand her eyes grew full of tears; but she did not cry. Her tongue was tooready and her brain too quick for that. Also, she kept her temper fromflooding over into the self-abandonment of angry weeping andvituperation. Perhaps it was that she had too much pride--or that ingeneral she saw life with too much self-complacency, or that she was notin the habit of yielding to disappointment. It may have been that Jennybelonged to that class of persons who are called, self-sufficient. Sheplunged through a crisis with her own zest, meeting attack withcounter-attack, keeping her head, surveying with the instinctiveirreverence and self-protective wariness of the London urchin thepossibilities and swaying fortunes of the fight. Emmy, so much slower, so much less self-reliant, had no refuge but in scolding that grewshriller and more shrill until it ended in violent weeping, a withdrawalfrom the field entirely abject. She was not a born fighter. She washarder on the surface, but weaker in powers below the surface. Her longsolitudes had made her build up grievances, and devastating thoughts, had given her a thousand bitter things to fling into the conflict; butthey had not strengthened her character, and she could not stand thestrain of prolonged argument. Sooner or later she would abandoneverything, exhausted, and beaten into impotence. She could bear more, endure more, than Jenny; she could bear much, so that the story of herlife might be read as one long scene of endurance of things which Jennywould have struggled madly to overcome or to escape. But having bornefor so long, she could fight only like a cat, her head as it wereturned aside, her fur upon end, stealthily moving paw by paw, alwayskeeping her front to the foe, but seeking for escape--until the prideperilously supporting her temper gave way and she dissolved intoincoherence and quivering sobs. 

It might have been said roughly that Jenny more closely resembled herfather, whose temperament in her care-free, happy-go-lucky way sheunderstood very well (better than Emmy did), and that while she carriedinto her affairs a necessarily more delicate refinement than his she hadstill the dare-devil spirit that Pa's friends had so much admired. Shehad more humour than Emmy--more power to laugh, to be detached, to beindifferent. Emmy had no such power. She could laugh; but she could onlylaugh seriously, or at obviously funny things. Otherwise, she felteverything too much. As Jenny would have said, she "couldn't take ajoke. " It made her angry, or puzzled, to be laughed at. Jenny laughedback, and tried to score a point in return, not always scrupulously. Emmy put a check on her tongue. She was sometimes virtuously silent. Jenny rarely put a check on her tongue. She sometimes let it sayperfectly outrageous things, and was surprised at the consequences. Forher it was enough that she had not meant to hurt. She sometimes hurtvery much. She frequently hurt Emmy to the quick, darting in one of hersure careless stabs that shattered Emmy's self-control. So while theyloved each other, Jenny also despised Emmy, while Emmy in return hatedand was jealous of Jenny, even to the point of actively wishing inmoments of furtive and shamefaced savageness to harm her. That was theoutward difference between the sisters in time of stress. Of theirinner, truer, selves it would be more rash to speak, for in times ofpeace Jenny had innumerable insights and emotions that would be foreverunknown to the elder girl. The sense of rivalry, however, was acute: itcoloured every moment of their domestic life, unwinking and incessant. When Emmy came from the scullery into the kitchen bearing her preciousdish of stew, and when Jenny, standing up, was measured against her, this rivalry could have been seen by any skilled observer. It rayed andforked about them as lightning might have done about two adjacent trees. Emmy put down her dish. 

"Fetch Pa, will you!" she said briefly. One could see who gave orders inthe kitchen. 

iv

Jenny found her father in his bedroom, sitting before the dressing-tableupon which a tall candle stood in an equally tall candlestick. He waslooking intently at his reflection in the looking-glass, as one whoencounters and examines a stranger. In the glass his face looked red andugly, and the tossed grey hair and heavy beard were made to appearstartlingly unkempt. His mouth was open, and his eyes shaded by loweredlids. In a rather trembling voice he addressed Jenny upon her entrance. 

"Is supper ready?" he asked. "I heard you come in. "

"Yes, Pa, " said Jenny. "Aren't you going to brush your hair? Got a fancyfor it like that, have you? My! What a man! With his shirt unbuttonedand his tie out. Come here! Let's have a look at you!" Although herwords were unkind, her tone was not, and as she rectified his omissionsand put her arm round him Jenny gave her father a light hug. "All right, are you? Been a good boy?"

"Yes . .. A good boy. .. . " he feebly and waveringly responded. "What's thenoos to-night, Jenny?"

Jenny considered. It made her frown, so concentrated was her effort toremember. 

"Well, somebody's made a speech, " she volunteered. "They can all dothat, can't they! And somebody's paid five hundred pounds transfer forJack Sutherdon . .. Is it Barnsley or Burnley?. .. And--oh, a fire atSouthwark. .. . Just the usual sort of news, Pa. No murders. .. . "

"Ah, they don't have the murders they used to have, " grumbled the oldman. 

"That's the police, Pa. " Jenny wanted to reassure him. 

"I don't know how it is, " he trembled, stiffening his body and risingfrom the chair. 

"Perhaps they hush 'em up!" That was a shock to him. He could not moveuntil the notion had sunk into his head. "Or perhaps people are morecareful. .. . Don't get leaving themselves about like they used to. "

Pa Blanchard had no suggestion. Such perilous ideas, so frequentlystarted by Jenny for his mystification, joggled together in his brainand made there the subject of a thousand ruminations. They tantalisedPa's slowly revolving thoughts, and kept these moving through long hoursof silence. Such notions preserved his interest in the world, and hissenile belief in Magic, as nothing else could have done. 

Together, their pace suited to his step, the two moved slowly to thedoor. It took a long time to make the short journey, though Jennysupported her father on the one side and he used a stick in his righthand. In the passage he waited while she blew out his candle; and thenthey went forward to the meal. At the approach Pa's eyes opened wider, and luminously glowed. 

"Is there dumplings?" he quivered, seeming to tremble with excitement. 

"One for you, Pa!" cried Emmy from the kitchen. Pa gave a small chuckleof joy. His progress was accelerated. They reached the table, and Emmytook his right arm for the descent into a substantial chair. Upon Pa'splate glistened a fair dumpling, a glorious mountain of paste amid thewreckage of meat and gravy. "And now, perhaps, " Emmy went on, smoothingback from her forehead a little streamer of hair, "you'll close thedoor, Jenny. .. . "

It was closed with a bang that made Pa jump and Emmy look savagely up. 

"Sorry!" cried Jenny. "How's that dumpling, Pa?" She sat recklessly atthe table. 

v

To look at the three of them sitting there munching away was a sight notaltogether pleasing. Pa's veins stood out from his forehead, and the twogirls devoted themselves to the food as if they needed it. There wasnone of the airy talk that goes on in the houses of the rich while maidsor menservants come respectfully to right or left of the diners withdecanters or dishes. Here the food was the thing, and there was nospeech. Sometimes Pa's eyes rolled, sometimes Emmy glanced up withunconscious malevolence at Jenny, sometimes Jenny almost winked at thelithograph portrait of Edward the Seventh (as Prince of Wales) whichhung over the mantelpiece above the one-and-tenpenny-ha'penny clock thatticked away so busily there. Something had happened long ago to Edwardthe Seventh, and he had a stain across his Field Marshal's uniform. Something had happened also to the clock, which lay upon its side, as ifkicking in a death agony. Something had happened to almost everything inthe kitchen. Even the plates on the dresser, and the cups and saucersthat hung or stood upon the shelves, bore the noble scars of service. Every time Emmy turned her glance upon a damaged plate, as sharp as astalactite, she had the thought: "Jenny's doing. " Every time she lookedat the convulsive clock Emmy said to herself: "That was Miss Jenny'scleverness when she chucked the cosy at Alf. " And when Emmy said in thisreflective silence of animosity the name "Alf" she drew a deep breathand looked straight up at Jenny with inscrutable eyes of pain. 

vi

The stew being finished, Emmy collected the plates, and retired onceagain to the scullery. Now did Jenny show afresh that curiosity whosefirst flush had been so ill-satisfied by the meat course. When, however, Emmy reappeared with that most domestic of sweets, a bread pudding, Jenny's face fell once more; for of all dishes she most abominated breadpudding. Under her breath she adversely commented. 

"Oh lor!" she whispered. "Stew and b. P. What a life!"

Emmy, not hearing, but second sighted on such matters, shot a malevolentglance from her place. In an awful voice, intended to be a trifle arch, she addressed her father. 

"Bready butter pudding, Pa?" she inquired. The old man whinnied withdelight, and Emmy was appeased. She had one satisfied client, at anyrate. She cut into the pudding with a knife, producing wedges with adexterous hand. 

"Hey ho!" observed Jenny to herself, tastelessly beginning the work oflaborious demolition. 

"Jenny thinks it's common. She ought to have the job of getting themeals!" cried Emmy, bitterly, obliquely attacking her sister by talkingat her. "Something to talk about then!" she sneered with chagrin, up inarms at a criticism. 

"Well, the truth is, " drawled Jenny. .. . "If you want it . .. I don't likebread pudding. " Somehow she had never said that before, in all theyears; but it seemed to her that bread pudding was like ashes in themouth. It was like duty, or funerals, or . .. Stew. 

"The stuff's _got_ to be finished up!" flared Emmy defiantly, with asense of being adjudged inferior because she had dutifully habituatedherself to the appreciation of bread pudding. "You might think of that!What else am I to do?"

"That's just it, old girl. Just why I don't like it. I just _hate_ tofeel I'm finishing it up. Same with stew. I know it's been somethingelse first. It's not _fresh_. Same old thing, week in, week out. Finishing up the scraps!"

"Proud stomach!" A quick flush came into Emmy's cheeks; and tearsstarted to her eyes. 

"Perhaps it is. Oh, but Em! Don't you feel like thatyourself. .. . Sometimes? O-o-h!. .. " She drawled the word wearily. "Ohfor a bit more money! Then we could give stew to the cat's-meat manand bread to old Thompson's chickens. And then we could have nice thingsto eat. Nice birds and pastry . .. And trifle, and ices, and wine. .. . Notall this muck!"

"Muck!" cried Emmy, her lips seeming to thicken. "When I'm sohot. .. . And sick of it all! _You_ go out; you do just exactly what youlike. .. . And then you come home and. .. . " She began to gulp. "What aboutme?"

"Well, it's just as bad for both of us!" Jenny did not think so really;but she said it. She thought Emmy had the bread and butter puddingnature, and that she did not greatly care what she ate as long as it wasnot too fattening. Jenny thought of Emmy as born for housework andcooking--of stew and bread puddings. For herself she had dreamed anobler destiny, a destiny of romance, of delicious unknown things, romantic and indescribably exciting. She was to have the adventures, because she needed them. Emmy didn't need them. It was all very well forEmmy to say "What about me!" It was no business of hers what happened toEmmy. They were different. Still, she repeated more confidently becausethere had been no immediate retort:

"Well, it's just as bad for both of us! _Just_ as bad!"

"'Tisn't! You're out all day--doing what you like!"

"Oh!" Jenny's eyes opened with theatrical wideness at such a perversionof the facts. "Doing what I like! The millinery!"

"You are! You don't have to do all the scraping to make things go round, like I have to. No, you don't! Here have I . .. Been in this . .. Place, slaving! Hour after hour! I wish _you'd_ try and manage better. I betyou'd be thankful to finish up the scraps some way--any old way! I'dlike to see _you_ do what I do!"

Momentarily Jenny's picture of Emmy's nature (drawn accommodatingly byherself in order that her own might be differentiated and exalted byany comparison) was shattered. Emmy's vehemence had thus the temporaryeffect of creating a fresh reality out of a common idealisation ofcircumstance. The legend would re-form later, perhaps, and wouldcontinue so to re-form as persuasion flowed back upon Jenny's egotism, until it crystallised hard and became unchallengeable; but at any ratefor this instant Jenny had had a glimmer of insight into that tamerdiscontent and rebelliousness that encroached like a canker upon Emmy'soriginally sweet nature. The shock of impact with unpleasant convictionmade Jenny hasten to dissemble her real belief in Emmy's borninferiority. Her note was changed from one of complaint into one ofpersuasive entreaty. 

"It's not that. It's not that. Not at all. But wouldn't you like achange from stew and bread pudding yourself? Sometimes, I mean. You_seem_ to like it all right. " At that ill-considered suggestion, madewith unintentional savageness, Jenny so worked upon herself that her owncolour rose high. Her temper became suddenly unmanageable. "You talkabout me being out!" she breathlessly exclaimed. "When do I go out?When! Tell me!"

"O-o-h! I _like_ that! What about going to the pictures with AlfRylett?" Emmy's hands were, jerking upon the table in her anger. "You'realways out with him!"

"Me? Well I never! I'm not. When--"

They were interrupted unexpectedly by a feeble and jubilant voice. 

"More bready butter pudding!" said Pa Blanchard, tipping his plate toshow that he had finished. 

"Yes, Pa!" For the moment Emmy was distracted from her feud. In amechanical way, as mothers sometimes, deep in conversation, attend totheir children's needs, she put another wedge of pudding upon the plate. "Well, I say you _are_, " she resumed in the same strained voice. "Andtell me when _I_ go out! I go out shopping. That's all. But for that, I'm in the house day and night. You don't care tuppence about Alf--youwouldn't, not if he was walking the soles off his boots to come to you. You never think about him. He's like dirt, to you. Yet you go out withhim time after time. .. . " Her lips as she broke off were pursed into atrembling unhappy pout, sure forerunner of tears. Her voice was weakwith feeling. The memory of lonely evenings surged into her mind, evenings when Jenny was out with Alf, while she, the drudge, stayed athome with Pa, until she was desperate with the sense of unutterablewrong. "Time after time, you go. "

"Sorry, I'm sure!" flung back Jenny, fairly in the fray, too quick notto read the plain message of Emmy's tone and expression, too cruel torelinquish the sudden advantage. "I never guessed you wanted him. Iwouldn't have done it for worlds. You never _said_, you know!"Satirically, she concluded, with a studiously careful accent, which sheused when she wanted to indicate scorn or innuendo, "I'm sorry. I oughtto have asked if I might!" Then, with a dash into grimmer satire: "Whydoesn't he ask you to go with him? Funny his asking me, isn't it?"

Emmy grew violently crimson. Her voice had a roughness in it. She wasmortally wounded. 

"Anybody'd know you were a lady!" she said warmly. 

"They're welcome!" retorted Jenny. Her eyes flashed, glittering in thepaltry gaslight. "He's never . .. Emmy, I didn't know you were such asilly little fool. Fancy going on like that . .. About a man like him. Atyour age!"

Vehement glances flashed between them. All Emmy's jealousy was in herface, clear as day. Jenny drew a sharp breath. Then, obstinately, sheclosed her lips, looking for a moment like the girl in the slidingwindow, inscrutable. Emmy, also recovering herself, spoke again, tryingto steady her voice. 

"It's not what you think. But I can't bear to see you . .. Playing aboutwith him. It's not fair. He thinks you mean it. You don't!"

"Course I don't. I don't mean anything. A fellow like that!" Jennylaughed a little, woundingly. 

"What's the matter with him?" Savagely, Emmy betrayed herself again. Shewas trembling from head to foot, her mind blundering hither and thitherfor help against a quicker-witted foe. "It's only _you_ he's not goodenough for, " she said passionately. "What's the matter with him?"

Jenny considered, her pale face now deadly white, all the heat gone fromher cheeks, though the hard glitter remained in her eyes, cruellyindicating the hunger within her bosom. 

"Oh, he's all right in his way, " she drawlingly admitted. "He's clean. That's in his favour. But he's quiet . .. He's got no devil in him. Sortof man who tells you what he likes for breakfast. I only go withhim . .. Well, you know why, as well as I do. He's all right enough, asfar as he goes. But he's never on for a bit of fun. That's it: he's gotno devil in him. I don't like that kind. Prefer the other sort. "

During this speech Emmy had kept back bitter interruptions by anunparalleled effort. It had seemed as though her fury had flickered, blazing and dying away as thought and feeling struggled together formastery. At the end of it, however, and at Jenny's declared preferencefor men of devil, Emmy's face hardened. 

"You be careful, my girl, " she prophesied with a warning glance ofanger. "If that's the kind you're after. Take care you're not left!"

"Oh, I can take care, " Jenny said, with cold nonchalance. "Trust me!"

vii

Later, when they were both in the chilly scullery, washing up the supperdishes, they were again constrained. Somehow when they were alonetogether they could not quarrel: it needed the presence of Pa Blanchardto stimulate them to retort. In his rambling silences they found thespur for their unkind eloquence, and too often Pa was used as astalking-horse for their angers. He could hardly hear, and could notfollow the talk; but by directing a remark to him, so that it cannonedoff at the other, each obtained satisfaction for the rivalry thatendured from day to day between them. Their hungry hearts, all thelatent bitternesses in their natures, yearning for expression, found itin his presence. But alone, whatever their angers, they were generallysilent. It may have been that their love was strong, or that theircourage failed, or that the energy required for conflict was notaroused. That they deeply loved one another was sure; there was rivalry, jealousy, irritation between them, but it did not affect their love. The jealousy was a part of their general discontent--a jealousy thatwould grow more intense as each remained frustrate and unhappy. Neitherunderstood the forces at work within herself; each saw these perverselyillustrated in the other's faults. In each case the cause of unhappinesswas unsatisfied love, unsatisfied craving for love. It was more acute inEmmy's case, because she was older and because the love she needed wasunder her eyes being wasted upon Jenny--if it were love, and not thatmixture of admiration and desire with self-esteem that goes to make thecommon formula to which the name of love is generally attached. Jennycould not be jealous of Emmy as Emmy was jealous of Jenny. She had nocause; Emmy was not her rival. Jenny's rival was life itself, as will beshown hereafter: she had her own pain. 

It was thus only natural that the two girls, having pushed Pa's chair tothe side of the kitchen fire, and having loaded and set light to Pa'spipe, should work together in silence for a few minutes, clearing thetable and washing the supper dishes. They were distant, both aggrieved;Emmy with labouring breath and a sense of bitter animosity, Jenny withthe curled lip of one triumphant who does not need her triumph and wouldabandon it at the first move of forgiveness. They could not speak. Thework was done, and Emmy was rinsing the washing basin, before Jennycould bring herself to say awkwardly what she had in her mind. 

"Em, " she began. "I didn't know you . .. You know. " A silence. Emmycontinued to swirl the water round with the small washing-mop, her faceaverted. Jenny's lip stiffened. She made another attempt, to be thelast, restraining her irritation with a great effort. "If you like Iwon't . .. I won't go out with him any more. "

"Oh, you needn't worry, " Emmy doggedly said, with her teeth almostclenched. "I'm not worrying about it. " She tried then to keep silent;but the words were forced from her wounded heart. With uncontrollablesarcasm she said: "It's very good of you, I'm sure!"

"Em!" It was coaxing. Jenny went nearer. Still there was no reply. "Em . .. Don't be a silly cat. If he'd only ask _you_ to go once or twice. He'd always want to. You needn't worry about me being . .. See, I likesomebody else--another fellow. He's on a ship. Nowhere near here. I onlygo with Alf because . .. Well, after all, he's a man; and they're scarce. Suppose I leave off going with him. .. . "

Both knew she had nothing but kind intention, as in fact the betrayal ofher own secret proved; but as Jenny could not keep out of her voice theslightest tinge of complacent pity, so Emmy could not accept anythingso intolerable as pity. 

"Thanks, " she said in perfunctory refusal; "but you can do what youlike. Just what you like. " She was implacable. She was drying the basin, her face hidden. "I'm not going to take your leavings. " At that hervoice quivered and had again that thread of roughness in it which hadbeen there earlier. "Not likely!"

"Well, I can't help it, can I!" cried Jenny, out of patience. "If helikes me best. If he _won't_ come to you. I mean, if I say I won't goout with him--will that put him on to you or send him off altogether?Em, do be sensible. Really, I never knew. Never dreamt of it. I've neverwanted him. It's not as though he'd whistled and I'd gone trotting afterhim. Em! You get so ratty about--"

"Superior!" cried Emmy, gaspingly. "Look down on me!" She was for aninstant hysterical, speaking loudly and weepingly. Then she was closeagainst Jenny; and they were holding each other tightly, while Emmy'sdreadful quiet sobs shook both of them to the heart. And Jenny, aboveher sister's shoulder, could see through the window the darkness thatlay without; and her eyes grew tender at an unbidden thought, which madeher try to force herself to see through the darkness, as though she weresending a speechless message to the unknown. Then, feeling Emmy stillsobbing in her arms, she looked down, laying her face against hersister's face. A little contemptuous smile appeared in her eyes, and herbrow furrowed. Well, Emmy could cry. _She_ couldn't. She didn't want tocry. She wanted to go out in the darkness that so pleasantly enwrappedthe earth, back to the stir and glitter of life somewhere beyond. Abruptly Jenny sighed. Her vision had been far different from thisscene. It had carried her over land and sea right into an unexploredrealm where there was wild laughter and noise, where hearts broketragically and women in the hour of ruin turned triumphant eyes to theglory of life, and where blinding streaming lights and scintillatingcolours made everything seem different, made it seem romantic, rapturous, indescribable. From that vision back to the cupboard-likehouse in Kennington Park, and stodgy Alf Rylett, and supper of stew andbread and butter pudding, and Pa, and this little sobbing figure in herarms, was an incongruous flight. It made Jenny's mouth twist in a smileso painful that it was almost a grimace. 

"Oh lor!" she said again, under her breath, as she had said it earlier. "_What_ a life!"

CHAPTER II: THE TREAT

i

Gradually Emmy's tearless sobs diminished; she began to murmur broken, meaningless ejaculations of self-contempt; and to strain away fromJenny. At last she pushed Jenny from her, feverishly freeing herself, sothat they stood apart, while Emmy blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Allthis time they did not speak to each other, and when Emmy turned blindlyaway Jenny mechanically took hold of the kettle, filled it, and set itto boil upon the gas. Emmy watched her curiously, feeling that her nosewas cold and her eyes were burning. Little dry tremors seemed to shakeher throat; dreariness had settled upon her, pressing her down; makingher feel ashamed of such a display of the long secret so carefullyhoarded away from prying glances. 

"What's that for?" she miserably asked, indicating the kettle. 

"Going to steam my hat, " Jenny said. "The brim's all floppy. " There wasnow only a practical note in her voice. She, too, was ashamed. "You'dbetter go up and lie down for a bit. I'll stay with Pa, in case he fallsinto the fire. Just the sort of thing he _would_ do on a night likethis. Just because you're upset. "

"I shan't go up. It's too cold. I'll sit by the fire a bit. "

They both went into the kitchen, where the old man was whistling underhis breath. 

"Was there any noos on the play-cards?" he inquired after a moment, becoming aware of their presence. "Emmy--Jenny. "

"No, Pa. I told you. Have to wait till Sunday. Funny thing there's somuch more news in the Sunday papers: I suppose people are all extrawicked on Saturdays. They get paid Friday night, I shouldn't wonder; andit goes to their heads. "

"Silly!" Emmy said under her breath. "It's the week's news. "

"That's all right, old girl, " admonished Jenny. "I was only giving himsomething to think about. Poor old soul. Now, about this hat: the girlsall go on at me. .. . Say I dress like a broker's-man. I'm going tosmarten myself up. You never know what might happen. Why, I might getoff with a Duke!"

Emmy was overtaken by an impulse of gratitude. 

"You can have mine, if you like, " she said. "The one you gave me . .. Onmy birthday. " Jenny solemnly shook her head. She did not thank hersister. Thanks were never given in that household, because they were apart of "peliteness, " and were supposed to have no place in the domesticarena. 

"Not if I know it!" she humorously retorted. "I made it for you, and itsuits you. Not my style at all. I'll just get out my box of bits. You'llsee something that'll surprise you, my girl. "

The box proved to contain a large number of "bits" of all sizes andkinds--fragments of silk (plain and ribbed), of plush, of ribbon bothwide and narrow; small sprays of marguerites, a rose or two, somepoppies, and a bunch of violets; a few made bows in velvet and silk;some elastic, some satin, some feathers, a wing here and there . .. Themiscellaneous assortment of odds-and-ends always appropriated (or, inthe modern military slang, "won") by assistants in the millinery. Somehad been used, some were startlingly new. Jenny was more modest in suchacquirements than were most of her associates; but she was affected, asall such must be, by the prevailing wind. Strangely enough, it was nother habit to wear very smart hats, for business or at any other time. She would have told you, in the event of any such remark, that when youhad been fiddling about with hats all day you had other things to do inthe evenings. Yet she had good taste and very nimble fingers whenoccasion arose. In bringing her box from the bedroom she brought alsofrom the stand in the passage her drooping hat, against which sheproceeded to lay various materials, trying them with her sure eye, seeking to compose a picture, with that instructive sense of cynosurewhich marks the crafty expert. Fascinated, with her lips parted in anexpression of that stupidity which is so often the sequel to a fit ofcrying, Emmy watched Jenny's proceedings, her eyes travelling from thehat to the ever-growing heap of discarded ornaments. She was dullyimpressed with the swift judgment of her sister in consulting thesecrets of her inner taste. It was a judgment unlike anything in her ownnature of which she was aware, excepting the measurement of ingredientsfor a pudding. 

So they sat, all engrossed, while the kettle began to sing and thedesired steam to pour from the spout, clouding the scullery. The onlysound that arose was the gurgling of Pa Blanchard's pipe (for he waswhat is called in Kennington Park a wet smoker). He sat rememberingsomething or pondering the insufficiency of news. Nobody ever knew whathe thought about in his silences. It was a mystery over which the girlsdid not puzzle, because they were themselves in the habit of sitting forlong periods without speech. Pa's broodings were as customary to themas the absorbed contemplativeness of a baby. "Give him his pipe, " asJenny said; "and he'll be quiet for hours--till it goes out. _Then_there's a fuss! My word, what a racket! Talk about a fire alarm!" And onsuch occasions she would mimic him ridiculingly, to diminish hiscomplaints, while Emmy roughly relighted the hubble-bubble and pattedher father once more into a contented silence. Pa was to them, althoughthey did not know it, their bond of union. Without him, they would havefallen apart, like the outer pieces of a wooden boot-tree. For his sake, with all the apparent lack of sympathy shown in their behaviour to him, they endured a life which neither desired nor would have tolerated uponher own account. So it was that Pa's presence acted as a check andserved them as company of a meagre kind, although he was lessinteresting or expansive than a little dog might have been. 

When Jenny went out to the scullery carrying her hat, after sweeping thescraps she had declined back into the old draper's cardboard box whichamply contained such treasures and preserved them from dust, Emmy, nowquite quiet again, continued to sit by the fire, staring at the smallglowing strip that showed under the door of the kitchen grate. Every nowand then she would sigh, wearily closing her eyes; and her breast wouldrise as if with a sob. And she would sometimes look slowly up at theclock, with her head upon one side in order to see the hands in theirproper aspect, as if she were calculating. 

ii

From the scullery came the sound of Jenny's whistle as she cheerily heldthe hat over the steam. Pa heard it as something far away, like adistant salvationists' band, and pricked up his ears; Emmy heard it, andher brow was contracted. Her expression darkened. Jenny began to hum:

"'Oh Liza, sweet Liza, If you die an old maid you'll have only yourself to blame . .. '"

It was like a sudden noise in a forest at night, so poignant was thecontrast of the radiating silences that succeeded. Jenny's voice stoppedsharply. Perhaps it had occurred to her that her song would beoverheard. Perhaps she had herself become affected by the meaning of thewords she was so carelessly singing. There was once more an air ofoblivion over all things. The old man sank back in his chair, puffingslowly, blue smoke from the bowl of the pipe, grey smoke from betweenhis lips. Emmy looked again at the clock. She had the listening air ofone who awaits a bewildering event. Once she shivered, and bent to thefire, raking among the red tumbling small coal with the bent kitchenpoker. Jenny began to whistle again, and Emmy impatiently wriggled hershoulders, jarred by the noise. Suddenly she could bear no longer thewhistle that pierced her thoughts and distracted her attention, but wentout to the scullery. 

"How are you getting on?" she asked with an effort. 

"Fine. This gas leaks. Can't you whiff it? Don't know which one it is. Pa all right?"

"Yes, he's all right. Nearly finished?"

"Getting on. Tram nearly ran over a kid to-night. She was wheeling a pramfull of washing on the line. There wasn't half a row about it--shoutingand swearing. Anybody would have thought the kid had laid down on theline. I expect she was frightened out of her wits--all those menshouting at her. There, now I'll lay it on the plate rack over the gasfor a bit. .. . Look smart, shan't I! With a red rose in it and a redribbon. .. . "

"Not going to have those streamers, or any lace, are you?"

"Not likely. You see the kids round here wearing them; but the kidsround here are always a season late. Same with their costumes. Theydon't know any better. I do!"

Jenny was cheerfully contemptuous. She knew what was being worn alongRegent Street and in Bond Street, because she saw it with her own eyes. Then she came home and saw the girls of her own district swanking aboutlike last year's patterns, as she said. She couldn't help laughing atthem. It made her think of the tales of savages wearing top hats withstrings of beads and thinking they were all in the latest Europeanfashion. That is the constant amusement of the expert as she regards theamateur. She has all the satisfaction of knowing better, without theturmoil of competition, a fact which distinguishes the superior spiritfrom the struggling helot. Jenny took full advantage of her situationand her knowledge. 

"Yes, you know a lot, " Emmy said dryly. 

"Ah, you've noticed it?" Jenny was not to be gibed at without retort. "I'm glad. "

"So _you_ think, " Emmy added, as though she had not heard the reply. 

There came at this moment a knock at the front door. Emmy swayed, grewpale, and then slowly reddened until the colour spread to the very edgesof her bodice. The two girls looked at one another, a deliberateinterchange of glances that was at the same time, upon both sides, anintense scrutiny. Emmy was breathing heavily; Jenny's nostrils werepinched. 

"Well, " at last said Jenny, drawlingly. "Didn't you hear the knock?Aren't you going to answer it?" She reached as she spoke to the hatlying upon the plate rack above the gas stove, looking fixedly away fromher sister. Her air of gravity was unchanged. Emmy, hesitating, made asif to speak, to implore something; but, being repelled, she turned, andwent thoughtfully across the kitchen to the front door. Jenny carriedher hat into the kitchen and sat down at the table as before. Thehalf-contemptuous smile had reappeared in her eyes; but her mouth wasquite serious. 

iii

Pa Blanchard had worked as a boy and man in a large iron foundry. He hadbeen a very capable workman, and had received as the years went on themaximum amount (with overtime) to be earned by men doing his class ofwork. He had not been abstemious, and so he had spent a good deal of hisearnings in what is in Kennington Park called "pleasure"; but he hadalso possessed that common kind of sense which leads men to pay moneyinto sick and benefit clubs. Accordingly, his wife's illness and burialhad, as he had been in the habit of saying, "cost him nothing. " Theywere paid by his societies. Similarly, when he had himself been attackedby the paralytic seizure which had wrecked his life, the societies hadpaid; and now, in addition to the pension allowed by his old employers, he received a weekly dole from the societies which brought his income upto fifty shillings a week. The pension, of course, would cease upon hisdeath; but so long as life was kept burning within him nothing couldaffect the amounts paid weekly into the Blanchard exchequer. Pa wasfifty-seven, and normally would have had a respectable number of yearsbefore him; his wants were now few, and his days were carefully watchedover by his daughters. He would continue to draw his pensions forseveral years yet, unless something unexpected happened to him. Meanwhile, therefore, his pipe was regularly filled and his old pewtertankard appeared at regular intervals, in order that Pa should feel aslittle as possible the change in his condition. 

Mrs. Blanchard had been dead ten years. She had been very much as Emmynow was, but a great deal more cheerful. She had been plump andfresh-coloured, and in spite of Pa Blanchard's ways she had led a happylife. In the old days there had been friends and neighbours, now alllost in course of removals from one part of London to another, so thatthe girls were without friends and knew intimately no women older thanthemselves. Mrs. Blanchard, perhaps in accord with her cheerfulness, hadbeen a complacent, selfish little woman, very neat and clean, anddisposed to keep her daughters in their place. Jenny had been herfavourite; and even so early had the rivalry between them beenestablished. Besides this, Emmy had received all the rebuffs needed tocheck in her the same complacent selfishness that distinguished hermother. She had been frustrated all along, first by her mother, then byher mother's preference for Jenny, finally (after a period during whichshe dominated the household after her mother's death) by Jenny herself. It was thus not upon a pleasant record of personal success that Emmycould look back, but rather upon a series of chagrins of which each wasthe harder to bear because of the history of its precursors. Emmy, between eighteen and nineteen at the time of her mother's death, hadgrasped her opportunity, and had made the care of the household her lot. She still bore, what was a very different reading of her ambition, thecares of the household. Jenny, as she grew up, had proved unruly; PaBlanchard's illness had made home service compulsory; and so matterswere like to remain indefinitely. Is it any wonder that Emmy was restiveand unhappy as she saw her youth going and her horizons closing upon herwith the passing of each year? If she had been wholly selfish that factwould have been enough to sour her temper. But another, emotionallymore potent, fact produced in Emmy feelings of still greater stress. Tothat fact she had this evening given involuntary expression. Now, howwould she, how could she, handle her destiny? Jenny, shrewdly thinkingas she sat with her father in the kitchen and heard Emmy open the frontdoor, pondered deeply as to her sister's ability to turn to account herown sacrifice. 

iv

Within a moment Alf Rylett appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, Emmystanding behind him until he moved forward, and then closing the doorand leaning back against it. His first glance was in the direction ofJenny, who, however, did not rise as she would ordinarily have done. Heglanced quickly at her face and from her face to her hands, so busilyengaged in manipulating the materials from which she was to re-trim herhat. Then he looked at Pa Blanchard, whom he touched lightly andfamiliarly upon the shoulder. Alf was a rather squarely built young manof thirty, well under six feet, but not ungainly. He had a florid, reddish complexion, and his hair was of a common but unnamed colour, between brown and grey, curly and crisp. He was clean-shaven. Alf wasobviously one who worked with his hands: in the little kitchen heappeared to stand upon the tips of his toes, in order that his walkmight not be too noisy. That fact might have suggested either merenervousness or a greater liking for life out of doors. When he walked itwas as though he did it all of a piece, so that his shoulders moved aswell as his legs. The habit was shown as he lunged forward to gripJenny's hand. When he spoke he shouted, and he addressed Pa as a boymight have done who was not quite completely at his ease, but whothought it necessary to pretend that he was so. 

"Good evening, Mr. Blanchard!" he cried boisterously. "Sitting by thefire, I see!"

Pa looked at him rather vacantly, apparently straining his memory inorder to recognise the new-comer. It was plain that as a personal matterhe had no immediate use for Alf Rylett; but he presently nodded hishead. 

"Sitting by the fire, " he confirmed. "Getting a bit warm. It's coldto-night. Is there any noos, Alf Rylett?"

"Lots of it!" roared Alf, speaking as if it had been to a deaf man or aforeigner. "They say this fire at Southwark means ten thousand poundsdamage. Big factory there--gutted. Of course, no outside fire escapes. _As_ usual. Fully insured, though. It'll cost them nothing. You can'thelp wondering what causes these fires when they're heavily insured. Eh?Blazing all night, it was. Twenty-five engines. Twenty-five, mind you!That shows it was pretty big, eh? I saw the red in the sky, myself. 'Well, ' I thought to myself, 'there's somebody stands to losesomething, ' I thought. But the insurance companies are too wide to standall the risk themselves. They share it out, you know. It's a mereflea-bite to them. And . .. A . .. Well then there's a . .. See, thenthere's a bigamy case. "

"Hey?" cried Pa sharply, brightening. "What's that about?"

"Nothing much. Only a couple of skivvies. About ten pound three andfourpence between the pair of them. That was all he got. " Pa's interestvisibly faded. He gurgled at his pipe and turned his face towards themantelpiece. "And . .. A . .. Let's see, what else is there?" Alf rackedhis brains, puffing a little and arching his brows at the two girls, whoseemed both to be listening, Emmy intently, as though she were repeatinghis words to herself. He went on: "Tram smash in Newcastle. Car went offthe points. Eleven injured. Nobody killed. .. . "

"I don't call _that_ much, " said Jenny, critically, with a pin in hermouth. "Not much more than I told him an hour ago. He wants a murder, ora divorce. All these little tin-pot accidents aren't worth printing atall. What he wants is the cross-examination of the man who found thebones. "

It was comical to notice the change on Alf at Jenny's interruption. From the painful concentration upon memory which had brought hiseyebrows together there appeared in his expression the most delightedease, a sort of archness that made his face look healthy and honest. 

"What's that you're doing?" he eagerly inquired, forsaking Pa, andobviously thankful at having an opportunity to address Jenny directly. He came over and stood by the table, in spite of the physical effortwhich Emmy involuntarily made to will that he should not do so. Emmy'seyes grew tragic at his intimate, possessive manner in speaking toJenny. "I say!" continued Alf, admiringly. "A new hat, is it? Smart!Looks absolutely A1. Real West End style, isn't it? Going to have somechiffong?"

"Sit down, Alf. " It was Emmy who spoke, motioning him to a chairopposite to Pa. He took it, his shoulder to Jenny, while Emmy sat by thetable, looking at him, her hands in her lap. 

"How is he?" Alf asked, jerking his head at Pa. "Perked up when I said'bigamy, ' didn't he!"

"He's been very good, I will say, " answered Emmy. "Been quiet allday. And he ate his supper as good as gold. " Jenny's smile and littleamused crouching of the shoulders caught her eye. "Well, so he did!"she insisted. Jenny took no notice. "He's had his--mustn't say it, because he _always_ hears that word, and it's not time for hisevening . .. Eight o'clock he has it. "

"What's that?" said Alf, incautiously. "Beer?"

"Beer!" cried Pa. "Beer!" It was the cry of one who had been malignantlydefrauded, a piteous wail. 

"There!" said both the girls, simultaneously. Jenny added: "Now you'vedone it!"

"All right, Pa! Not time yet!" But Emmy went to the kitchen cupboard asPa continued to express the yearning that filled his aged heart. 

"Sorry!" whispered Alf. "Hold me hand out, naughty boy!"

"He's like a baby with his titty bottle, " explained Emmy. "Now he'll bequiet again. "

Alf fidgeted a little. This contretemps had unnerved him. He was lesssure of himself. 

"Well, " he said at last, darkly. "What I came in about . .. Quarter toeight, is it? By Jove, I'm late. That's telling Mr. Blanchard all thenews. The fact is, I've got a couple of tickets for the theatre down theroad--for this evening, I thought . .. Erum . .. "

"Oh, extravagance!" cried Jenny, gaily, dropping the pin from betweenher lips and looking in an amused flurry at Emmy's anguished faceopposite. It was as though a chill had struck across the room, as thoughboth Emmy's heart and her own had given a sharp twist at the shock. 

"Ah, that's where you're wrong. That's what cleverness does for you. "Alf nodded his head deeply and reprovingly. "Given to me, they were, bya pal o' mine who works at the theatre. They're for to-night. Ithought--"

Jenny, with her heart beating, was stricken for an instant with panic. She bent her head lower, holding the rose against the side of her hat, watching it with a zealous eye, once again to test the effect. Hethought she was coquetting, and leaned a little towards her. He wouldhave been ready to touch her face teasingly with his forefinger. 

"Oh, " Jenny exclaimed, with a hurried assumption of matter of fact easesuddenly ousting her panic. "That's very good. So you thought you'd take_Emmy_! That was a very good boy!"

"I thought . .. " heavily stammered Alf, his eyes opening in a surprisedway as he found himself thus headed off from his true intention. Hestared blankly at Jenny, until she thought he looked like the bull onthe hoardings who has "heard that they want more. " Emmy stared at heralso, quite unguardedly, a concentrated stare of agonised doubt andimpatience. Emmy's face grew pinched and sallow at the unexpected strainupon her nerves. 

"That was what you thought, wasn't it?" Jenny went on impudently, shooting a sideways glance at him that made Alf tame with helplessness. "Poor old Em hasn't had a treat for ever so long. Do her good to go. Youdid mean that, didn't you?"

"I . .. " said Alf. "I . .. " He was inclined for a moment to bluster. Helooked curiously at Jenny's profile, judicial in its severity. Then somekind of tact got the better of his first impulse. "Well, I thought _one_of you girls . .. " he said. "Will you come, Em? Have to look sharp. "

"Really?" Emmy jumped up, her face scarlet and tears of joy in her eyes. She did not care how it had been arranged. Her pride was unaroused; theother thought, the triumph of the delicious moment, was overwhelming. Afterwards--ah, no no! She would not think. She was going. She wasactually going. In a blur she saw their faces, their kind eyes. .. . 

"Good boy!" cried Jenny. "Buck up, Em, if you're going to change yourdress. Seats! My word! How splendid!" She clapped her hands quickly, immediately again taking up her work so as to continue it. Into her eyeshad come once more that strange expression of pitying contempt. Herwhite hands flashed in the wan light as she quickly threaded her needleand knotted the silk. 

CHAPTER III: ROWS

i

After Emmy had hurried out of the room to change her dress, Alf stood, still apparently stupefied at the unscrupulous rush of Jenny's femininetactics, rubbing his hand against the back of his head. He lookedcautiously at Pa Blanchard, and from him back to the mysterious unknownwho had so recently defeated his object. Alf may or may not haveprepared some kind of set speech of invitation on his way to the house. Obviously it is a very difficult thing, where there are two girls in afamily, to invite one of them and not the other to an evening's orgy. Ifit had not previously occurred to Alf to think of the difficulty quiteas clearly as he was now being made to do, that must have been becausehe thought of Emmy as imbedded in domestic affairs. After all, damn it, as he was thinking; if you want one girl it is rotten luck to be fobbedoff with another. Alf knew quite well the devastating phrase, at onetime freely used as an irresistible quip (like "There's hair" or "That'sall right, tell your mother; it'll be ninepence") by which one suggesteddisaster--"And that spoilt his evening. " The phrase was in his mind, horrible to feel. Yet what could he have done in face of the directassault? "_Must_ be a gentleman. " He could hardly have said, beforeEmmy: "No, it's _you_ I want!" He began to think about Emmy. She was allright--a quiet little piece, and all that. But she hadn't got Jenny'scheek! That was it! Jenny had got the devil's own cheek, and this was anexample of it. But this was an unwelcome example of it. He ruminatedstill further; until he found he was standing on one foot and rubbingthe back of his head, just like any stage booby. 

"Oh, damn!" he cried, putting his raised foot firmly on the ground andbringing his wandering fist down hard into the open palm of his otherhand. 

"Here, here!" protested Jenny, pretending to be scandalised. "That's notthe sort of language to use before Pa! He's not used to it. We're_awfully_ careful what we say when Pa's here!"

"You're making a fool of me!" spluttered Alf, glaring at her. "That'sabout the size of it!"

"What about your pa and ma!" she inquired, gibing at him. "I've donenothing. Why don't you sit down. Of course you feel a fool, standing. Ialways do, when the manager sends for me. Think I'm going to get thesack. " She thought he was going to bellow at her: "I hear they wantmore!" The mere notion of it made her smile, and Alf imagined that shewas still laughing at her own manoeuvre or at her impertinent jest. 

"What did you do it for?" he asked, coming to the table. 

"Cause it was all floppy. What did you think? Why, the girls all talkabout me wearing it so long. "

"I'm not talking about that, " he said, in a new voice of exasperateddetermination. "You know what I'm talking about. Oh, yes, you do! I'mtalking about those tickets. And me. And you!"

Jenny's eyes contracted. She looked fixedly at her work. Her handscontinued busy. 

"Well, you're going to take Emmy, aren't you!" she prevaricated. "Youasked her to go. "

"No!" he said. "I'm going with her, because she's said she'll go. But itwas you that asked her. "

"Did I? How could I? They weren't mine. You're a man. You brought thetickets. You asked her yourself. " Jenny shook her head. "Oh, no, AlfRylett. You mustn't blame me. Take my advice, my boy. You be very gladEmmy's going. If you mean me, I should have said 'No, ' because I've gotto do this hat. Emmy's going to-night. You'll enjoy yourself far more. "

"Oh ----!" He did not use an oath, but it was implied. "What did you doit for? Didn't you want to come yourself? No, look here, Jenny: I wantto know what's going on. You've always come with me before. " He glaredat her in perplexity, puzzled to the depths of his intelligence by aproblem beyond its range. Women had always been reported to him as amystery; but he had never heeded. 

"It's Emmy's turn, then, " Jenny went on. She could not resist thedisplay of a sisterly magnanimity, although it was not the truemagnanimity, and in fact had no relation to the truth. "Poor old Em getsstuck in here day after day, " she pleaded. "She's always with Pa till hethinks she's a fixture. Well, why shouldn't she have a little pleasure?You get her some chocs . .. At that shop. . .. _You_ know. It'll be thetreat of her life. She'll be as grateful to you for it. . .. Oh, I'm veryglad she's got the chance of going. It'll keep her happy for days!"Jenny, trying with all her might to set the affair straight and satisfyeverybody, was appealing to his vanity to salve his vanity. Alf sawhimself recorded as a public benefactor. He perceived the true sublimityof altruism. 

"Yes, " he said, doggedly, recovering himself and becoming a man, becoming Alf Rylett, once again. "That's all bally fine. Sounds well asyou put it; but you knew as well as I did that I came to take _you_. Isay nothing against Em. She's a good sort; but--"

Jenny suddenly kindled. He had never seen her so fine. 

"She's the best sort!" she said, with animation. "And don't you forgetit, Alf. Me--why, I'm as selfish as . .. As _dirt_ beside her. Look alittle closer, my lad. You'll see Em's worth two of me. Any day! Youthink yourself jolly lucky she's going with you. That's all I've got tosay to you!"

She had pushed her work back, and was looking up at him with an air ofexcitement. She had really been moved by a generous impulse. Herindifference to Alf no longer counted. It was swept away by a feeling ofloyalty to Emmy. The tale she had told, the plea she had advanced uponEmmy's behalf, if it had not influenced him, had sent a warm thrill ofconviction through her own heart. When she came thus to feel deeply sheknew as if by instinct that Emmy, irritable unsatisfied Emmy, was asmuch superior to Alf as she herself was superior to him. A wave ofarrogance swept her. Because he was a man, and therefore so delectablein the lives of two lonely girls, he was basely sure of his power tochoose from among them at will. He had no such power at that moment, inJenny's mind. He was the clay, for Emmy or herself to mould to their ownadvantage. 

"You can think yourself _jolly_ lucky; my lad!" she repeated. "I cantell you that much!"

ii

Jenny leant back in her chair exhausted by her excitement. Alf reachedround for the chair he had left, and brought it to the table. He satdown, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped; and he lookeddirectly at Jenny as though he were determined to explode this falsebubble of misunderstanding which she was sedulously creating. As helooked at her, with his face made keen by the strength of his resolve, Jenny felt her heart turn to water. She was physically afraid of him, not because he had any power to move her, but because in sheerbullock-like strength he was too much for her, as in tenacity he hadequally an advantage. As a skirmisher, or in guerrilla warfare, in whichhe might always retire to a hidden fastness, baffling pursuers byinnumerable ruses and doublings, Jenny could hold her own. On the plain, in face of superior strength, she had not the solid force needed toresist strong will and clear issues. Alf looked steadily at her, hisreddish cheeks more red, his obstinate mouth more obstinate, so that shecould imagine the bones of his jaws cracking with his determination. 

"It won't do, Jen, " he said. "And you know it. "

Jenny wavered. Her eyes flinched from the necessary task of facing himdown. Where women of more breeding have immeasurable resources oftradition behind them, to quell any such inquisition, she was bytraining defenceless. She had plenty of pluck, plenty of adroitness; butshe could only play the sex game with Alf very crudely because he wasnot fine enough to be diverted by such finesse as she could employ. AllJenny could do was to play for safety in the passage of time. If shecould beat him off until Emmy returned she could be safe for to-night;and if she were safe now--anything might happen another day to bringabout her liberation. 

"Bullying won't do. I grant that, " she retorted defiantly. "You needn'tthink it will. " She jerked her head. 

"We're going to have this out, " Alf went on. Jenny darted a look ofentreaty at the kicking clock which lay so helplessly upon its side. Ifonly the clock would come to her aid, forgetting the episode of thetea-cosy!

"Take you all your time, " she said swiftly. "Why, the theatre's all fullby now. The people are all in. They're tuning up for the overture. Lookat it!" She pointed a wavering finger at the clock. 

"We're going to have this out--now!" repeated Alf. "You know why Ibrought the tickets here. It was because I wanted to take _you_. It's nogood denying it. That's enough. Somehow--I don't know why--you don'twant to go; and while I'm not looking you shove old Em on to me. "

"That's what you say, " Jenny protested. Alf took no notice of herinterruption. He doggedly proceeded. 

"As I say, Em's all right enough. No fault to find with her. But she'snot you. And it's you I wanted. Now, if I take her--"

"You'll enjoy it very much, " she weakly asserted. "Ever so much. Besides, Alf, "--she began to appeal to him, in an attempt towheedle--"Em's a real good sort. .. . You don't know half the things . .. "

"I know all about Em. I don't need you to tell me what she is. I can seefor myself. " Alf rocked a little with an ominous obstinacy. His eyeswere fixed upon her with an unwinking stare. It was as though, havingdelivered a blow with the full weight of party bias, he were desiringher to take a common-sense view of a vehement political issue. 

"What can you see?" With a feeble dash of spirit, Jenny had attemptedtactical flight. The sense of it made her feel as she had done, as alittle girl, in playing touch; when, with a swerve, she had striven toelude the pursuer. So tense were her nerves on such occasions that sheturned what is called "goosey" with the feel of the evaded fingers. 

Alf rolled his head again, slightly losing his temper at theinconvenient question, which, if he had tried to answer it, might havediverted him from the stern chase upon which he was engaged. The senseof that made him doubly resolved upon sticking to the point. 

"Oh, never you mind, " he said, stubbornly. "Quite enough of that. Nowthe question is--and it's a fair one, --why did you shove Em on to me!"

"I didn't! You did it yourself!"

"Well, that's a flat lie!" he cried, slapping the table in a suddenfury, and glaring at her. "That's what that is. "

Jenny crimsoned. It made the words no better that Alf had spoken truly. She was deeply offended. They were both now sparkling with temper, restless with it, and Jenny's teeth showing. 

"I'm a liar, am I!" she exclaimed. "Well, you can just lump it, then. I shan't say another word. Not if you call me a liar. You've comehere . .. " Her breath caught, and for a second she could not speak. "You've come here _kindly_ to let us lick your boots, I suppose. Is thatit? Well, we're not going to do it. We never have, and we never will. Never! It's a drop for you, you think, to take Emmy out. A bit ofkindness on your part. She's not up to West End style. That it? But youneedn't think you're too good for her. There's no reason, I'm sure. You're not!. .. All because you're a man. Auch! I'm sick of the men! Youthink you've only got to whistle. Yes, you do! You think if you crookyour little finger. .. . Oh no, my lad. That's where you're wrong. You'remaking a big mistake there. We can look after ourselves, thank you! Nochasing after the men! Pa's taught us that. We're not quite alone. Wehaven't got to take--we've neither of us got to take--whatever's offeredto us . .. As you think. We've got Pa still!"

Her voice had risen. An unexpected interruption stopped the argument forthe merest fraction of time. 

"Aye, " said Pa. "They've got their old Pa!" He had taken his pipe out ofhis mouth and was looking towards the combatants with an eye that forone instant seemed the eye of perfect comprehension. It frightened Jennyas much as it disconcerted Alf. It was to both of them, but especiallyto Alf, like the shock of a cold sponge laid upon a heated brow. 

"I never said you hadn't!" he sulkily said, and turned round to lookamazedly at Pa. But Pa had subsided once more, and was drinking withmournful avidity from his tankard. Occupied with the tankard, Pa hadneither eye nor thought for anything else. Alf resumed after the baffledpause. "Yes. You've got him all right enough. .. . " Then: "You're tryingto turn it off with your monkey tricks!" he said suddenly. "But I seewhat it is. I was a fool not to spot it at once. You've got some otherfellow in tow. I'm not good enough for you any longer. Got no use for meyourself; but you don't mind turning me over to old Em. .. . " He shook hishead. "Well, I don't understand it, " he concluded miserably. "I used tothink you was straight, Jen. "

"I am!" It was a desperate cry, from her heart. Alf sighed. 

"You're not playing the game, Jen old girl, " he said, more kindly, morethoughtfully. "That's what's the matter. I don't know what it is, orwhat you're driving at; but that's what's wrong. What's the matter withme? Anything? I know I'm not much of a one to shout the odds about. Idon't expect you to do that. Never did. But I never played you a tricklike this. What is it? What's the game you think you're playing?" Whenshe did not answer his urgent and humble appeal he went on in anothertone: "I shall find out, mind you. It's not going to stop here. I shallask Emmy. I can trust her. "

"You _can't_ ask her!" Jenny cried. It was wrung from her. "You justdare to ask her. If she knew you hadn't meant to take her to-night, itud break her heart. It would. There!" Her voice had now the ring ofintense sincerity. She was not afraid, not defiant. She was a woman, defending another woman's pride. 

Alf groaned. His cheeks became less ruddy. He looked quickly at thedoor, losing confidence. 

"No: I don't know what it is, " he said again. "I don't understand it. "He sat, biting his under lip, miserably undetermined. His grim front haddisappeared. He was, from the conquering hero, become a crestfallenyoung man. He could not be passionate with Pa there. He felt that ifonly she were in his arms she could not be untruthful, could not resisthim at all; but with the table between them she was safe from anyattack. He was powerless. And he could not say he loved her. He wouldnever be able to bring himself to say that to any woman. A woman mightask him if he loved her, and he would awkwardly answer that of course hedid; but it was not in his nature to proclaim the fact in so many words. He had not the fluency, the dramatic sense, the imaginative power tosink and to forget his own self-consciousness. And so Jenny had won thatbattle--not gloriously, but through the sheer mischance ofcircumstances. Alf was beaten, and Jenny understood it. 

"Don't _think_ about me, " she whispered, in a quick pity. Alf stillshook his head, reproachfully eyeing her with the old bull-like concern. "I'm not worth thinking about. I'm only a beast. And you say you cantrust Emmy. .. . She's ever so . .. "

"Ah, but she can't make me mad like you do!" he said simply. "Jen, willyou come another night . .. Do!" He was beseeching her, his handsstretched towards her across the table, as near to making love as hewould ever be. It was his last faint hope for the changing of her hearttowards him. But Jenny slowly shook her head from side to side, a judgerefusing the prisoner's final desperate entreaties. 

"No, " she said. "It's no good, Alf. It'll never be any good as long as Ilive. "

iii

Alf put out his hand and covered Jenny's hand with it; and the hand heheld, after a swift movement, remained closely imprisoned. And just atthat moment, when the two were striving for mastery, the door opened andEmmy came back into the room. She was fully dressed for going out, herface charmingly set off by the hat she had offered earlier to Jenny, hereyes alight with happiness, her whole bearing unutterably changed. 

"_Now_ who's waiting!" she demanded; and at the extraordinary sightbefore her she drew a quick breath, paling. It did not matter that theclinging hands were instantly apart, or that Alf rose hurriedly to meether. "What's that?" she asked, in a trembling tone. "What are youdoing?" As though she felt sick and faint, she sat sharply down upon herold chair near the door. Jenny rallied. 

"Only a kid's game, " she said. "Nothing at all. " Alf said nothing, looking at neither girl. Emmy tried to speak again; but at first thewords would not come. Finally she went on, with dreadful understanding. 

"Didn't you want to take me, Alf? Did you want her to go?"

It was as though her short absence, perhaps even the change of costume, had worked a curious and cognate change in her mind. Perhaps it was thatin her flushed happiness she had forgotten to be suspicious, or hadblindly misread the meanings of the earlier colloquy, as a result ofwhich the invitation had been given. 

"Don't be so silly!" quickly cried Jenny. "Of course he wanted you togo!"

"Alf!" Emmy's eyes were fixed upon him with a look of urgent entreaty. She looked at Alf with all the love, all the extraordinary intimateconfidence with which women of her class do so generally regard the menthey love, ready to yield judgment itself to his decision. When he didnot answer, but stood still before them like a red-faced boy, staringdown at the floor, she seemed to shudder, and began despairingly tounfasten the buttons of her thick coat. Jenny darted up and ran to checkthe process. 

"Don't be a fool!" she breathed. "Like that! You've got no time for ascene. " Turning to Alf, she motioned him with a swift gesture to thedoor. "Look sharp!" she cried. 

"I'm not going!" Emmy struggled with Jenny's restraining hands. "It's nogood fussing me, Jenny. .. . I'm not going. He can take who he likes. Butit's not me. "

Alf and Jenny exchanged angry glances, each bitterly blaming the other. 

"Em!" Jenny shouted. "You're mad!"

"No, I'm not. Let me go! Let me go! He didn't want me to go. He wantedyou. Oh, I knew it. I was a fool to think he wanted me. " Then, lookingwith a sort of crazed disdain at Jenny, she said coolly, "Well, how isit you're not ready? Don't you see your _substitute's_ waiting! Your_land_ lover!"

"Land!" cried Alf. "Land! A sailor!" He flushed deeply, raising his armsa little as if to ward off some further revelation. Jenny, desperate, had her hands higher than her head, protestingly quelling the scene. Ina loud voice she checked them. 

"Do . .. Not . .. Be . .. Fools!" she cried. "What's all the fuss about?Simply because Alf's a born booby, standing there like a fool! I can'tgo. I wouldn't go--even if he wanted me. But he wants you!" She againseized Emmy, delaying once more Emmy's mechanical unfastening of the bigbuttons of her coat. "Alf! Get your coat. Get her out of the house! Inever heard such rubbish! Alf, say . .. Tell her you meant her to go! Sayit wasn't me!"

"I shouldn't believe him, " Emmy said, clearly. "I know I saw him holdingyour hand. "

Jenny laughed hysterically. 

"What a fuss!" she exclaimed. "He's been doing palmistry--reading it. All about . .. What's going to happen to me. Wasn't it, Alf!"

Emmy disregarded her, watching Alf's too-transparent uneasiness. 

"You always _were_ a little lying beast, " she said, venomously. "Atrickster. "

"You see?" Jenny said, defiantly to Alf. "What my own sister says?"

"So you were. With your _sailor_. .. . And playing the fool with Alf!"Emmy's voice rose. "You always were. .. . I wonder Alf's never seen itlong ago. .. . "

At this moment, with electrifying suddenness, Pa put down his tankard. 

"What, ain't you gone yet?" he trembled. "I thought you was going out!"

"How did he know!" They all looked sharply at one another, sobered. So, for one instant, they stood, incapable of giving any explanation to themeekly inquiring old man who had disturbed their quarrel. Alf, sohelpless before the girls, was steeled by the interruption. He took twosteps towards Emmy. 

"We'll have this out later on, " he said. "Meanwhile . .. Come on, Em!It's just on eight. Come along, there's a good girl!" He stooped, tookher hands, and drew her to her feet. Then, with uncommon tenderness, here-buttoned her coat, and, with one arm about her, led Emmy to the door. She pressed back, but it was against him, within the magic circle of hisarm, suddenly deliriously happy. 

Jenny, still panting, stood as she had stood for the last few minutes, and watched their departure. She heard the front door close as they leftthe house; and with shaky steps went and slammed the door of thekitchen. Trembling violently, she leant against the door, as Emmy haddone earlier. For a moment she could not speak, could not think or feel;and only as a clock in the neighbourhood solemnly recorded the eighthhour did she choke down a little sob, and say with the ghost of herbereaved irony:

"That's _done_ it!"

CHAPTER IV: THE WISH

i

Waiting until she had a little recovered her self-control, Jennypresently moved from the door to the fireplace, and proceededmethodically to put coals on the fire. She was still shaking slightly, and the corners of her mouth were uncontrollably twitching withalternate smiles and other raiding emotions; so that she did not yetfeel in a fit state to meet Pa's scrutiny. He might be the old fool hesometimes appeared to be, and, inconveniently, he might not. Justbecause she did not want him to be particularly bright it was quiteprobable that he would have a flourish of brilliance. That is as itoccasionally happens, in the dullest of mortals. So Jenny was some timein attending to the fire, until she supposed that any undue redness ofcheek might be imagined to have been occasioned by her strenuousactivities. She then straightened herself and looked down at Pa with acurious mixture of protectiveness and anxiety. 

"Pleased with yourself, aren't you?" she inquired, more to makeconversation which might engage the ancient mind in ruminant pastimethan to begin any series of inquiries into Pa's mental states. 

"Eh, Jenny?" said Pa, staring back at her. "Ain't you gone out? Is itEmmy that's gone out? What did that fool Alf Rylett want? He wasshouting. .. . I heard him. "

"Yes, Pa; but you shouldn't have listened, " rebuked Jenny, with a finecolour. 

Pa shook his shaggy head. He felt cunningly for his empty tankard, hoping that it had been refilled by his benevolent genius. It was notuntil the full measure of his disappointment had been revealed that heanswered her. 

"I wasn't listening, " he quavered. "I didn't hear what he said. .. . DidEmmy go out with him?"

"Yes, Pa. To the theatre. Alf brought tickets. Tickets! Tickets forseats. .. . Oh, dear! _Why_ can't you understand! Didn't have to pay atthe door. .. . "

Pa suddenly understood. 

"Oh ah!" he said. "Didn't have to pay. .. . " There was a pause. "That'slike Alf Rylett, " presently added Pa. Jenny sat looking at him inconsternation at such an uncharitable remark. 

"It's not!" she cried. "I never _knew_ you were such a wicked old man!"

Pa gave an antediluvian chuckle that sounded like a magical andappalling rattle from the inner recesses of his person. He was gettingbrighter and brighter, as the stars appear to do when the darknessdeepens. 

"See, " he proceeded. "Did Alf say there was any noos?" He admitted anuncertainty. Furtively he looked at her, suspecting all the time thatmemory had betrayed him; but in his ancient way continuing to trust toMagic. 

"Well, you didn't seem to think much of what he _did_ bring. But I'lltell you a bit of news, Pa. And that is, that you've got a pair of therummiest daughters I ever struck!"

Pa looked out from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows, resembling a wornand dilapidated perversion of Whistler's portrait of Carlyle. Hiseyelids seemed to work as he brooded upon her announcement. It was asthough, together, these two explored the Blanchard archives forconfirmation of Jenny's sweeping statement. The Blanchards of severalgenerations might have been imagined as flitting across a fantastichorizon, keening for their withered laurels, thrown into the shades bythese more brighter eccentrics. It was, or it might have been, afascinating speculation. But Pa did not indulge this antique vein forvery long. The moment and its concrete images beguiled him back to thedaughter before him and the daughter who was engaged in an unexpectedemotional treat. He said:

"I know, " and gave a wide grin that showed the gaps in his teeth asnothing else could have done--not even the profoundest yawn. Jenny wasstunned by this evidence of brightness in her parent. 

"Well, you're a caution!" she cried. "And to think of you sitting theresaying it! And I reckon they've got a pretty rummy old Pa--if the truthwas only known. "

Pa's grin, if possible, stretched wider. Again that terrible chuckle, which suggested a derangement of his internal parts, or the running-downof an overwound clock, wheezed across the startled air. 

"Maybe, " Pa said, with some unpardonable complacency. "Maybe. "

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Jenny. She could not be sure, when his mannerreturned to one of vacancy, and when the kitchen was silent, whether Paand she had really talked thus, or whether she had dreamed their talk. To her dying day she was never sure, for Pa certainly added nothing tothe conversation thereafter. Was it real? Or had her too excited brainplayed her a trick? Jenny pinched herself. It was like a fairy tale, inwhich cats talk and little birds humanly sing, or the tiniest of fairiesappear from behind clocks or from within flower-pots. She looked at Pawith fresh awe. There was no knowing where you had him! He had theinterest, for her, of one returned by miracle from other regions, gifted with preposterous knowledges. .. . He became at this instantfabulous, like Rip Van Winkle, or the Sleeping Beauty . .. Or the WhiteCat. .. . 

In her perplexity Jenny fell once more into a kind of dream, anargumentative dream. She went back over the earlier rows, re-livingthem, exaggerating unconsciously the noble unselfishness of her own actsand the pointed effectiveness of her speeches, until the scenes weretransformed. They now appeared in other hues, in other fashionings. Thisis what volatile minds are able to do with all recent happeningswhatsoever, re-casting them in form altogether more exquisite than thecrude realities. The chiaroscuro of their experiences is thus soconstantly changing and recomposing that--whatever the apparent resultof the scene in fact--the dreamer is in retrospect always victor, in theheroic limelight. With Jenny this was a mood, not a preoccupation; butwhen she had been moved or excited beyond the ordinary she often didtend to put matters in a fresh aspect, more palatable to her self-love, and more picturesque in detail than the actual happening. That is one ofthe advantages of the rapidly-working brain, that its power ofimprovisation is, in solitude, very constant and reassuring. It is asthough such a grain, upon this more strictly personal side, were acommonwealth of little cell-building microbes. The chief microbe comes, like the engineer, to estimate the damage to one's _amour propre_ and todevise means of repair. He then summons all his necessary workmen, whoare tiny self-loves and ancient praises and habitual complacencies andthe staircase words of which one thinks too late for use in the sceneitself; and with their help he restores that proportion without whichthe human being cannot maintain his self-respect. Jenny was like theBritish type as recorded in legend; being beaten, she never admitted it;but even, five minutes later, through the adroitness of her specialengineer and his handymen, would be able quite seriously to demonstratea victory to herself. 

Defeat? Never! How Alf and Emmy shrank now before her increasing skillin argument. How were they shattered! How inept were their feebleness!How splendid Jenny had been, in act, in motive, in speech, inperformance!

"Er, yes!" Jenny said, beginning to ridicule her own highly colouredpicture. "Well, it was _something_ like that!" She had too much sense ofthe ridiculous to maintain for long unquestioned the heroic vein asnatural to her own actions. More justly, she resumed her considerationof the scenes, pondering over them in their nakedness and theirmeanings, trying to see how all these stupid little feelings had bursttheir way from overcharged hearts, and how each word counted as part ofthe mosaic of misunderstanding that had been composed. 

"Oh, blow!" Jenny impatiently ejaculated, with a sinking heart at thethought of any sequel. A sequel there was bound to be--however muffled. It did not rest with her. There were Emmy and Alf, both alike burningwith the wish to avenge themselves--upon her! If only she coulddisappear--just drop out altogether, like a man overboard at night in astorm; and leave Emmy and Alf to settle together their own trouble. Shecouldn't drop out; nobody could, without dying, though they might oftenwish to do so; and even then their bodies were the only things that weregone, because for a long time they stubbornly survived in memory. No:she couldn't drop out. There was no chance of it. She was caught in theweb of life; not alone, but a single small thing caught in the generalmix-up of actions and inter-actions. She had just to go on as she wasdoing, waking up each morning after the events and taking her old placein the world; and in this instance she would have, somehow, to smoothmatters over when the excitements and agitations of the evening werepast. It would be terribly difficult. She could not yet see a clearcourse. If only Emmy didn't live in the same house! If only, by throwingAlf over as far as concerned herself, she could at the same time throwhim into Emmy's waiting arms. Why couldn't everybody be sensible? Ifonly they could all be sensible for half-an-hour everything could bearranged and happiness could be made real for each of them. No:misunderstandings were bound to come, angers and jealousies, conflictingdesires, stupid suspicions. .. . Jenny fidgeted in her chair and eyed Pawith a sort of vicarious hostility. Why, even that old man was acomplication! Nay, he was the worst thing of all! But for him, she_could_ drop out! There was no getting away from him! He was as muchpermanently there as the chair upon which he was drowsing. She saw himas an incubus. And then Emmy being so fussy! Standing on her dignitywhen she'd give her soul for happiness! And then Alf being so . .. Whatwas Alf? Well, Alf was stupid. That was the word for Alf. He was stupid. As stupid as any stupid member of his immeasurably stupid sex could be!

"Great booby!" muttered Jenny. Why, look at the way he had behaved whenEmmy had come into the room. It wasn't honesty, mind you; because hecould tell any old lie when he wanted to. It was just funk. He hadn'tknown where to look, or what to say. Too slow, he was, to think ofanything. What could you do with a man like that? Oh, what stupids menwere! She expected that Alf would feel very fine and noble as he walkedold Em along to the theatre--and afterwards, when the evening was overand he had gone off in a cloud of glory. He would think it all over andcome solemnly to the conclusion that the reason for his mumblingstupidity, his toeing and heeling, and all that idiotic speechlessnessthat set Emmy on her hind legs, was sheer love of the truth. He couldn'ttell a lie--to a woman. That would be it. He would pretend that Jennyhad chivvied him into taking Em, that he was too noble to refuse to takeEm, or to let Em really see point-blank that he didn't want to take her;but when it came to the pinch he hadn't been able to screw himself intothe truly noble attitude needed for such an act of self-sacrifice. Hehad been speechless when a prompt lie, added to the promptitude andexactitude of Jenny's lie, would have saved the situation. Not Alf!

"I cannot tell a lie, " sneered Jenny. "To a woman. George Washington. I_don't_ think!"

Yes; but then, said her secret complacency, preening itself, andsuggesting that possibly a moment or two of satisfied pity might be atthis point in place, he'd really wanted to take Jenny. He had taken thetickets because he had wanted to be in Jenny's company for the evening. Not Emmy's. There was all the difference. If you wanted a cream bun andgot fobbed off with a scone! There was something in that. Jenny wasrather flattered by her happy figure. She even excitedly giggled at thecomparison of Emmy with a scone. Jenny did not like scones. She thoughtthem stodgy. She had also that astounding feminine love of cream bunswhich no true man could ever acknowledge or understand. So Emmy became ascone, with not too many currents in it. Jenny's fluent fancy wasinclined to dwell upon this notion. She a little lost sight of Alf'sgrievance in her pleasure at the figures she had drawn. Her mind wasrecalled with a jerk. Now: what was it? Alf had wanted to takeher--Jenny. Right! He had taken Emmy. Because he had taken Emmy, he hada grievance. Right! But against whom? Against Emmy? Certainly not. Against himself? By no means. Against Jenny? A horribly exulting and yetnervously penitent little giggle shook Jenny at her inability to answerthis point as she had answered the others. For Alf _had_ a grievanceagainst Jenny, and she knew it. No amount of ingenious thought couldhoodwink her sense of honesty for more than a debater's five minutes. NoAlf had a grievance. Jenny could not, in strict privacy, deny the fact. She took refuge in a shameless piece of bluster. 

"Well, after all!" she cried, "he had the tickets given to him. It's notas though they _cost_ him anything! So what's all the row about?"

ii

Thereafter she began to think of Alf. He had taken her out severaltimes--not as many times as Emmy imagined, because Emmy had thoughtabout these excursions a great deal and not only magnified butmultiplied them. Nevertheless, Alf had taken Jenny out several times. Toa music hall once or twice; to the pictures, where they had sat andthrilled in cushioned darkness while acrobatic humans and grey-facedtragic creatures jerked and darted at top speed in and out of the mostamazingly telescoped accidents and difficulties. And Alf had paid morethan once, for all Pa said. It is true that Jenny had paid on herbirthday for both of them; and that she had occasionally paid forherself upon an impulse of sheer independence. But there had been othertimes when Alf had really paid for both of them. He had been very decentabout it. He had not tried any nonsense, because he was not aflirtatious fellow. Well, it had been very nice; and now it was allspoilt. It was spoilt because of Emmy. Emmy had spoilt it by wanting Alffor herself. Ugh! thought Jenny. Em had always been a jealous cat: ifshe had just seen Alf somewhere she wouldn't have wanted him. That wasit! Em saw that Alf preferred Jenny; she saw that Jenny went out withhim. And because she always wanted to do what Jenny did, and alwayswanted what Jenny had got, Em wanted to be taken out by Alf. Jenny, withthe cruel unerringness of an exasperated woman, was piercing to Emmy'sheart with fierce lambent flashes of insight. And if Alf had taken Emonce or twice, and Jenny once or twice, not wanting either one or theother, or not wanting one of them more than the other, Em would havebeen satisfied. It would have gone no further. It would still have beensensible, without nonsense. But it wouldn't do for Em. So long as Jennywas going out Emmy stayed at home. She had said to herself: "Why shouldJenny go, and not me . .. Having all this pleasure?" That had been thefirst stage--Jenny worked it all out. First of all, it had been envy ofJenny's going out. Then had come stage number two: "Why should AlfRylett always take Jenny, and not me?" That had been the first stage ofjealousy of Alf. And the next time Alf took Jenny, Em had stayed athome, and thought herself sick about it, supposing that Alf and Jennywere happy and that she was unhappy, supposing they had all the fun, envying them the fun, hating them for having what she had not got, hating Jenny for monopolising Alf, hating Alf had monopolising Jenny;then, as she was a woman, hating Jenny for being a more pleasing womanthan herself, and having her wounded jealousy moved into a strongcraving for Alf, driven deeper and deeper into her heart bylong-continued thought and frustrated desire. And so she had come tolook upon herself as one defrauded by Jenny of pleasure--ofhappiness--of love--of Alf Rylett. 

"And she calls it love!" thought Jenny bitterly. "If that's love, I'vegot no use for it. Love's giving, not getting. I know that much. Love'sgiving yourself; wanting to give all you've got. It's got nothing at allto do with envy, or hating people, or being jealous. .. . " Then a swiftfeeling of pity darted through her, changing her thoughts, changingevery shade of the portrait of Emmy which she had been etching with herquick corrosive strokes of insight. "Poor old Em!" she murmured. "She'shad a rotten time. I know she has. Let her have Alf if she wants. Idon't want him. I don't want anybody . .. Except . .. " She closed her eyesin the most fleeting vision. "Nobody except just Keith. .. . "

Slowly Jenny raised her hand and pressed the back of her wrist to herlips, not kissing the wrist, but holding it against her lips so thatthey were forced hard back upon her teeth. She drew, presently, a deepbreath, releasing her arm again and clasping her hands over her knees asshe bent lower, staring at the glowing heart of the fire. Her lips wereclosely, seriously, set now; her eyes sorrowful. Alf and Emmy hadreceded from her attention as if they had been fantastic shadows. Pa, sitting holding his exhausted hubble-bubble, was as though he had noexistence at all. Jenny was lost in memory and the painful aspirationsof her own heart. 

iii

How the moments passed during her reverie she did not know. For her itseemed that time stood still while she recalled days that werebeautified by distance, and imagined days that should be still to come, made to compensate for that long interval of dullness that pressed hereach morning into acquiescence. She bent nearer to the fire, smiling toherself. The fire showing under the little door of the kitchener was abright red glowing ash, the redness that came into her imagination whenthe words "fire" or "heat" were used--the red heart, burning andconsuming itself in its passionate immolation. She loved the fire. Itwas to her the symbol of rapturous surrender, that feminine ideal thatlay still deeper than her pride, locked in the most secret chamber ofher nature. 

And then, as the seconds ticked away, Jenny awoke from her dream and sawthat the clock upon the mantelpiece said half-past eight. Half-pasteight was what, in the Blanchard home, was called "time. " When Pa wasrecalcitrant Jenny occasionally shouted very loud, with what might haveappeared to some people an undesirable knowledge of customs, "Act ofParliament, gentlemen, please"--which is a phrase sometimes used inclearing a public-house. To-night there was no need for her to do that. She had only to look at Pa, to take from his hand the almost empty pipe, to knock out the ashes, and to say:

"Time, Pa!" Obediently Pa held out his right hand and clutched in theother his sturdy walking-stick. Together they tottered into the bedroom, stood a moment while Jenny lighted the peep of gas which was Pa'sguardian angel during the night, and then made their way to the bed. Pasat upon the bed, like a child. Jenny took off Pa's collar and tie, andhis coat and waistcoat; she took off his boots and his socks; she laidbeside him the extraordinary faded scarlet nightgown in which Pa sleptaway the darkness. Then she left him to struggle out of his clothes aswell as he could, which Pa did with a skill worthy of his best days. Thecunning which replaces competence had shown him how the braces may bemade to do their own work, how the shirt may with one hand be somanipulated as to be drawn swiftly over the head. .. Pa was adept atundressing. He was in bed within five minutes, after a panting, exhausted interval during which he sat in a kind of trance, and was thenproudly as usual knocking upon the floor with his walking-stick forJenny to come and tuck him in for the night. 

Jenny came, gave him a big kiss, and went back to the kitchen, where sheresumed work upon her hat. It had lost its interest for her. Shestitched quickly and roughly, not as one interested in needlework orcareful for its own sake of the regularity of the stitch. Ordinarily shewas accurate: to-night her attention was elsewhere. It had come back tothe rows, because there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makesit ever so much more important than it really is. Loneliness with happythoughts is perhaps an ideal state; but no torment could be greater thanloneliness with thoughts that wound. Jenny's thoughts wounded her. Themood of complacency was gone: that of shame and discontent was upon her. Distress was uppermost in her mind--not the petulant wriggling of aspoilt child, but the sober consciousness of pain in herself and inothers. In vain did Jenny give little gasps of annoyance, intended byher humour to disperse the clouds. The gasps and exclamations wereunavailing. She was angry, chagrined, miserable. . .. At last she couldbear the tension no longer, but threw down her work, rose, and walkedimpatiently about the kitchen. 

"Oh, _do_ shut up!" she cried to her insistent thoughts. "Enough todrive anybody off their nut. And they're not worth it, either of them. Em's as stupid as she can be, thinking about herself. .. . And as forAlf--anybody'd think I'd tricked him. I haven't. I've gone out with him;but what's that? Lots of girls go out with fellows for months, andnobody expects them to marry. The girls may want it; but the fellowsdon't. They don't want to get settled down. And I don't blame them. Whyis Alf different? I suppose it's me that's different. I'm not like othergirls. .. . " That notion cheered her. "No: I'm not like other girls. Iwant my bit of fun. I've never had any. And just because I don't want tosettle down and have a lot of kids that mess the place to bits, ofcourse I get hold of Alf! It's too bad! Why can't he choose the rightsort of girl? Why can't he choose old Em? She's the sort that _does_want to get settled. She knows she'll have to buck up about it, too. Shesaid I should get left. That's what she's afraid of, herself; only she'safraid of getting left on the shelf. .. . I wonder why it is the marryingmen don't get hold of the marrying girls! They do, sometimes, Isuppose. .. . " Jenny shrugged restlessly and stood looking at nothing. "Oh, it's sickening! You can't do anything you like in this world. Nothing at all! You've always got to do what you _don't_ like. They sayit's good for you. It's your 'duty. ' Who to? And who are 'they, ' to saysuch a thing? What are they after? Just to keep people like me in theirplace--do as you're told. Well, I'm not going to do as I'm told. Theycan lump it! That's what they can do. What does it matter--what happensto me? I'm me, aren't I? Got a right to live, haven't I? Why should I besomebody's servant all my life? I _won't!_ If Alf doesn't want to marryEmmy, he can go and whistle somewhere else. There's plenty of girlswho'd jump at him. But just because I don't, he'll worry me to death. IfI was to be all over him--see Alf sheer off! He'd think there wassomething funny about me. Well, there is! I'm Jenny Blanchard; and I'mgoing to keep Jenny Blanchard. If I've got no right to live, thennobody's got any right to keep me from living. If there's no rights, other people haven't got any more than I have. They can't make me doanything--by any right they've got. People--managing people--think thatbecause there isn't a corner of the earth they haven't collared they cantell you what you've got to do. Give you a ticket and a number, get upat six, eat so much a day, have six children, do what you're told. Thatmay do for some people; but it's slavery. And I'm not going to do it. See!" She began to shout in her excited indignation. "See!" she criedagain. "Just because I'm poor, I'm to do what I'm told. They seem tothink that because they like to do what they're told, everybody ought tobe the same. They're afraid. They're afraid of themselves--afraid ofbeing left alone in the dark. They think everybody ought to beafraid--in case anybody should find out that they're cowards! But I'mnot afraid, and I'm not going to do what I'm told. .. . I won't!"

In a frenzy she walked about the room, her eyes glittering, her faceflushed with tumultuous anger. This was her defiance to life. She hadbeen made into a rebel through long years in which she had unconsciouslymeasured herself with others. Because she was a human being, Jennythought she had a right to govern her own actions. With a wholepriesthood against her, Jenny was a rebel against the world as itappeared to her--a crushing, numerically overwhelming pressure thatwould rob her of her one spiritual reality--the sense of personalfreedom. 

"Oh, I can't stand it!" she said bitterly. "I shall go mad! And Emtaking it all in, and ready to have Alf's foot on her neck for life. AndAlf ready to have Em chained to his foot for life. The fools! Why, Iwouldn't . .. Not even to Keith. .. . No, I wouldn't. .. . Fancy being boxedup and pretending I liked it--just because other people say they likeit. Do as you're told. Do like other people. All be the same--a stickymass of silly fools doing as they're told! All for a bit of bread, because somebody's bagged the flour for ever! And what's the good of it?If it was any good--but it's no good at all! And they go on doing itbecause they're cowards! Cowards, that's what they all are. Well, I'mnot like that!"

Exhausted, Jenny sat down again; but she could not keep still. Her feetwould not remain quietly in the place she, as the governingintelligence, commanded. They too were rebels, nervous rebels, controlled by forces still stronger than the governing intelligence. Shefelt trapped, impotent, as though her hands were tied; as though onlyher whirling thoughts were unfettered. Again she took up the hat, buther hands so trembled that she could not hold the needle steady. It madefierce jabs into the hat. Stormily unhappy, she once more threw the workdown. Her lips trembled. She burst into bitter tears, sobbing as thoughher heart were breaking. Her whole body was shaken with the deep andpassionate sobs that echoed her despair. 

iv

Presently, when she grew calmer, Jenny wiped her eyes, her face quitepale and her hands still convulsively trembling. She was worn out bythe stress of the evening, by the vehemence of her rebellious feelings. When she again spoke to herself it was in a shamed, giggling way thatnobody but Emmy had heard from her since the days of childhood. She gavea long sigh, looking through the blur at that clear glow from beneaththe iron door of the kitchen grate. Miserably she refused to thinkagain. She was half sick of thoughts that tore at her nerves andlacerated her heart. To herself Jenny felt that it was no good--cryingwas no good, thinking was no good, loving and sympathising and givingkindness--all these things were in this mood as useless as one another. There was nothing in life but the endless sacrifice of human spirit. 

"Oh!" she groaned passionately. "If only something would happen. I don'tcare _what!_ But something . .. Something new . .. Exciting. Somethingwith a bite in it!"

She stared at the kicking clock, which every now and again seemed tohave a spasm of distaste for its steady record of the fleeting seconds. "Wound up to go all day!" she thought, comparing the clock with herselfin an angry impatience. 

And then, as if it came in answer to her poignant wish for some untowardhappening, there was a quick double knock at the front door of theBlanchard's dwelling, and a sharp whirring ring at the push-bell belowthe knocker. The sounds seemed to go violently through and through thelittle house in rapid waves of vibrant noise. 

PART TWO

NIGHT

CHAPTER V: THE ADVENTURE

i

So unexpected was this interruption of her loneliness that Jenny was foran instant stupefied. She took one step, and then paused, dread firmlyin her mind, paralysing her. What could it be? She could not have beenmore 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 theatreby now. Oh, she was afraid! She was alone in the house--worse thanalone! Jenny cowered. She felt she could not answer the summons. Tick-tick-tick said the clock, striking across the silences. Again Jennymade a step forward. Then, terrifying her, the noise began oncemore--the thunderous knock, the ping-ping-ping-whir of the bell. .. . 

Wrenching her mind away from apprehensiveness she moved quickly to thekitchen door and into the dimly-lighted dowdy passage-way. Somewherebeyond the gas flicker and the hat-stand lay--what? With all herdetermination she pushed forward, almost running to the door. Her handhovered over the little knob of the lock: only horror of a renewal ofthat dreadful sound prompted her to open the door quickly. She peeredinto the darkness, faintly silhouetted against the wavering light of thegas. 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. Aletter!

"For me, " she asked, her voice still unsteady. She took the letter, alarge square envelope. Mechanically she thanked the man, puzzling at theletter. From whom could a letter be brought to her?

"There's an answer, " she heard. It came from ever so far away, in thedim distance beyond her vague wonderings. Jenny was lost, submerged inthe sensations through which she had passed during the evening. She wasquite unlike herself, timid and fearful, a frightened girl alone in anunhappy 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 tothe darkness, the sheen of light upon a peaked cap such as would be wornby a chauffeur. It filled her mind that this man was in uniform. But ifso, why? From whom should the letter come? He had said "Miss JennyBlanchard. "

"You _did_ say it was for me? I'll take it inside. . .. " She left thedoor unfastened, but the man pulled it right to, so that the catchclicked. Then Jenny held the letter up under the flame of the passagegas. She read there by this meagre light her own name, the address, written in a large hand, very bold, with a sharp, sweeping stroke underall, such as a man of impetuous strength might make. There was a blueseal fastening the flap--a great pool of solid wax. Trembling so thatshe was hardly able to tear the envelope, Jenny returned to the kitchen, again scanning the address, the writing, the blue seal with its Minervahead. Still, in her perplexity, it seemed as though her task was firstto guess the identity of the sender. Who could have written to her? Itwas unheard of, a think for wondering jest, if only her lips had beensteady and her heart beating with normal pulsation. With a shrug, sheturned back from the seal to the address. She felt that some curiousmistake had been made, that the letter was not for her at all, but forsome 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 firstglance was at the signature. "Yours always, KEITH. "

Keith! Jenny gave a sob and moved swiftly to the light. Her eyes werequite 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 shouldwrite to you when I got back. Well, here I am. I can't come to youmyself. I'm tied here by the leg, and mustn't leave for a moment. Butyou said you'd come to me. Will you? Do! If you can come, you'll be amost awful dear, and I shall be out of my wits with joy. Not really outof my wits. _Do_ come, there's a dear good girl. It's my only chance, asI'm off again in the morning. The man who brings this note will bringyou 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 explaineverything when we meet. Yours always, KEITH. "

A long sigh broke from Jenny's lips as she finished reading. Shewas transfigured. Gone was the defiant look, gone were the sharpnessesthat earlier had appeared upon her face. A soft colour flooded hercheeks; her eyes shone. Come to him! She would go to the end of theworld. .. . Keith! She said it aloud, in a voice that was rich with herdeep 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 lookafter her father, that to desert him would be a breach of trust. Quicklyher face paled, and her eyes became horror-laden. She was shaken by theconflict of love and love, love that was pity and love that was theoverwhelming call of her nature. The letter fluttered from her fingers, swooping like a wounded bird to the ground, and lay unheeded at herfeet. 

iii

"What _shall_ I do?" Nobody to turn to; no help from any hand. To staywas to give up the chance of happiness. To go--oh, she couldn't go! IfKeith was tied, so was Jenny. Half demented, she left the letter whereit had fallen, a white square upon the shabby rug. In a frenzy she wrungher hands. What could she do? It was a cry of despair that broke fromher heart. She couldn't go, and Keith was waiting. That it should havehappened upon this evening of all others! It was bitter! To send back amessage, even though it be written with all her love, which still shemust not express to Keith in case he should think her lightly won, wouldbe to lose him for ever. He would never stand it. She saw his quickirritation, the imperious glance. . .. He was a king among men. She mustgo! Whatever the failure in trust, whatever the consequences, she mustgo. 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 Jennywould stay loyally there. It was too hard! The months, the long monthsduring 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 hadlaughingly offered had been her only consolation. Yes, well, why hadn'the written? Quickly her love urged his excuse. She might accuse him ofhaving forgotten her, but to herself she explained and pardoned all. That was not for this moment. Keith was not in fault. It was thisdreadful difficulty of occasion, binding her here when her heart waswith 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. Hiddenvoices throbbed the same message into her consciousness. But every eagerimpulse, winged with love, bade her go. To whom was her heart given? ToPa? Pity . .. Pity. . .. She pitied him, helpless at home. If anythinghappened to him! Nothing would happen. What could happen? Supposing shehad gone to the chandler's shop: in those few minutes all might happenthat 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 wouldcontinue to lie there at rest until morning. Supposing she had gone tobed--she would still be in the house; but in no position to look afterPa. He might die any night while they slept. It was only the idea ofleaving him, the superstitious idea that just _because_ she was notthere something would happen. Suppose she didn't go; but sat in thekitchen for two hours and then went to bed. Would she ever forgiveherself for letting slip the chance of happiness that had come directfrom 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 ofher life? Roughly she shouldered away her conscience, those throbbingurgencies that told her to stay. She was to give up everything for afear? She was to let Keith go for ever? Jenny wrung her hands, drawingsobbing breaths in her distress. 

Something made her pick the letter swiftly up and read it through asecond time. So wild was the desire to go that she began to whimper, kissing the letter again and again, holding it softly to her coldcheek. Keith! What did it matter? What did anything matter but her love?Was she never to know any happiness? Where, then, was her reward? Aheavenly crown of martyrdom? What was the good of that? Who was thebetter for it? Passionately Jenny sobbed at such a mockery of heroverwhelming impulse. "They" hadn't such a problem to solve. "They"didn't know what it was to have your whole nature craving for the thingdenied. "They" were cowards, enemies to freedom because they liked themusic of their manacles! They could not understand what it was to loveso 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; Jennywas racked with the sweet passion that blinds the eyes to consequences. She _must_ go! Wickedness might be her nature: what then? It was a sweetwickedness. 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 takingit up and setting it upon her head. The act was her defiance. She wasdetermined. As one deaf and blind, she went out of the kitchen, and tothe hall-stand, fumbling there for her hatpins. She pinned her hat asdeliberately as she might have done in leaving the house any morning. Her pale face was set. She had flung the gage. There remained only theacts consequential. And of those, since they lay behind the veil ofnight, who could now speak? Not Jenny!

iv

There was still Pa. He was there like a secret, lying snug in his warmbed, drowsily coaxing sleep while Jenny planned a desertion. Even whenshe was in the room, her chin grimly set and her lips quivering, ashudder seemed to still her heart. She was afraid. She could not forgethim. He lay there so quiet in the semi-darkness, a long mound under thebedclothes; and she was almost terrified at speaking to him because herimagination was heightened by the sight of his dim outline. He was sohelpless! Ah, if there had only been two Jennies, one to go, one tostay. The force of uncontrollable desire grappled with her pity. Shestill argued within herself, a weary echo of her earlier struggle. Hewould need nothing, she was sure. It would be for such a short time thatshe left him. He would hardly know she was not there. He would think shewas in the kitchen. But if he needed her? If he called, if he knockedwith 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 hefell! Her flesh crept as she imagined him helpless upon the floor, feebly struggling to rise. .. . It was of no use. She was bound to tellhim. .. . 

Jenny moved swiftly from the room, and returned with his nightly glassand jug of water. There could be nothing else that he would want duringthe 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 fromthe bedclothes, and she was fain to bend over him and kiss the tumbledhair. "Pa, dear . .. I want to go out. I've got to go out. Will you beall right if I leave you? Sure? You'll be a good boy, and not move! Ishall be back before Emmy, and you won't be lonely, or frightened--willyou!" She exhorted him. "See, I've _got_ to go out; and if I can't leaveyou. .. . You _are_ awake, Pa?"

"Yes, " breathed Pa, half asleep. "A good boy. Night, Jenny, my deariegirl. "

She drew back from the bed, deeply breathing, and stole to the door. Onelast glance she took, at the room and at the bed, closed the door andstood irresolute for a moment in the passage. Then she whipped her coatfrom 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 risingmoon cast a glittering surface of light, and the chimney pots madeslanting broad markings upon the silvered slates. The road was quitequiet but for the purring of a motor, and she could now, as her eyeswere clearer, observe the outline of a large car drawn to the left ofthe door. As the lock clicked behind her and as she went forward theside 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, andhe jumped down from his seat to open the door of the car. The actionstartled Jenny. Why had the man done that?

"Did you know I was coming?" she suddenly asked, drawing back with asort of chill. 

"Yes, miss, " said the man. Jenny caught her breath. She half turnedaway, like a shy horse that fears the friendly hand. He had been sure ofher, then. Oh, that was a wretched thought! She was shaken to the heartby such confidence. He had been sure of her! There was a flash of timein which she determined not to go; but it passed with dreadful speed. Too late, now, to draw back. Keith was waiting: he expected her! Thetears were in her eyes. She was more unhappy than she had been yet, andher heart was like water. 

The man still held open the door of the car. The inside was warm andinviting. His hand was upon her elbow; she was lost in the softcushions, and drowned in the sweet scent of the great nosegay of flowerswhich hung before her in a shining holder. And the car was purring moreloudly, and moving, moving as a ship moves when it glides so gently fromthe quay. Jenny covered her face with her hands, which cooled herburning cheeks as if they had been ice. Slowly the car nosed out of theroad into the wider thoroughfare. Her adventure had begun in earnest. There was no drawing back now. 

CHAPTER VI: THE YACHT

i

To lie deep among cushions, and gently to ride out along streets androads that she had so often tramped in every kind of weather, was enoughto intoxicate Jenny. She heard the soft humming of the engine, and sawlamps and other vehicles flashing by, with a sense of effortless speedthat was to her incomparable. If only she had been mentally at ease, andfree from distraction, she would have enjoyed every instant of herjourney. Even as it was, she could not restrain her eagerness as theyovertook a tramcar, and the chauffeur honked his horn, and they glidednearer and nearer, and passed, and seemed to leave the tram standing. Each time this was in process of happening Jenny gave a small excitedchuckle, thinking of the speed, and the ease, and of how the people inthe tram must feel at being defeated in the race. Every such encounterbecame a race, in which she pressed physically forward as if to urge hersteed to the final effort. Never had Jenny teen so eager for victory, soelated when its certainty was confirmed. It was worth while to live forsuch experience. How she envied her driver! With his steady hands uponthe steering wheel. .. . Ah, he was like a sailor, like the sailor ofromance, with the wind beating upon his face and his eyes ever-watchful. And under his hand the car rode splendidly to Keith. 

Jenny closed her eyes. She could feel her heart beating fast, and theblood heating her cheeks, reddening them. The blood hurt her, and hermouth seemed to hurt, too, because she had smiled so much. She lay back, thinking of Keith and of their meetings--so few, so long ago, soindescribably happy and beautiful. She always remembered him as he hadbeen when first he had caught her eye, when he had stood so erect amongother men who lounged by the sea, smoking and lolling at ease. He wasdifferent, as she was different. And she was going to him. How happy shewas! And why did her breath come quickly and her heart sink? She couldnot bother to decide that question. She was too excited to do so. In allher life she had never known a moment of such breathless anticipation, of excitement which she believed was all happiness. 

There was one other thought that Jenny shirked, and that went onnevertheless in spite of her inattention, plying and moulding somewheredeep below her thrilling joy. The thought was, that she must not showKeith that she loved him, because while she knew--she felt sure--that Heloved her, she must not be the smallest fraction of time before him inconfession. She was too proud for that. He would tell her that he lovedher; and the spell would be broken. Her shyness would be gone; herbravado immediately unnecessary. But until then she must beware. It wasas necessary to Keith's pride as to her own that he should win her. TheKeith she loved would not care for a love too easily won. Theconsciousness of this whole issue was at work below her thoughts; andher thoughts, from joy and dread, to the discomfort of doubt, racedfaster than the car, speedless and headlong. Among them were two thatbitterly corroded. They were of Pa and of Keith's confidence that shewould come. Both were as poison in her mind. 

ii

And then there came a curious sense that something had happened. The carstopped in darkness, and through the air there came in the huge tones ofBig Ben the sound of a striking hour. It was nine o'clock. They wereback at Westminster. Before her was the bridge, and above was thelighted face of the clock, like some faded sun. And the strokes rolledout in swelling waves that made the whole atmosphere feel soundladen. The chauffeur had opened the door of the car, and was offering his freehand to help Jenny to step down to the ground. 

"Are we _there?_" she asked in a bewildered way, as if she had beendreaming. "How quick we've been!"

"Yes, miss. Mr. Redington's down the steps. You see them steps. Mr. Redington's down there in the dinghy. Mind how you go, miss. Hold tightto the rail. .. . " He closed the door of the car and pointed to the steps. 

The dinghy! Those stone steps to the black water! Jenny was shaken by ashudder. The horror of the water which had come upon her earlier in theevening returned more intensely. The strokes of the clock were the same, the darkness, the feeling of the sinister water rolling there beneaththe bridge, resistlessly carrying its burdens to the sea. If Keith hadnot been there she would have turned and run swiftly away, overcome byher fear. She timidly reached the steps, and stopped, peering downthrough the dimness. She put her foot forward so that it hung dubiouslybeyond the edge of the pavement. 

"What a coward!" she thought, violently, with self-contempt. It droveher forward. And at that moment she could see below, at the edge of thelapping water, the outline of a small boat and of a man who sat in itusing the oars against the force of the current so as to keep the boatalways near the steps. She heard a dear familiar voice call out with aperfect shout of welcome:

"Jenny! Good girl! How are you! Come along; be careful how you come. That's it. .. . Six more, and then stop!" Jenny obeyed him--she desirednothing else, and her doubtings were driven away in a breath. She wentquickly down. The back water lapped and wattled against the stone andthe boat, and she saw Keith stand up, drawing the dinghy against thesteps and offering her his hand. He had previously been holding up asmall lantern that gilded the brown mud with a feeble colour and madethe water look like oil. "Now!" he cried quickly. "Step!" The boatrocked, and Jenny crouched down upon the narrow seat, aflame withrapture, but terrified of the water. It was so near, so inescapablynear. The sense of its smooth softness, its yieldingness, and the dangerlurking beneath the flowing surface was acute. She tried moredesperately to sit exactly in the middle of the boat, so that she shouldnot overbalance it. She closed her eyes, sitting very still, and heardthe water saying plup-plup-plup all round her, and she was afraid. Itmeant soft death: she could not forget that. Jenny could not swim. Shewas stricken between terror and joy that overwhelmed her. Then:

"That's my boat, " Keith said, pointing. "I say, you _are_ a sport tocome!" Jenny saw lights shining from the middle of the river, and couldimagine that a yacht lay there stubbornly resisting the current of theflowing Thames. 

iii

Crouching still, she watched Keith bend to his oars, driving the boat'snose beyond the shadowy yacht because he knew that he must allow for thecurrent. Her eyes devoured him, and her heart sang. Plup-plup-plup-plupsaid the water. The oars plashed gently. Jenny saw the blackness glidingbeside her, thick and swift. They might go down, down, down in thatblack nothingness, and nobody would know of it. .. . The oars groundagainst the edge of the dinghy--wood against wood, grumbling and echoingupon the water. Behind everything she heard the roaring of London, andwas aware of lights, moving and stationary, high above them. How lowupon the water they were! It seemed to be on a level with the boat'sedges. And how much alone they were, moving there in the darkness whilethe life of the city went on so far above. If the boat sank! Jennyshivered, for she knew that she would be drowned. She could imagine awhite face under the river's surface, lanterns flashing, andthen--nothing. It would be all another secret happening, a mystery, thework of a tragic instant; and Jenny Blanchard would be forgotten forever, as if she had never been. It was a horrid sensation to her as shesat there, so near death. 

And all the time that Jenny was mutely enduring these terrors they wereslowly nearing the yacht, which grew taller as they approached, and moreclearly outlined against the sky. The moon was beginning to catch allthe buildings and to lighten the heavens. Far above, and very pale, werestars; but the sky was still murky, so that the river remained indarkness. They came alongside the yacht. Keith shipped his oars, caughthold of something which Jenny could not see; and the dinghy was borneround, away from the yacht's side. He half rose, catching with both hishands at an object projecting from the yacht, and hastily knotting arope. Jenny saw a short ladder hanging over the side, and a lanternshining. 

"There you are!" Keith cried. "Up you go! It's quite steady. Hold thebrass rail. .. . "

After a second in which her knees were too weak to allow of her moving, Jenny conquered her tremors, rose unsteadily in the boat, and castherself at the brass rail that Keith had indicated. To the hands thathad been so tightly clasped together, steeling her, the rail wasstartlingly cold; but the touch of it nerved her, because it was firm. She felt the dinghy yield as she stepped from it, and she seemed for oneinstant to be hanging precariously in space above the terrifyingwaters. Then she was at the top of the ladder, ready for Keith'swarning shout about the descent to the deck. She jumped down. She wasaboard the yacht; and as she glanced around Keith was upon the deckbeside her, catching her arm. Jenny's triumphant complacency was sogreat that she gave a tiny nervous laugh. She had not spoken at alluntil this moment: Keith had not heard her voice. 

"Well!" said Jenny. "_That's_ over!" And she gave an audible sigh ofrelief. "Thank goodness!"

"And here you are!" Keith cried. "Aboard the _Minerva_. "

iv

He led her to a door, and down three steps. And then it seemed to Jennyas if Paradise burst upon her. She had never before seen such a room asthis cabin. It was a room such as she had dreamed about in thoseambitious imaginings of a wondrous future which had always been sovaguely irritating to Emmy. It seemed, partly because the ceiling waslow, to be very spacious; the walls and ceiling were of a kind of duskyamber hue; a golden brown was everywhere the prevailing tint. The tinycurtains, the long settees into which one sank, the chairs, the shadesof the mellow lights--all were of some variety of this delicate goldenbrown. In the middle of the cabin stood a square table; and on thetable, arrayed in an exquisitely white tablecloth, was laid a wondrousmeal. The table was laid for two: candles with amber shades made silvershine and glasses glitter. Upon a fruit stand were peaches andnectarines; upon a tray she saw decanters; little dishes crowding thetable bore mysterious things to eat such as Jenny had never before seen. Upon a side table stood other dishes, a tray bearing coffee cups andingredients for the provision of coffee, curious silver boxes. Everywhere she saw flowers similar to those which had been in the motorcar. Under her feet was a carpet so thick that she felt her shoes mustbe hidden in its pile. And over all was this air of quiet expectancywhich suggested that everything awaited her coming. Jenny gave a deepsigh, glanced quickly at Keith, who was watching her, and turned away, her breath catching. The contrast was too great: it made her unhappy. She looked down at her skirt, at her hands; she thought of her hat andher hidden shoes. She thought of Emmy, the bread and butter pudding, ofAlf Rylett . .. Of Pa lying at home in bed, alone in the house. 

v

Keith drew her forward slightly, until she came within the soft radianceof the cabin lights. 

"I say, it _is_ sporting of you to come!" he said. "Let's have a look atyou--do!"

They stood facing one another. Keith saw Jenny, tall and pale, lookingthin in her shabby dress, but indescribably attractive and beautifuleven in her new shyness. And Jenny saw the man she loved: her eyes wereveiled, but they were unfathomably those of one deeply in love. She didnot know how to hide the emotions with which she was so painfullystruggling. Pride and joy in him; shyness and a sort of dread; hungerand reserve--Keith might have read them all, so plainly were theywritten. Yet her first words were wounded and defiant. 

"The man . .. That man. .. . He _knew_ I was coming, " she said, in a voiceof reproach. "You were pretty sure I should come, you know. "

Keith said quietly:

"I _hoped_ you would. " And then he lowered his eyes. She was disarmed, and they both knew. 

Keith Redington was nearly six feet in height. He was thin, and evenbony; but he was very toughly and strongly built, and his face was asclean and brown as that of any healthy man who travels far by sea. Hewas less dark than Jenny, and his hair was almost auburn, so rich achestnut was it. His eyes were blue and heavily lashed; his hands werelong and brown, with small freckles between the knuckles. He stood withincomparable ease, his hands and arms always ready, but in perfectrepose. His lips, for he was clean-shaven, were keen and firm. Hisglance was fearless. As the phrase is, he looked every inch a sailor, born to challenge the winds and the waters. To Jenny, who knew onlythose men who show at once what they think or feel, his greater breedingmade Keith appear inscrutable, as if he had belonged to a superior race. She could only smile at him, with parted lips, not at all the bafflinglady of the mirror, or the contemptuous younger sister, or the daringfranctireur of her little home at Kennington Park. Jenny Blanchard sheremained, but the simple, eager Jenny to whom these other Jennies werebut imperious moods. 

"Well, I've come, " she said. "But you needn't have been so sure. "

Keith gave an irrepressible grin. He motioned her to the table, shakinghis head at her tone. 

"Come and have some grub, " he said cheerfully. "I was about as sure asyou were. You needn't worry about that, old sport. There's so littletime. Come and sit down; there's a good girl. And presently I'll tellyou all about it. " He looked so charming as he spoke that Jennyobediently smiled in return, and the light came rushing into her eyes, chasing away the shadows, so that she felt for that time immeasurablyhappy and unsuspicious. She sat down at the laden table, smiling againat the marvels which it carried. 

"My word, what a feast!" she said helplessly. "Talk about the Ritz!"

Keith busied himself with the dishes. The softly glowing cabin threwover Jenny its spell; the comfort, the faint slow rocking of the yacht, the sense of enclosed solitude, lulled her. Every small detail of ease, which might have made her nervous, merged with the others in amarvellous contentment because she was with Keith, cut off from theworld, happy and at peace. If she sighed, it was because her heart wasfull. But she had forgotten the rest of the evening, her shabbiness, every care that troubled her normal days. She had cast these things offfor the time and was in a glow of pleasure. She smiled at Keith with asudden mischievousness. They both smiled, without guilt, and withoutguile, like two children at a reconciliation. 

vi

"Soup?" said Keith, and laid before her a steaming plate. "All done bykindness. "

"Have you been cooking?" Some impulse made Jenny motherly. It seemed astrange reversal of the true order that he should cook for her. "It'slike _The White Cat_ to have it. .. . "

"It's a secret, " Keith laughed. "Tell you later. Fire away!" He tastedthe soup, while Jenny looked at five little letter biscuits in her ownplate. She spelt them out E T K I H--KEITH. He watched her, enjoying thespectacle of the naïve mind in action as the light darted into her face. "I've got JENNY, " he said, embarrassed. She craned, and read the letterswith open eyes of marvel. They both beamed afresh at the primitivefancy. 

"How did you do it?" Jenny asked inquisitively. "But it's nice. " Theysupped the soup. Followed, whitebait: thousands of little fish. .. . Jennyhardly liked to crunch them. Keith whipped away the plates, and divedback into the cabin with a huge pie that made her gasp. "My gracious!"said Jenny. "I can never eat it!"

"Not _all_ of it, " Keith admitted. "Just a bit, eh?" He carved. 

"Oh, thank goodness it's not stew and bread and butter pudding!" criedJenny, as the first mouthful of the pie made her shut her eyes tightly. "It's like heaven!"

"If they have pies there. " Jenny had not meant that: she had meant onlythat her sensations were those of supreme contentment. "Give me the oldearth; and supper with Jenny!"

"Really?" Jenny was all brimming with delight. 

"What will you have to drink? Claret? Burgundy?" Keith was again uponhis feet. He poured out a large glass of red wine and laid it beforeher. Jenny saw with marvel the reflections of light on the wine and ofthe wine upon the tablecloth. She took a timid sip, and the wine rantingling into her being. 

"High life, " she murmured. "Don't make me tipsy!" They exchangedoverjoyed and intimate glances, laughing. 

There followed trifle. Trifle had always been Jenny's dream; and thistrifle was her dream come true. It melted in the mouth; its flavourswere those of innumerable spices. She was transported with happiness atthe mere thought of such trifle. As her palate vainly tried to unravelthe secrets of the dish, Keith, who was closely observant, saw that shewas lost in a kind of fanatical adoration of trifle. 

"You like it?" he asked. 

"I shall never forget it!" cried Jenny. "Never as long as I live. WhenI'm an old . .. Great-aunt. .. . " She had hesitated at her destiny. "Ishall bore all the kids with tales about it. I shall say 'That night onthe yacht . .. When I first knew what trifle meant. .. . ' They won't halfget sick of it. But I shan't. "

"You'll like to think about it?" asked Keith. "Like to rememberto-night?"

"Will _you_?" parried Jenny. "The night you had Jenny Blanchard tosupper?" Their eyes met, in a long and searching glance, in whichcandour was not unmixed with a kind of measuring distrust. 

vii

Keith's face might have been carven for all the truth that Jenny gotfrom it then. There darted across her mind the chauffeur's certaintythat she was to be his passenger. She took another sip of wine. 

"Yes, " she said again, very slowly. "You _were_ sure I was coming. Yougot it all ready. Been a bit of a sell if I hadn't come. You'd have hadto set to and eat it yourself. .. . Or get somebody else to help you. "

She meant "another girl, " but she did not know she meant that until thewords were spoken. Her own meaning stabbed her heart. That icy knowledgethat Keith was sure of her was bitterest of all. It made her happinessdefiant rather than secure. He was the only man for her. How did sheknow there were not other women for Keith! How could she ever know that?Rather, it sank into her consciousness that there must be other women. His very ease showed her that. The equanimity of his laughing expressionbrought her the unwelcome knowledge. 

"I should have looked pretty small if I'd made no preparations, shouldn't I?" Keith inquired in a dry voice. "If you'd come here andfound the place cold and nothing to eat you'd have made a bit of ashindy. "

A reserve had fallen between them. Jenny knew she had been unwise. Itpressed down upon her heart the feeling that he was somehow still astranger to her. And all the time they had been apart he had not seemeda stranger, but one to whom her most fleeting and intimate thoughtsmight freely have been given. That had been the wonderful thought toher--that they had met so seldom and understood each other so well. Shehad made a thousand speeches to him in her dreams. Together, in thesesame dreams, they had seen and done innumerable things together, alwaysin perfect confidence, in perfect understanding. Yet now, when she sawhim afresh, all was different. Keith was different. He was browner, thinner, less warm in manner; and more familiar, too, as though he weresure of her. His clothes were different, and his carriage. He was notthe same man. It was still Keith, still the man Jenny loved; but asthough he were also somebody else whom she was meeting for the firsttime. Her love, the love intensified by long broodings, was as strong;but he was a stranger. All that intimacy which seemed to have beenestablished between them once and for ever was broken by the new contactin unfamiliar surroundings. She was shy, uncertain, hesitating; and inher shyness she had blundered. She had been unwise, and he was offendedwhen she could least afford to have him so offended. It took muchresolution upon Jenny's part to essay the recovery of lost ground. Butthe tension was the worse for this mistake, and she suffered the morebecause of her anxious emotions. 

"Oh, well, " she said at last, as calmly as she could. "I daresay weshould have managed. I mightn't have come. But I've come, and you hadall these beautiful things ready; and. .. . " Her courage to be severeabruptly failed; and lamely she concluded: "And it's simply likefairyland. .. . I'm ever so happy. "

Keith grinned again, showing perfect white teeth. For a moment helooked, Jenny thought, quite eager. Or was that only her fancy becauseshe so desired to see it? She shook her head; and that drew Keith's eye. 

"More trifle?" he suggested, with an arch glance. Jenny noticed he worea gold ring upon the little finger of his right hand. It gleamed in thefaint glow of the cabin. So, also, did the fascinating golden hairs uponthe back of his hand. Gently the cabin rose and fell, rocking so slowlythat she could only occasionally be sure that the movement was true. Sheshook her head in reply. 

"I've had one solid meal to-night, " she explained. "Wish I hadn't! IfI'd known I was coming out I'd have starved myself all day. Then you'dhave been shocked at me!"

Keith demurely answered, as if to reassure her:

"Takes a lot to shock me. Have a peach?"

"I must!" she breathed. "I can't let the chance slip. O-oh, what ascent!" She reached the peach towards him. "Grand, isn't it!" Jennydiscovered for Keith's quizzical gaze an unexpected dimple in each palecheek. He might have been Adam, and she the original temptress. 

"Shall I peel it?"

"Seems a shame to take it off!" Jenny watched his deft fingers as hestripped the peach. The glowing skin of the fruit fell in lifelesspeelings upon his plate, dying as it were under her eyes, Keith hadpoured wine for her in another, smaller, glass. She shook her head. 

"I shall be drunk!" she protested. "Then I should sing! Horrible, itwould be!"

"Not with a little port . .. I'm not pressing you to a lot. Am I?" Hebrought coffee to the table, and she began to admire first of all thepattern of the silver tray. Jenny had never seen such a tray before, outside a shop, nor so delicately porcelain a coffee-service. It helpedto give her the sense of strange, unforgettable experience. 

"You didn't say if you'd remember this evening, " she slowly reflected. Keith looked sharply up from the coffee, which he was pouring, she saw, from a thermos flask. 

"Didn't I?" he said. "Of course I shall remember it. I've done better. I've looked forward to it. That's something you've not done. I've lookedforward to it for weeks. You don't think of that. We've been in theMediterranean, coasting about. I've been planning what I'd do when wegot back. Then Templecombe said he'd be coming right up to London; and Iplanned to see you. "

"Templecombe?" Jenny queried. "Who's he?"

"He's the lord who owns this yacht. Did you think it was my yacht?"

"No. .. . I hoped it wasn't. .. . " Jenny said slowly. 

viii

Keith's eyes were upon her; but she looked at her peach stone, her handstill lightly holding the fruit knife, and her fingers half caught bythe beam of a candle which stood beside her. He persisted:

"Well, Templecombe took his valet, who does the cooking; and myhand--my sailorman--wanted to go and visit his wife . .. And that left meto see after the yacht. D'you see? I had the choice of keeping Tomkinsaboard, or staying aboard myself. "

"You might almost have given me longer notice, " urged Jenny. "It seemsto me. "

"No. I'm under instructions. I'm not a free man, " said Keith soberly. "Iwas once; but I'm not now. I'm captain of a yacht. I do what I'm told. "

Jenny fingered her port-wine glass, and in looking at the light upon thewine her eyes became fixed. 

"Will you ever do anything else?" she asked. Keith shrugged slightly. 

"You want to know a lot, " he said. 

"I don't know very much, do I?" Jenny answered, in a little dead voice. "Just somewhere about nothing at all. I have to pretend the rest. "

"D'you want to know it?"

Jenny gave a quick look at his hands which lay upon the table. She couldnot raise her eyes further. She was afraid to do so. Her heart seemed tobe beating in her throat. 

"It's funny me having to ask for it, isn't it!" she said, suddenlyhaggard. 

CHAPTER VII: MORTALS

i

Keith did not answer. That was the one certainty she had; and her heartsank. 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 momentbefore--only a moment before--that he was as moved as herself. They hadseemed to be upon the brink of confidences; and now he had drawn back. Each instant deepened her sense of failure. When Jenny stealthily lookedsideways, Keith sat staring before him, his expression unchanged. Shehad failed. 

"You don't trust me, " she said, with her voice trembling. There wasanother silence. Then:

"Don't I?" Keith asked, indifferently. He reached his hand out andpatted hers, even holding it lightly for an instant. "I think I do. Youdon't think so?"

"No. " She merely framed the word, sighing. 

"You're wrong, Jenny. " Keith's voice changed. He deliberately lookedround the table at the little dishes that still lay there untouched. "Have some of these sweets, will you. .. . No?" Jenny could only draw herbreath sharply, shaking her head. "Almonds, then?" She movedimpatiently, her face distorted with wretched exasperation. As if hecould see that, and as if fear of the outcome hampered his resolution, Keith hurried on. "Well, look here: we'll clear the table together, ifyou like. Take the things through the other cabin--_that_ one--to thegalley; 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 Ican 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 ofroughness from her pleading voice, although shame at being petulant wasstruggling with her deeper feeling. 

"Well, he won't want to get up again yet, will he?" Keith answeredcomposedly. Oh, he had nerves of steel! thought Jenny. "I mean, this_is_ his bedtime, I suppose?" There was no answer. Jenny looked at thetablecloth, numbed by her sensations. "Do you have to look after him allthe time? That's a bit rough. .. "

"No, " was forced from Jenny. "No, I don't . .. Not generally. Butto-night--but that's a long story, too. With rows in it. " Which madeKeith laugh. He laughed not quite naturally, forcing the last severaljerks of his laughter, so that she shuddered at the thought of hispossible contempt. It was as if everything she said was lost beforeever it reached his heart--as if the words were like weak blows againstan overwhelming strength. Discouragement followed and deepened afterevery 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 consideratewhen 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, compressingthe unruly lips. Only by keeping in the same position, by making herselfremain still, could she keep back the tears. Her thought went on, thatKeith was cruelly playing with her, mercilessly watching the effect ofhis own coldness upon her too sensitive heart. Eh, but it was a lessonto her! What brutes men could be, at this game! And that thought gaveher, presently, an unnatural composure. If he were cruel, she wouldnever show her wounds. She would sooner die. But her eyes, invisible tohim, were dark with reproach, and her face drawn with agony. 

"Well, we'd better do _something_, " she said, in a sharp voice; and roseto her feet. "Where is it the things go?" Keith also rose, and Jennyfelt 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 adrink of water. " Jenny, steadying herself by the table, sipped a littleof the water. 

"Is it the wine that's made me stupid?" she asked. "I feel as if myteeth were swollen, and my skin was too tight for my bones. Beastly!"

"How horrid!" Keith said lightly, taking from her hand the glass ofwater. "If it's the wine you won't feel the effects long. Go on deck ifyou like. You'll feel all right in the air. I'll clear away. " Jennywould 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 andalmonds upon the sidetable, but carrying everything else through asleeping-cabin into the galley. It was this other cabin that stillfurther deepened Jenny's sense of pain--of inferiority. That was thefeeling now most painful. She had just realised it. She was a commongirl; and Keith--ah, Keith was secure enough, she thought. 

In that moment Jenny deliberately gave him up. She felt it wasimpossible that he should love her. When she looked around it was with asorrowfulness as of farewell. These things were the things that Keithknew and had known--that she would never again see but in the bittermemories of this night. The night would pass, but her sadness wouldremain. She would think of him here. She gave him up, quite humble inher perception of the disparity between them. And yet her own love wouldstay, and she must store her memory full of all that she would want toknow when she thought of his every moment. Jenny ceased to desire him. She somehow--it may have been by mere exhausted cessation offeeling--wished only to understand his life and then never to see himagain. It was a kind of numbness that seized her. Then she awoke onceagain, stirred by the bright light and by the luxury of hersurroundings. 

"This where you sleep?" With passionate interest in everything thatconcerned him, Jenny looked eagerly about the cabin. She now indicated abroad bunk, with a beautifully white counterpane and such an eiderdownquilt as she might optimistically have dreamed about. The tiny cabin wasso compact, and so marvellously furnished with beautiful things that itseemed to Jenny a kind of suite in tabloid form. She did not understandhow she had done without all these luxurious necessities forfive-and-twenty years. 

"Sometimes, " Keith answered, having followed her marvelling eye frombeauty to beauty. "When there's company I sleep forward with theothers. " He had been hurrying by with a cruet and the bread dish whenher exclamation checked him. 

"Is this lord a friend of yours, then?" Jenny asked. 

"Sometimes, " Keith dryly answered. "Understand?" Jenny frowned again athis tone. 

"No, " she said. Keith passed on. 

Jenny stood surveying the sleeping-cabin. A whole nest of drawersattracted her eye, deep drawers that would hold innumerable things. Thenshe saw a hand-basin with taps for hot and cold water. Impulsively shetried the hot-water tap, and was both relieved and disappointed when itgasped and offered her cold water. There were monogramed toiletappointments beautiful to see; a leather-cased carriage clock, a shelffull of books that looked fascinating; towels; tiny rugs; a light abovethe hand-basin, and another to switch on above the bunk. .. . It waswonderful! And there was a looking-glass before her in which she couldsee her own reflection as clear as day--too clearly for her pleasure!

The face she irresistibly saw in this genuine mirror looked pale andtired, although upon each white cheek there was a hard scarlet flush. Her eyes were liquid, the pupils dilated; her whole appearance was oneof suppressed excitement. She had chagrin, not only because she feltthat her appearance was unattractive, but because it seemed to her thather face kept no secrets. Had she seen it as that of another, Jennywould unerringly have read its painful message. 

"Eh, dear, " she said aloud. "You give yourself away, old sport! Don'tyou, now!" The mirrored head shook in disparaging admission of its ownshortcoming. Jenny bent nearer, meeting the eyes with a clear stare. There were wretched lines about her mouth. For the first time in herlife she had a horrified fear of growing older. It was as though, whenshe shut her eyes, she saw herself as an old woman. She felt a curiousstab at her heart. 

Keith, returning, found Jenny still before the mirror, engaged in thisunsparing scrutiny; and, laughing gently, he caught her elbow with hisfingers. In the mirror their glances met. At his touch Jenny thrilled, and unconsciously leaned towards him. From the mirrored glance sheturned questioningly, to meet upon his face a beaming expression oftranquil enjoyment that stimulated her to candid remark. Somehow itrestored some of her lost ease to be able to speak so. 

"I look funny, don't I?" She appealed to his judgment. Keith bentnearer, as for more detailed examination, retaining hold upon her elbow. His face was tantalisingly close to hers, and Jenny involuntarily turnedher head away, not coquettishly, but through embarrassment at a minglingof 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. HowJenny wished that she might indeed be dear to Keith! He released her, and she followed him, laden, backwards and forwards until the table wascleared. Then he unscrewed the table legs, and the whole thing camegently away in his hands. There appeared four small brass socketsimbedded in the carpet's deep pile; and the centre of the room wasclear. By the same dexterous use of his acquaintance with the cabin'smechanism, Keith unfastened one of the settees, and wheeled it forwardso that it stood under the light, and in great comfort for the time whenthey 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 theearth, serenely a thing of eternal mystery to her beholders. With thepassing of clouds and the deepening of the night, those stars noteclipsed by the moon shone like swarmed throbbing points of silver. Theyseemed more remote, as though the clearer air had driven them fartheroff. Jenny, her own face and throat illumined, stared up at the moon, marvelling; and then she turned, without speaking, to the black shadowsand the gliding, silent water. Upon every hand was the chequer ofcontrast, beautiful to the eye, and haunting to the spirit. A soft windstirred her hair and made her bare her teeth in pleasure at the sweetcontact. 

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 lampswere yellowed in the moon's whiter light; there were occasionalmovements upon the face of the river. A long way away they heard a sharppanting as a motor boat rushed through the water, sending out a greatsurging wave that made all other craft rise and fall and sway as theriver's agitation subsided. The boat came nearer, a coloured lightshowing; and presently it hastened past, a moving thing with a muffledfigure at its helm; and the _Minerva_ rocked gently almost until thesound of the motor boat's tuff-tuff had been lost in the general noiseof London. Nearer at hand, above them, Jenny could hear the clanging oftram-gongs and the clatter and slow boom of motor omnibuses; but thesesounds were mellowed by the evening, and although they were near enoughto be comforting they were too far away to interrupt this pleasantsolitude with Keith. The two of them sat in the shadow, and Jenny cranedto hear the chuckle of the water against the yacht's sides. It was abeautiful moment in her life. .. . She gave a little moan, and swayedagainst Keith, her delight succeeded by deadly languor. 

iv

So for a moment they sat, Keith's arm around her shoulders; and thenJenny 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, werenow an irritation. Keith heard her breath come and go, quickly, heavily. 

"Sorry, Jenny, " he said, in a tone of puzzled apology. She caught hisfallen 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 andunembarrassed. Together they stood upon the deck in the moonlight, whilethe water flowed rapidly beneath them and the night's mystery emphasisedtheir remoteness from the rest of the world. They had no part, at thismoment, in the general life; but were solitary, living only tothemselves. .. . 

Keith's arm was about her as they descended; but he let it drop as theystood once more in the golden-brown cabin. "Sit here!" He plumped acushion for her, and Jenny sank into an enveloping softness that roseabout her as water might have done, so that she might have been alarmedif Keith had not been there looking down with such an expression ofconcern. 

"I'm really all right, " she told him, reassuringly. "Miserable for atick--that's all!"

"Sure?" He seemed genuinely alarmed, scanning her face. She had againturned sick and faint, so that her knees were without strength. Was hesincere? If only she could have been sure of him. It meant everything inthe world to her. If only Keith would say he loved her: if only he wouldkiss her! He had never done that. The few short days of their earliercomradeship had been full of delight; he had taken her arm, he had evenhad her in his arms during a wild bluster of wind; but always theinevitable kiss had been delayed, had been averted; and only her eagerafterthoughts had made romance of their meagre acquaintance. Yet now, when they were alone, together, when every nerve in her body seemedtense with desire for him, he was somehow aloof--not constrained (forthen she would have been happy, at the profoundly affecting knowledgethat she had carried the day), but unsympathetically and unlovingly atease. She could not read his face: in his manner she read only a barrenkindness that took all and gave nothing. If he didn't love her she neednot 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. Onlyhunger had driven her to his side on this evening--the imperative hungerof her nature upon which Keith had counted. He had been sure she wouldcome--that was unforgivable. He had welcomed her as he might havewelcomed a man; but as he might also have welcomed any man or woman whowould have relieved his loneliness upon the yacht. Not a loved friend. Jenny, with her brain restored by the gentle breeze to its normalquickness of action, seemed dartingly to seek in every direction forreassurance! and she found in everything no single tone or touch to feedher insatiable greed for tokens of his love. Oh, but she was miserableindeed--disappointed in her dearest and most secret aspirations. He wasperhaps afraid that she wanted to attach herself to him? If that wereso, why couldn't he be honest, and tell her so? That was all she wantedfrom him. She wanted only the truth. She felt she could bear anythingbut this kindness, this charming detached thought for her. He was givingher courtesy when all she needed was that his passion should approachher own. And when she should have been strong, mistress of herself, shewas weak as water. Her strength was turned, her self-confidence mockedby his bearing. She trembled with the recurring vehemence of her love, that had been fed upon solitude, upon the dreariness in which she spenther mere calendared days. Her eyes were sombrely glowing, dark withpain; and Keith was leaning towards her as he might have leant towardsany girl who was half fainting. She could have cried, but that she wastoo 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 herpride had bidden her to forsake all but the impulse of her love. AndKeith, secure and confident, was coolly, as it were, disentanglinghimself from the claim she had upon him by virtue of her love. It seemedto Jenny that he was holding her at a distance. Nothing could have hurther more. It shamed her to think that Keith might suspect her honestyand her unselfishness. When she had thought of nothing but her love andthe possibility of his own. 

She read now, in this moment of descent into misery, a dreadful blundermade by her own overweening eagerness. She saw Keith, alone, thinkingthat he would be at a loss to fill his time, suddenly remembering her, thinking in a rather contemptuous way of their days together, andsupposing that she would do as well as another for an hour's talk tokeep him from a stagnant evening. If that were so, good-bye to herdreams. If she were no more to him than that there was no hope left inher life. For Keith might ply from port to port, seeing in her only onegirl for his amusement; but he had spoilt her for another man. No otherman could escape the withering comparison with Keith. To Jenny he was aking among men, incomparable; and if he did not love her, then the proudJenny Blanchard, who unhesitatingly saw life and character with animmovable reserve, was the merest trivial legend of Kennington Park. Shewas like every other girl, secure in her complacent belief that shecould win love--until the years crept by, and no love came, and she musteagerly seek to accept whatever travesty of love sidled within theradius of her attractiveness. 

Suddenly Jenny looked at Keith. 

"Better now, " she said harshly. "You'll have to buck up with yourtale--won't you! If you're going to get it out before I have to toddlehome again. "

"Oh, " said Keith, in a confident tone. "You're here now. You'll stayuntil 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 fromhis 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 thehardness of his voice. 

v

"I don't know what you're talking about, Keith; but you'll take me backto the steps when I say, " she said. Keith filled his pipe. "I supposeyou think it's funny to talk like that. " Jenny looked straight in frontof her, and her heart was fluttering. It was not her first tremor; butshe was deeply agitated. Keith, with a look that was almost a smile, finished loading the pipe and struck a match. He then settled himselfcomfortably at her side. 

"Don't be a juggins, Jenny, " he remarked, in a dispassionate way thatmade her feel helpless. 

"Sorry, " she said quickly. "I've got the jumps. I've had awful rowsto-night . .. Before coming out. "

"Tell me about them, " Keith urged. "Get 'em off your chest. " She shookher head. Oh no, she wanted something from him very different from suchkindly sympathy. 

"Only make it worse, " she claimed. "Drives it in more. Besides, I don'twant 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 theywere 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 nonotice. "Well, yes: I suppose all of them. They all want to takepossession of you. They're never satisfied with what they've got. "

"Perhaps they haven't got anything, " Jenny said. And after a painfulpause: "Oh, well: I shall have to be going home. " She wearily moved, inabsolute despair, perhaps even with the notion of rising, though hermind was in turmoil. 

"Jenny!" He held her wrist, preventing any further movement. He waslooking at her with an urgent gaze. Then, violently, with a rapidmotion, he came nearer, and forced his arm behind Jenny's waist, drawingher close against his breast, her face averted until their cheekstouched, when the life seemed to go out of Jenny's body and she movedher head quickly in resting it on his shoulder, Keith's face against herhair, and their two hearts beating quickly. It was done in a second, andthey sat so, closely embraced, without speech. Still Jenny's hands werefree, as if they had been lifeless. Time seemed to stand still, andevery noise to stop, during that long moment. And in her heart Jenny wassaying over and over, utterly hopeless, "It's no good; it's no good;it's no good. .. . " Wretchedly she attempted to press herself free, herelbow against Keith's breast. She could not get away; but each flyinginstant deepened her sense of bitter failure. 

"It's no use, " she said at last, in a dreadful murmur. "You don't wantme a bit. Far better let me go. "

Keith loosed his hold, and she sat away from him with a little sigh thatwas almost a shudder. Her hands went as if by instinct to her hair, smoothing it. Another instinct, perhaps, made her turn to him with theghost of a reassuring smile. 

"Silly, we've been, " she said, huskily. "I've been thinking about youall this time; and this is the end of it. Well, I was a fool tocome. .. . " She sat up straight, away from the back of the settee; but shedid not look at Keith. She was looking at nothing. Only in her mind wasgoing on the tumult of merciless self-judgment. Suddenly her composuregave way and she was again in his arms, not crying, but straining him toher. And Keith was kissing her, blessed kisses upon her soft lips, as ifhe truly loved her as she had all this time hoped. She clung to him in astupor. 

CHAPTER VIII: PENALTIES

i

"Poor old Jenny, " Keith was saying, stroking her arm and holding hischeek 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 cheekwith his own, so that she could feel the soft bristles of his shavenbeard. 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'ssombre eyes were steadily watching him, prying into the secrets of hisown. 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 avehement effort she recovered some of her self-control. Pride was againactive, 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 oldface. I shall nibble it . .. As if I was a horse . .. And you were a bitof sugar. Fancy Jenny going home with half a face!" He laughed excitedlyat his forced pleasantry, and the sound of his laugh was music toJenny's ears. He was excited. He was moved. Quickly the melancholypressed back upon her after this momentary surcease. He was excitedbecause she was in his arms--not because he loved her. 

"Why did you send for me?" she suddenly said. "In your letter you saidyou'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 wantme--let me go. I oughtn't to have come. I was silly to come; but I hadto. But if you only wanted somebody to tease . .. One of the others wouldhave done quite as well. "

Again the smile spread across Keith's face, brightening his eyes andmaking 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. Therecouldn'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: reallylet 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 hisbrown cheeks for an instant before she was again enveloped in his strongembrace; 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 oflying; and when the charge had been brought by Alf she had flamed withanger. Now, however, she felt no anger. She felt through her unhappinessa dim motion of exulting joy. Half suffocated, she was yet thrilled withdelight in Keith's strength, with belief in his love because it wasardently shown. Strength was her god. She worshipped strength as nearlyall women worship it. And to Jenny strength, determination, manhood, were Keith's attributes. She loved him for being strong; she found inher 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, withbrimming, glowing eyes. He took her hand, still smiling and watching herface. 

"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, frowninglyregarding him. 

"You can't forgive that, can you! You think I ought to have comegrovelling to you. It's not proper to ask you to come to me . .. Tobelieve you might come . .. To have everything ready in _case_ you mightcome. 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 ofcuriosity; but she'd have made a fuss. That's what prudes are. That'swhat they do. "

"Well, I expect you know, " Jenny admitted, sarcastically. The wordswounded her more than they wounded him. Where Keith laughed, Jennyquivered. "You don't know what it means to me--" she began again, andchecked her too unguarded tongue. 

"To come?" He bent towards her. "Of course, it's marvellous to me! Wasthat what you meant?"

"No. To think . .. Other girls . .. " She could not speak distinctly. 

"Other girls?" Keith appeared astonished. "Do you really believe . .. " Hetoo paused. "No other girls come on this yacht to see me. I've knownother girls. I've made love to other girls--what man hasn't? You don'tget to my age without . .. "

"Without what?" Jenny asked coolly. 

"I'm not pretending anything to you. I'm thirty and a bit over. A mandoesn't get to my age. .. No man does, without having been made a foolof. "

"Oh, I don't mind that, " Jenny said sharply. "It's the girls you'vefooled. "

"Don't you believe it, Jenny. They've always been wiser than me. Saythey'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. " Theold unhappiness had returned, gripping her heart. She no longer lookedat him, but stared away, straight in front of her. 

"Well, what if they had all been different?" Keith persisted. "SupposingI 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 wantto. 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 thisminute if you think you are. " His colour also rose. "You make too muchfuss. You want me to tell you good fat lies to save your face. Don't bea juggins, Jenny! Show your spirit! Jenny!"

Keith still held her hand. He drew it towards him, and Jenny was made tolean by his sudden movement. He slipped his arm again round her. Jennydid not yield herself. He was conscious of rebuff, although she did notstruggle. 

"You want me to trust you blindfold, " she said in a dreary voice. "It'snot good enough, Keith. Really it isn't! When you don't trust me. Yousent for me, and I came. As soon as I was here you . .. You were asbeastly as you could be . .. " Her voice trembled. 

"Not really beastly . .. " Keith urged, and his coaxing tone and concernedexpression shook her. "Nice beastly, eh?"

"You weren't nice. You weren't . .. " Jenny hesitated. "You didn't . .. Youweren'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 disengageherself. "Oh Keith, I'm so sick of it!" He held her more tightly. Allher efforts were unavailing against that slowly increased pressure fromhis strong arms. 

"Listen, Jenny, " Keith said. "I love you. That's that. I wanted to seeyou 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 againsther will. 

"What do you mean?" she demanded. 

"You think I'm looking on you as cheap . .. When I'm in an absolute funkof 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'swhat you are. You want it all your own way! Anything that goes wrong ismy 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 Iknow about _you?_ Eh? Nothing whatever! Absolutely nothing! You thinkyou're as clear as day! You're not. You're a dark horse. I'm afraid ofyou--afraid of your temper . .. Your pride. You won't see that. You thinkit's my fault that . .. " Keith's excitement almost convinced Jenny. 

"Shouting won't do any good, " she said, deeply curious and overwhelmedby her bewilderment. 

"Pull yourself together, Jenny!" he urged. "Look at it from my side ifyou can. Try! Imagine I've got a side, that is. And now I'll tell yousomething about myself . .. No lies; and you'll have to make the best ofthe truth. The Truth!" Laughing, he kissed her; and Jenny, puzzled butintrigued, withheld her indignation in order to listen to the promisedaccount. Keith began. "Well, Jenny: I told you I was thirty. I'mthirty-one in a couple of months. I'll tell you the date, and you canwork me a sampler. And I was born in a place you've never set eyeson--and I hope you never will set eyes on it. I was born in Glasgow. Andthere's a smelly old river there, called the Clyde, where they launchbig ships . .. A bit bigger than the _Minerva_. The _Minerva_ was builtin 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 asrich as--well, richer than anybody you ever met. Work that out! And hewas as tough as a Glasgow business man. They're a special kind. And Iwas his little boy. He had no other little boys. You interested?"

Jenny nodded sharply, her breast against his, so that she felt everybreath he drew. 

"Yes: well, my father was so keen that I should grow up into a Glasgowbusiness man that he nearly killed me. He hated me. Simply because whenI 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'tit!. .. Well, when I was ten he and I had got into such a way that wewere sworn enemies. He'd got a strong will; but so had I, even though Iwas such a kid. And I wouldn't--I couldn't--do what he told me to. Andwhen 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 hishead. .. And he brought me back. Didn't take him long to find me! That waswhen I began to hate _him_. I'd only been afraid of him before; but Iwas growing up. Well, he put me to a school where they watched me allthe time. I sulked, I worked, I did every blessed thing; and I grewolder still, and more afraid of my father, and somehow less afraid ofhim, too. I got a sort of horror of him. I hated him. And when he saidI'd got to go into the business I just told him I'd see him damnedfirst. That was when he first saw that you can't make any man aslave--not even your own son--as long as he's got enough to eat. Hecouldn't starve me. It's starved men who are made slaves, Jenny. They'vegot no guts. Well, he threw me over. He thought I should starve myselfand then go back to him, fawning. I didn't go. I was eighteen, and Iwent on a ship. I had two years of it; and my father died. I gotnothing. All went to a cousin. I was nobody; but I was free. Freedom'sthe 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--nothonest, but straight to me. I looked after her for a year, working downby the river. But it was no good. She went off with other men because Igot tired of her. I threw her over when I found that out. I mean, I toldher she could stick to me or let me go. She wanted both. I went to seaagain. It was then I met Templecombe. I met him in South America, and wegot very pally. Then I came back to England. I got engaged to agirl--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 Ionly married her because I was curious. I didn't care for her. In acouple of months I knew I'd made a mistake. She told me herself. Sheknew much more than I did. She was older than I was; and she knew a lotfor her age--about men. She'd been engaged to one and another since shewas fifteen; and in ten years you get to know a good deal. I think sheknew 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 wantedme to fetch and carry. .. . She 'took possession' of me, as they say. Iwent into partnership with a man who let me in badly; and Adela wentback to her work and I went back to sea. And a year later I went toprison because a woman I was living with was a jealous cat and got theblame 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 goingdownhill as fast as a barrel; and then I saw an advertisement ofTemplecombe'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 withhim to look after this yacht. Now you see I haven't got a very goodrecord. I've been in prison; and I've lived with three women; and I'vegot no prospects except that I'm a good sailor and know my job. But Inever did what I was sent to prison for; and, as I told you, the threewomen all knew more than I did. I've never done a girl any harmintentionally; and the last of them belongs to six years ago. Since thenI've met other girls, and some of them have run after me because I was asailorman. They do, you know. You're the girl I love; and I want you toremember 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 youafraid of me now? Don't you think I'm a bit of a fool? Or d'you thinkI'm the sort of fellow that fools the girls?"

There was no reply to his question for a long time; until Keith urgedher 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. BecauseI'm twenty-five, you know. "

iv

It might have checked Keith in mid-career. His tone had certainly notbeen one of apology. But along with a natural complacency he had thehonesty 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 youever wished you weren't yourself! Of course you have. So have I. Haveyou had men running after you all the time? Have you been free night andday, with time on your hands, and temptations going. You haven't. Youdon't know what it is. You've been at home. And what's more, you've beentied up because. .. Because people think girls are safer if they're tiedup. "

"_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 asmuch about women as all young men do . .. "

"I wonder if I should boast of it, " Jenny said drily. "To a girl I waspretending to love. "

Keith let his arm drop from her waist. He withdrew it, and sighed. Thenhe moved forward upon the settee, half rising, with his hands upon hisknees. 

"Ah well, Jenny: perhaps I'd better be taking you ashore, " he said in aconstrained, exasperated tone. 

"You don't care if you break my heart, " Jenny whispered. "It's all oneto you. "

"That's simply not true. .. . But it's no good discussing it. " He had losthis temper, and was full of impatience. He sat frowning, disliking her, with resentment and momentary aversion plainly to be seen in hisbearing. 

"Just because I don't agree that it's mighty kind of youto . .. Condescend!" Jenny was choking. "You thought I should jumpfor joy because other women had had you. I don't know what sort ofgirl 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 intothe bargain. "

"Jenny, old girl. .. . That's not true. But I thought you'd understandbetter 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 abit further. " He leaned back again, not touching her, but dejectedlyfrowning; his face pale beneath the tan. His anger had passed in adeeper feeling. "I told you because you wanted to know about me. If I'dbeen the sort of chap you're thinking I should have told a long GeorgeWashington yarn, pretending to be an innocent hero. Well, I didn't. I'mnot 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. Ayappy, long, sugar-coated yarn, and lots of protestations. This is allbecause I haven't asked you to forgive me--because I haven't sworn notto do it again if only you'll forgive me. You want to see yourselfforgiving me. On a pinnacle. .. . Graciously forgiving me--"

"Oh, you're a beast!" cried Jenny. "Let me go home. " She rose to herfeet, 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 headscontinued to reconsider all that had been said. 

v

"I've all the time been trying to show you I'm not a beast, " Keith urgedat last. "But a human being. It takes a woman to be something above ahuman being. " He was sneering, and the sneer chilled her. 

"If you'd been thinking of somebody for months, " she began in atrembling tone. "Thinking about them all the time, living on it dayafter day . .. Just thinking about them and loving them with all yourheart. .. . You don't know the way a woman does it. There's nothing elsefor them to think about. I've been thinking every minute of theday--about how you looked, and what you said; and telling myself--thoughI didn't believe it--that you were thinking about me just the same. AndI've been planning how you'd look when I saw you again, and what we'dsay and do. .. . You don't know what it's meant to me. You've neverdreamed of it. And now to come to-night--when I ought to be at homelooking after my dad. And to hear you talk about . .. About a lot ofother girls as if I was to take them for granted. Why, how do I knowthere haven't been lots of others since you saw me?"

"Because I tell you it's not so, " he interposed. "Because I've beenthinking 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. "Toomuch!"

"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 yourown pride that's the real trouble, Jenny. You want to come roundgradually; and time's too short for it. Remember, I'm away againto-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 bitternessby a glance. "Jenny, dear, " he went on; "when time's so short, is itworth while to quarrel? You see what it is: if you don't try and love meyou'll go home unhappy, and we shall both be unhappy. I told you I'm nota 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 theverge of tears. 

vi

Well, they had both made their unwilling attempts at reconciliation; andthey were still further estranged. They were not loving one another;they were just quarrelsome and unhappy at being able to find no saferoad of compromise. Jenny had received a bitter shock; Keith, with thesense that she was judging him harshly, was sullen with his deeplywounded heart. They both felt bruised and wretched, and deeply ashamedand offended. And then they looked at each other, and Jenny gave asmothered sob. It was all that was needed; for Keith was beside her inan instant, holding her unyielding body, but murmuring gentle coaxingwords 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 ofpain. 

CHAPTER IX: WHAT FOLLOWED

i

The _Minerva_ slowly and gently rocked with the motion of the current. The stars grew brighter. The sounds diminished. Upon the face of theriver lights continued to twinkle, catching and mottling the wavelets. The cold air played with the water, and flickered upon the _Minerva's_deck; strong enough only to appear mischievous, too soft and wayward tomake its presence known to those within. And in the _Minerva's_ cabin, set as it were in that softly rayed room of old gold and golden brown, Jenny was clinging to Keith, snatching once again at precarioushappiness. Far off, in her aspirations, love was desired as synonymouswith peace and contentment; but in her heart Jenny had no such pretence. She knew that it was otherwise. She knew that passive domestic enjoymentwould not bring her nature peace, and that such was not the love sheneeded. Keith alone could give her true love. And she was in Keith'sarms, puzzled and lethargic with something that was only not despairbecause she could not fathom her own feelings. 

"Keith, " she said, presently. "I'm sorry to be a fool. "

"You're _not_ a fool, old dear, " he assured her. "But I'm a beast. "

"Yes, I think you are, " Jenny acknowledged. There was a long pause. Shetried to wipe her eyes, and at last permitted Keith to do that for her, flinching at contact with the handkerchief, but aware all the time ofsome secret joy. When she could speak more calmly, she went on: "Supposewe don't talk any more about being. .. What we are. .. And forgiving, andall that. We don't mean it. We only say it. .. "

"Well, I mean it--about being a beast, " Keith said humbly. "That'sbecause I made you cry. "

"Well, " said Jenny, agreeingly, "you can be a beast--I mean, think youare one. And if I'm miserable I shall think I've been a fool. But we'llcut out about forgiving. Because I shall never really forgive you. Icouldn't. It'll always be there, till I'm an old woman--"

"Only till you're happy, dear, " Keith told her. "That's all that means. "

"I can't think like that. I feel it's in my bones. But you're goingaway. Where are you going? D'you know? Is it far?"

"We're going back to the South. Otherwise it's too cold for yachting. And Templecombe wants to keep out of England at the moment. He's safe onthe yacht. He can't be got at. There's some wretched predatory woman oftitle pursuing him. .. . "

"Here . .. Here!" cried Jenny. "I can't understand if you talkpidgin-English, Keith. "

"Well . .. You know what ravenous means? Hungry. And a woman oftitle--you know what a lord is. .. . Well, and she's chasing about, dropping little scented notes at every street corner for him. "

"Oh they are _awful_!" cried Jenny. "Countesses! Always in the divorcecourt, or something. Somebody ought to stop them. They don't havecountesses in America, do they? Why don't we have a republic, and getrid of them all? If they'd got the floor to scrub they wouldn't havetime to do anything wrong. "

"True, " said Keith. "True. D'you like scrubbing floors?"

"No. But I do it. And keep my hands nice, too. " The hands were inspectedand approved. 

"But then you're more free than most people, " Keith presently remarked, in a tone of envy. 

"Free!" exclaimed Jenny. "Me! In the millinery! When I've got to bethere every morning at nine sharp or get the sack, and often, busytimes, stick at it till eight or later, for a few bob a week. And neverhave any time to myself except when I'm tired out! Who gets the fun?Why, it's _all_ work, for people like me; all work for somebody else. What d'you call being free? Aren't they free?"

"Not one. They're all tied up. Templecombe's hawk couldn't come on thisyacht without a troop of friends. They can't go anywhere they likeunless it's 'the thing' to be done. They do everything because it's theright thing--because if they do something else people will think it'sodd--think they're odd. And they can't stand that!"

"Well, but Keith! Who is it that's free?"

"Nobody, " he said. 

"I thought perhaps it was only poor people . .. Just _because_ they werepoor. "

"Well, Jenny. .. . That's so. But when people needn't do what they're toldthey invent a system that turns them into slaves. They have a religion, or they run like the Gadarine swine into a fine old lather and pretendthat everybody's got to do the same for some reason or other. They callit the herd instinct, and all sorts of names. But there's nobody who'sreally free. Most of them don't want to be. If they were free theywouldn't know what to do. If their chains were off they'd fall down anddie. They wouldn't be happy if there wasn't a system grinding them asmuch like each other as it can. "

"But why not? What's the good of being alive at all if you've got to doeverything whether you want to do it or not? It's not sense!"

"It's fact, though. From the king to the miner--all a part of a bigcomplicated machine that's grinding us slowly to bits, making us allmore and more wretched. "

"But who makes it like that, Keith?" cried Jenny. "Who says it's to beso?"

Keith laughed grimly. 

"Don't let's talk about it, " he urged. "No good talking about it. Theonly thing to do is to fight it--get out of the machine . .. "

"But there's nowhere to go, is there?" asked Jenny. "I was thinkingabout it this evening. 'They've' got every bit of the earth. Whereveryou go 'they're' there . .. With laws and police and things all ready foryou. You've _got_ to give in. "

"I'm not going to, " said Keith. "I'll tell you that, Jenny. "

"But Keith! Who is it that makes it so? There _must_ be somebody tostart it. Is it God?"

Keith laughed again, still more drily and grimly. 

ii

Jenny was not yet satisfied. She still continued to revolve the matterin her mind. 

"You said nobody was free, Keith. But then you said you were free--whenyou got married. "

_"Till_ I got married. Then I wasn't. I fell into the machine and gotbadly chawed then. "

"Don't you want to get married?" Jenny asked. "Ever again?"

"Not that way. " Keith's jaw was set. "I've been there; and to me that'swhat hell is. "

How Jenny wished she could understand! She did not want to get marriedherself--that way. But she wanted to serve. She wanted Keith to be herhusband; she wanted to make him happy, and to make his home comfortable. She felt that to work for the man she loved was the way to be trulyhappy. Did he not think that he could be happy in working for her? She_couldn't_ understand. It was all so hard that she sometimes felt thather brain was clamped with iron bolts and chains. 

"What way d'you want to get married?" Jenny asked. 

"I want to marry _you_. Any old way. And I want to take you to the otherend of the world--where there aren't any laws and neighbours and ratesand duties and politicians and imitations of life. .. . And I want to setyou down on virgin soil and make a real life for you. In Labrador orAlaska . .. " He glowed with enthusiasm. Jenny glowed too, infected by hisenthusiasm. 

"Sounds fine!" she said. Keith exclaimed eagerly. He was alive with joyat her welcome. 

"Would you come?" he cried. "Really?"

"To the end of the world?" Jenny said. "Rather!"

They kissed passionately, carried away by their excitement, brimmingwith joy at their agreement in feeling and desire. The cabin seemed toexpand into the virgin forest and the open plain. A new vision of lifewas opened to Jenny. Exultingly she pictured the future, bright, active, occupied--away from all the old cramping things. It was the life she haddreamed, away from men, away from stuffy rooms and endless millinery, away from regular hours and tedious meals, away from all that now madeup her daily dullness. It was splendid! Her quick mind was at work, seeing, arranging, imagining as warm as life the changed days that wouldcome in such a terrestrial Paradise. And then Keith, watching withtriumph the mounting joy in her expression, saw the joy subside, thebrilliance fade, the eagerness give place to doubt and then to dismay. 

"What is it?" he begged. "Jenny, dear!"

"It's Pa!" Jenny said. "I couldn't leave him . .. Not for anything!"

"Is that all? We'll take him with us!" cried Keith. Jenny sorrowfullyshook her head. 

"No. He's paralysed, " she explained, and sighed deeply at the fadedvision. 

iii

"Well, I'm not going to give up the idea for that, " Keith resumed, aftera moment. Jenny shook her head, and a wry smile stole into her face, making it appear thinner than before. 

"I didn't expect you would, " she said quietly. "It's me that has to giveit up. "

"Jenny!" He was astonished by her tone. "D'you think I meant that?Never! We'll manage something. Something can be done. When I comeback . .. "

"Ah, you're going away!" Jenny cried in agony. "I shan't see you. Ishall have every day to think of . .. Day after day. And you won't write. And I shan't see you. .. . " She held him to her, her breast against his, desperate with the dread of being separated from him. "It's easy foryou, at sea, with the wind and the sun; and something fresh to see, andsomething happening all the time. But me--in a dark room, poring overbits of straw and velvet to make hats for soppy women, and then goinghome to old Em and stew for dinner. There's not much fun in it, Keith. .. . No, I didn't mean to worry you by grizzling. It's too bad ofme! But seeing you, and hearing that plan, it's made me remember howbeastly I felt before your letter came this evening. I was nearly madwith it. I'd been mad before; but never as bad as this was. And thenyour letter came--and I wanted to come to you; and I came, and we'vewasted such a lot of time not understanding each other. Even now, Ican't be sure you love me--not _sure!_ I think you do; but you only sayso. How's anyone ever to be sure, unless they know it in their bones?And I've been thinking about you every minute since we met. Because Inever met anybody like you, or loved anybody before. .. "

She broke off, her voice trembling, her face against his, breathless andexhausted. 

iv

"Now listen, Jenny, " said Keith. "This is this. I love you, and you loveme. That's right, isn't it? Well. I don't care about marriage--I mean, aceremony; but you do. So we'll be married when I come back in threemonths. That's all right, isn't it? And when we're married, we'll eithertake your father with us, whatever his health's like; or we'll dosomething with him that'll do as well. I should be ready to put him insomebody's care; but you wouldn't like that. .. "

"I love him, " Jenny said. "I couldn't leave him to somebody else forever. "

"Yes. Well, you see there's nothing to be miserable about. It's allstraightforward now. Nothing--except that we're going to be apart forthree months. Now, Jen: don't let's waste any more time being miserable;but let's sit down and be happy for a bit. .. How's that?"

Jenny smiled, and allowed him to bring her once again to the settee andto begin once more to describe their future life. 

"It's cold there, Jenny. Not warm at all. Snow and ice. And you won'tsee anybody for weeks and months--anybody but just me. And we shall haveto do everything for ourselves--clothes, house-building, food catchingand killing. .. Trim your own hats. .. Like the Swiss Family Robinson;only you won't have everything growing outside as they did. And we'll goout in canoes if we go on the water at all; and see Indians--'Heap bigman bacca' sort of business--and perhaps hear wolves (I'm not quite sureof that); and go about on sledges. .. With dogs to draw them. But withall that we shall be free. There won't be any bureaucrats to tyranniseover us; no fashions, no regulations, no homemade laws to make dull boysof us. Just fancy, Jenny: nobody to _make_ us do anything. Nothing butour own needs and wishes. .. "

"I expect we shall tyrannise--as you call it--over each other, " Jennysaid shrewdly. "It seems to me that's what people do. "

"Little wretch!" cried Keith. "To interrupt with such a thing. When Iwas just getting busy and eloquent. I tell you: there'll beinconveniences. You'll find you'll want somebody besides me to talk toand look after. But then perhaps you'll have somebody!"

"Who?" asked Jenny, unsuspiciously. "Not Pa, I'm sure. "

Keith held her away from him, and looked into her eyes. Then he crushedher against him, laughing. It took Jenny quite a minute to understandwhat he meant. 

"Very dull, aren't you!" cried Keith. "Can't see beyond the end of yournose. "

"I shouldn't think it was hardly the sort of place for babies, " Jennysighed. "From what you say. "

v

Keith roared with laughter, so that the _Minerva_ seemed to shake insympathy with his mirth. 

"You're priceless!" he said. "My bonny Jenny. I shouldn't think therewas ever anybody like you in the world!"

"Lots of girls, " Jenny reluctantly suggested, shaking a dolorous head atthe ghost of a faded vanity. "I'm afraid. " She revived even as shespoke; and encouragingly added: "Perhaps not exactly like. "

"I don't believe it! You're unique. The one and only Jenny Redington!"

"Red--!" Jenny's colour flamed. "Sounds nice, " she said; and was thensilent. 

"When we're married, " went on Keith, watching her; "where shall we gofor our honeymoon? I say!. .. How would you like it if I borrowed theyacht from Templecombe and ran you off somewhere in it? I expect he'dlet me have the old _Minerva. _ Not a bad idea, eh what!"

"_When_ we're married, " Jenny said breathlessly, very pale. 

"What d'you mean?" Keith's eyes were so close to her own that she wasforced to lower her lids. "When I come back from this trip. Templecombesays three months. It may be less. "

"It may be more. " Jenny had hardly the will to murmur her warning--herdistrust. 

"Very unlikely; unless the weather's bad. I'm reckoning on a mildwinter. If it's cold and stormy then of course yachting's out of thequestion. But we'll be back before the winter, any way. Andthen--darling Jenny--we'll be married as soon as I can get the licence. There's something for you to look forward to, my sweet. Will you like tolook forward to it?"

Jenny could feel his breath upon her face; but she could not move orspeak. Her breast was rising to quickened breathing; her eyes wereburning; her mouth was dry. When she moistened her lips she seemed tohear a cracking in her mouth. It was as though fever were upon her, somoved was she by the expression in Keith's eyes. She was neither happynor unhappy; but she was watching his face as if fascinated. She couldfeel his arm so gently about her shoulder, and his breast against hers;and she loved him with all her heart. She had at this time no thought ofhome; only the thought that they loved each other and that Keith wouldbe away for three months; facing dangers indeed, but all the time lovingher. She thought of the future, of that time when they both would befree, when they should no longer be checked and bounded by the fear ofnot having enough food. That was the thing, Jenny felt, that kept poorpeople in dread of the consequences of their own acts. And Jenny feltthat if they might live apart from the busy world, enduring togetherwhatever ills might come to them from their unsophisticated mode oflife, they would be able to be happy. She thought that Keith would haveno temptations that she did not share; no other men drawing him byimitativeness this way and that, out of the true order of his owncharacter; no employer exacting in return for the weekly wage aservitude that was far from the blessed ideal of service. Jenny thoughtthese things very simply--impulsively--and not in a form to beintelligible if set down as they occurred to her; but the notions swamin her head along with her love for Keith and her joy in the love whichhe returned. She saw his dear face so close to her own, and heard herown heart thumping vehemently, quicker and quicker, so that it soundedthunderously in her ears. She could see Keith's eyes, so easily to beread, showing out the impulses that crossed and possessed his mind. Lovefor her she was sure she read, love and kindness for her, andmystification, and curiosity, and the hot slumbering desire for her thatmade his breathing short and heavy. In a dream she thought of thesethings, and in a dream she felt her own love for Keith rising andstifling her, so that she could not speak, but could only rest there inhis arms, watching that beloved face and storing her memory with itsprecious betrayals. 

Keith gently kissed her, and Jenny trembled. A thousand temptations werewhirling in her mind--thoughts of his absence, their marriage, memory, her love. .. With an effort she raised her lips again to his, kissing himin passion, so that when he as passionately responded it seemed asthough she fainted in his arms and lost all consciousness but that ofher love and confidence in him and the eager desire of her nature toyield itself where love was given. 

CHAPTER X: CINDERELLA

i

Through the darkness, and into the brightness of the moon's light, therolling notes of Big Ben were echoing and re-echoing, as each strokefollowed and drove away the lingering waves of its predecessor and wasin turn dispersed by the one that came after. The sounds made the streetnoises sharper, a mere rattle against the richness of the strikingclock. It was an hour that struck; and the quarters were followed bytwelve single notes. Midnight. And Jenny Blanchard was still upon the_Minerva;_ and Emmy and Alf had left the theatre; and Pa Blanchard wasalone in the little house in Kennington Park. 

The silvered blackness of the _Minerva_ was disturbed. A long streak ofyellow light showed from the door leading into the cabin while yet thesounds of the clock hung above the river. It became ghostly against themoonlight that bleached the deck, a long grey-yellow finger pointing theway to the yacht's side. 

Jenny and Keith made their way up the steps and to the deck, and Jennyshivered a little in the strong light. Her face was in shadow. Shehurried, restored to sanity by the sounds and the thought of herfather. Horror and self-blame were active in her mind--not from the fearof discovery; but from shame at having for so long deserted him. 

"Oh, hurry!" Jenny whispered, as Keith slipped over the side of theyacht into the waiting dinghy. There was a silence, and presently theheavy 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 toget home; and she had no inclination to think of what lay between herand Kennington Park. She hardly understood what Keith said as he rowedto the steps. She saw the bridge looming, its black shadow cutting thewater that sparkled so dully in the moonlight; and then she saw thesteps leading from the bridge to the river's edge. They were alongside;she was ashore; and Keith was pressing her hand in parting. Still shecould not look at him until she was at the top of the steps, when sheturned and raised her hand in farewell. 

ii

She knew she had to walk for a little way down the road in the directionof her home, and then up a side street, where she had been told thatshe would find the motor car awaiting her. And for some seconds shecould not bear the idea of speaking to the chauffeur, from the sensethat he must know exactly how long she had been on board the yacht. Thehesitation caused her to linger, as the cold air had caused her tothink. It was as though she feared that when he was found the man wouldbe impudent to her, and leer, behaving familiarly as he might have doneto a common woman. Because she was alone and unprotected. It wasterrible. Her secret filled her with the sense of irremediable guilt. Already she was staled with the evening's excitement. She stopped andwavered, her shadow, so black and small, hesitating as she did. Couldshe walk home? She looked at the black houses, and listened to theterrifying sinister roar that continued faintly to fill the air. Couldshe go by tram? If she did--whatever she did--the man might wait for herall night, and Keith would know how cowardly she had been. It might evencome to the ears of Lord Templecombe, and disgrace Keith before him. Togo or to stay was equally to bring acute distress upon herself, thebreathless shame of being thought disgraced for ever. Already it seemedto her that the shadows were peopled with observers ready to spy uponher, to seize her, to bear her away into hidden places. .. 

At last, her mind resolved by her fears, which crowded upon her in atumult, Jenny stepped fearfully forward. The car was there, dimlyoutlined, a single light visible to her eye. It was drawn upon at theside of the street; and the chauffeur was fast asleep, his head upon hisarms, and his arms spread upon the steering-wheel. 

"I say!" cried Jenny in a panic, her glance quickly over her shoulder atunseen dangers. "Wake up! Wake up!"

She stepped into the car, and it began to quiver with life as the enginewas started. Then, as if drowned in the now familiar scent of thehanging bouquet, Jenny lay back once more in the soft cushions; boundfor home, for Emmy and Alf and Pa; her evening's excursion at an end, and only its sequel to endure. 

PART THREE

MORNING

CHAPTER XI: AFTER THE THEATRE

i

After leaving the house Emmy and Alf pressed along in the darkness, Alf's arm still surrounding and supporting Emmy, Emmy still halfjubilantly and half sorrowfully continuing to recognise her happinessand the smothered chagrin of her emotions. She was not able to feeleither happy or miserable; but happiness was uppermost. Dislike of Jennyhad its place, also; for she could account for every weakness of Alf'sby reference to Jenny's baseness. But indeed Emmy could not think, andcould only passively and excitedly endure the conflicting emotions ofthe moment. And Alf did not speak, but hurried her along as fast as hisstrong arm could secure her compliance with his own pace; and theywalked through the night-ridden streets and full into the blaze of thetheatre entrance without any words at all. Then, when the staringvehemence of the electric lights whitened and shadowed her face, Emmydrew away, casting down her eyes, alarmed at the disclosures which thebrilliance might devastatingly make. She slipped from his arm, and stoodrather forlornly while Alf fished in his pockets for the tickets. Withdocility she followed him, thrilled when he stepped aside in passing thecommissionaire and took her arm. Together they went up the stairs, theheavy carpets with their drugget covers silencing every step, the gildedmirrors throwing their reflections backwards and forwards until thestairs seemed peopled with hosts of Emmys and Alfs. As they drew nearthe closed doors of the circle the hush filling the staircases andvestibules of the theatre was intensified. An aproned attendant seemedto Emmy's sensitiveness to look them up and down and superciliously todisapprove them. She moved with indignation. A dull murmur, as of singlevoices, disturbed the air somewhere behind the rustling attendant: andwhen the doors were quickly opened Emmy saw beyond the darkness and theintrusive flash of light caused by the opening doors a square ofbrilliance and a dashing figure upon the stage talking staccato. Thoseof the audience who were sitting near the doors turned angrily and withcuriosity to view the new-comers; and the voice that Emmy haddistinguished went more stridently on, with a strong American accent. Ina flurry she found and crept into her seat, trying to understand theplay, to touch Alf, to remove her hat, to discipline her excitements. And the staccato voice went on and on, detailing a plan of some sortwhich she could not understand because they had missed the first fiveminutes of the play. Emmy could not tell that the actor was onlypretending to be an American; she could not understand why, havingspoken twenty words, he must take six paces farther from the footlightsuntil he had spoken thirteen more; but she could and did feel mostoverwhelmingly exuberant at being as it were alone in that half-silentmultitude, sitting beside Alf, their arms touching, her head whirling, her heart beating, and a wholly exquisite warmth flushing her cheeks. 

ii

The first interval found the play well advanced. A robbery had beenplanned--for it was a "crook" play--and the heroine had already receivedwild-eyed the advances of a fur-coated millionaire. When the lights ofthe theatre popped up, and members of the orchestra began once moreunmercifully to tune their instruments, it was possible to look round atthe not especially large audience. But in whichever direction Emmylooked she was always brought back as by a magnet to Alf, who satruminantly beside her. To Alf's sidelong eye Emmy was lookingsurprisingly lovely. The tired air and the slightly peevish mouth towhich he was accustomed had given place to the flush and sparkle of anexcited girl. Alf was aware of surprise. He blinked. He saw the linessmoothed away from round her mouth--the lines of weariness anddissatisfaction, --and was tempted by the softness of her cheek. As helooked quickly off again he thought how full Jenny would have been ofcomment upon the play, how he would have sat grinning with preciousenjoyment at her merciless gibes during the whole of the interval. Hehad the sense of Jenny as all movement, as flashing and drawing him intoquagmires of sensation, like a will-o'-the-wisp. Emmy was not like that. She sat tremulously smiling, humble before him, diffident, flattering. She was intelligent: that was it. Intelligent was the word. Not lively, but restful. Critically he regarded her. Rather a nice girl, Emmy. .. . 

Alf roused himself, and looked around. 

"Here, miss!" he called; and "S-s-s-s" when she did not hear him. It washis way of summoning an attendant or a waitress. "S-s-s-s. " Theattendant brought chocolates, which Alf handed rather magnificently tohis companion. He plunged into his pockets--in his rough-and-ready, muscular way--for the money, leaning far over the next seat, which wasunoccupied. "Like some lemon?" he said to Emmy. Together they inspectedthe box of chocolates, which contained much imitation-lace paper and afew sweets. "Not half a sell, " grumbled Alf to himself, thinking of theshilling he had paid; but he looked with gratification at Emmy's faceas she enjoyingly ate the chocolates. As her excitement a littlestrained her nervous endurance Emmy began to pale under the eyes; hereyes seemed to grow larger; she lost the first air of sparkle, but shebecame more pathetic. "Poor little thing, " thought Alf, feelingmasculine. "Poor little thing: she's tired. Poor little thing. "

iii

In the middle of this hot, excitedly-talking audience, they seemed tobask as in a warm pool of brilliant light. The brilliants in the dome ofthe theatre intensified all the shadows, heightened all the smiles, illumined all the silken blouses and silver bangles, the flashing eyes, the general air of fête. 

"All right?" Alf inquired protectively. Emmy looked in gratitude towardshim. 

"Lovely, " she said. "Have another?"

"I meant _you_, " he persisted. "Yourself, I mean. " Emmy smiled, sohappily that nobody could have been unmoved at the knowledge of havinggiven such pleasure. 

"Oh, grand!" Emmy said. Then her eyes contracted. Memory came to her. The angry scene that had passed earlier returned to her mind, hurtingher, and injuring her happiness. Alf hurried to engage her attention, todistract her from thoughts that had in them such discomfort as she soquickly showed. 

"Like the play? I didn't quite follow what it was this old general haddone to him. Did you?"

"Hadn't he kept him from marrying . .. " Emmy looked conscious for amoment. "Marrying the right girl? I didn't understand it either. It'sonly a play. "

"Of course, " Alf agreed. "See how that girl's eyes shone when oldfur-coat went after her? Fair shone, they did. Like lamps. They'd gotthe limes on her. .. You couldn't see them. My--er--my friend's theelectrician here. He says it drives him nearly crazy, the way he has tofollow her about in the third act. She. .. She's got some pluck, he says;the way she fights three of them single-handed. They've all gotrevolvers. She's got one; but it's not loaded. Lights a cigarette, too, with them all watching her, ready to rush at her. "

"There!" said Emmy, admiringly. She was thinking: "It's only a play. "

"She gets hold of his fur coat, and puts it on. .. . Imitates hisvoice. .. . You can see it's her all the time, you know. So could they, ifthey looked a bit nearer. However, they don't. .. . I suppose therewouldn't be any play if they did. .. . "

Emmy was not listening to him: she was dreaming. She was as gauche andsimple in his company as a young girl would have been; but her mind wasdifferent. It was practical in its dreams, and they had their disturbingunhappiness, as well, from the greater poignancy of her desire. She wasnot a young girl, to be agreeably fluttered and to pass on to the nextadmirer without a qualm. She loved him, blindly but painfully; withoutthe ease of young love, but with all the sickness of first love. And shehad jealousy, the feeling that she was not his first object, to poisonher feelings. She could not think of Jenny without tremors of anger. Andstill, for pain, her thoughts went throbbing on about Jenny whenever, inhappiness, she had seen a home and Alf and a baby and the other plainclear consequences of earning his love--of taking him from Jenny. 

And then the curtain rose, the darkness fell, and the orchestra's tuneslithered into nothing. The play went on, about the crook and thegeneral and the millionaire and the heroine and all their curiouslysimple-minded friends. And every moment something happened upon thestage, from fights to thefts, from kisses (which those in the gallery, not wholly absorbed by the play, generously augmented) to telephonecalls, plots, speeches (many speeches, of irreproachable moral tone), shoutings, and sudden wild appeals to the delighted occupants of thegallery. And Emmy sat through it hardly heeding the uncommon events, aware of them as she would have been aware of distant shouting. Herattention was preoccupied with other matters. She had her own thoughts, serious enough in themselves. Above all, she was enjoying the thoughtthat she was with Alf, and that their arms were touching; and she waswondering if he knew that. 

iv

Through another interval they sat with silent embarrassment, theirreplaceable chocolates, which had earlier been consumed, having servedtheir turn as a means of devouring attention. Alf was tempted to fly tothe bar for a drink and composure, but he did not like to leave Emmy;and he could not think of anything which could safely be said to her inthe middle of this gathering of hot and radiant persons. "To speak" insuch uproar meant "to shout. " He felt that every word he uttered wouldgo echoing in rolls and rolls of sound out among the multitude. Theywere not familiar enough to make that a matter of indifference to him. He was in the stage of secretiveness. And Emmy, after trying once ortwice to open various small topics, had fallen back upon her ownthoughts, and could invent nothing to talk about until the difficultiesthat lay between them had been removed. Her brow contracted. She movedher shoulders, or sat pressed reservedly against the back of her seat. Her voice, whenever she did not immediately hear some word fall fromAlf, became sharp and self-conscious--almost "managing. "

It was a relief to both of them, and in both the tension of sincerefeeling had perceptibly slackened, when the ignored orchestra gave waybefore the rising curtain. Again the two drew together in the darkness, as all other couples were doing, comforted by proximity, and even by theunacknowledged mutual pleasure of it; again they watched theextraordinary happenings upon the stage. The fur coat was much used, cigarettes were lighted and flung away with prodigal recklessness, pistols were revealed--one of them was even fired into the air;--andjumping, trickling music heightened the effects of a number of strongspeeches about love, and incorruptibility, and womanhood. .. . The climaxwas reached. In the middle of the climax, while yet the lover wooed andthe villain died, the audience began to rustle, preparatory to goinghome. Even Emmy was influenced to the extent of discovering andbeginning to adjust her hat. It was while she was pinning it, with herelbows raised, that the curtain fell. Both Emmy and Alf rose in theimmediately successive re-illumination of the theatre; and Emmy lookedso pretty with her arms up, and with the new hat so coquettishly askewupon her head, and with a long hatpin between her teeth, that Alf couldnot resist the impulse to put his arm affectionately round her inleading the way out. 

v

And then, once in the street, he made no scruple about taking Emmy's armwithin the crook of his as they moved from the staring whiteness of thetheatre lamps out into the calmer moonshine. It was eleven o'clock. Thenight was fine, and the moon rode high above amid the twinkling stars. When Alf looked at Emmy's face it was transfigured in this beautifullight, and he drew her gently from the direct way back to the littlehouse. 

"Don't let's go straight back, " he said. "Stroll u'll do us good. "

Very readily Emmy obeyed his guidance. Her heart was throbbing; but herbrain was clear. He wanted to be with her; and the knowledge of thatmade Emmy happier than she had been since early childhood. 

"It's been lovely, " she said, with real warmth of gratitude, lookingaway from him with shyness. 

"Hm, " growled Alf, in a voice of some confusion. "Er. .. You don't go muchto the theatre, do you?"

"Not much, " Emmy agreed. "See, there's Pa. He always looks to me. .. "

"Yes. " Alf could not add anything to that for a long time. "Fine night, "he presently recorded. "D'you like a walk? I mean . .. I'm very fond ofit, a night like this. Mr. Blanchard's all right, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes. _She's_ there. " Emmy could not bring herself to name Jenny tohim. Yet her mind was busy thinking of the earlier jar, recomposing thedetails, recalling the words that had passed. Memory brought tears intoher eyes; but she would not allow Alf to see them, and soon sherecovered her self-control. It had to be spoken of: the evening couldnot pass without reference to it; or it would spoil everything. Alfwould think of her--he was bound to think of her--as a crying, petulant, jealous woman, to whom he had been merely kind. Patronising, even!Perhaps, even, the remembrance of it would prevent him from coming againto the house. Men like Alf were so funny in that respect. It took solittle to displease them, to drive them away altogether. At last sheventured: "It was nice of you to take me. "

Alf fidgeted, jerking his head, and looking recklessly about him. 

"Not at all, " he grumbled. "Not tired, are you?" Emmy reassured him. "What I mean, I'm very glad. .. . Now, look here, Em. May as well haveit out. .. . " Emmy's heart gave a bound: she walked mechanically besidehim, her head as stiffly held as though the muscles of her neck hadbeen paralysed. "May as well, er. .. Have it out, " repeated Alf. "That'show I am--I like to be all shipshape from the start. When I came alongthis evening I _did_ mean to ask young Jen to go with me. That wasquite as you thought. I never thought you'd, you know, _care_ to comewith me. I don't know why; but there it is. I never meant to put it likeI did . .. In that way. .. To have a fuss and upset anybody. I've . .. Imean, she's been out with me half-a-dozen times; and so I sort ofnaturally thought of her. "

"Of course, " agreed Emmy. "Of course. "

"But I 'm glad you came, " Alf said. Something in his honesty, and thebrusqueness of his rejoicing, touched Emmy, and healed her firstwound--the thought that she might have been unwelcome to him. They wenton a little way, more at ease; both ready for the next step in intimacywhich was bound to be taken by one of them. 

"I thought she might have said something to you--about me not _wanting_to come, " Emmy proceeded, tentatively. "Made you think I never wantedto go out. "

Alf shook his head. Emmy had there no opening for her resentment. 

"No, " he said, with stubborn loyalty. "She's always talked very niceabout you. "

"What does she say?" swiftly demanded Emmy. 

"I forget. .. . Saying you had a rough time at home. Saying it was roughon you. That you're one of the best. .. . "

_"She_ said that?" gasped Emmy. "It's not like her to say that. Did shereally? She's so touchy about me, generally. Sometimes, the way she goeson, anybody'd think I was the miserablest creature in the world, andalways on at her about something. I'm not, you know; only she thinks it. Well, I can't help it, can I? If you knew how I have to work in thathouse, you'd be. .. Surprised. I'm always at it. The way the dirt comesin--you'd wonder where it all came from! And see, there's Pa and all. She doesn't take that into account. She gets on all right with him; butshe isn't there all day, like I am. That makes a difference, you know. He's used to me. She's more of a change for him. "

Alf was cordial in agreement. He was seeing all the difference betweenthe sisters. In his heart there still lingered a sort of cherishedenjoyment of Jenny's greater spirit. Secretly it delighted him, like aforbidden joke. He felt that Jenny--for all that he must not, at thismoment, mention her name--kept him on the alert all the time, so that hewas ever in hazardous pursuit. There was something fascinating in suchexcitement as she caused him. He never knew what she would do or saynext; and while that disturbed and distressed him it also lacerated hisvanity and provoked his admiration. He admired Jenny more than he couldever admire Emmy. But he also saw Emmy as different from his old idea ofher. He had seen her trembling defiance early in the evening, and thathad moved him and made him a little afraid of her; he had also seen herflushed cheeks at the theatre, and Emmy had grown in his eyes suddenlyyounger. He could not have imagined her so cordial, so youthful, sointerested in everything that met her gaze. Finally, he found herquieter, more amenable, more truly wifely than her sister. It was animportant point in Alf's eyes. You had to take into account--if you werea man of common sense--relative circumstances. Devil was all very wellin courtship; but mischief in a girl became contrariness in a domestictermagant. That was an idea that was very much in Alf's thoughts duringthis walk, and it lingered there like acquired wisdom. 

"Say she's going with a sailor!" he suddenly demanded. 

"So she told me. I've never seen him. She doesn't tell lies, though. "

"I thought you said she did!"

Emmy flinched: she had forgotten the words spoken in her wild anger, andwould have been ashamed to account for them in a moment of greatercoolness. 

"I mean, if she says he's a sailor, that's true. She told me he was on aship. I suppose she met him when she was away that time. She's been veryfunny ever since. Not funny--restless. Anything I've done for her she'smade a fuss. I give her a thorough good meal; and oh! there's such afuss about it. 'Why don't we have ice creams, and merangs, and wine, andgrouse, and sturgeon--'"

"Ph! Silly talk!" said Alf, in contemptuous wonder. "I mean to say. .. "

"Oh, well: you know what flighty girls are. He's probably a swank-pot. Asteward, or something of that sort. I expect he has what's left over, and talks big about it. But she's got ideas like that in her head, andshe thinks she's too good for the likes of us. It's too much trouble toher to be pelite these days. I've got the fair sick of it, I can tellyou. And then she's always out. .. _Somebody's_ got to be at home, just tolook after Pa and keep the fire in. But Jenny--oh dear no! She's nosooner home than she's out again. Can't rest. Says it's stuffy indoors, and off she goes. I don't see her for hours. Well, I don't know . .. Butif she doesn't quiet down a bit she'll only be making trouble forherself later on. She can't keep house, you know! She can scrub; but shecan't cook so very well, or keep the place nice. She hasn't got thepatience. You think she's doing the dusting; and you find her groaningabout what she'd do if she was rich. 'Yes, ' I tell her; 'it's all verywell to do that; but you'd far better be doing something _useful_, ' Isay. 'Instead of wasting your time on idle fancies. '"

"Very sensible, " agreed Alf, completely absorbed in such a discourse. 

"She's trying, you know. You can't leave her for a minute. She says I'mstodgy; but I say it's better to be practical than flighty. Don't youthink so, Alf?"

"Exackly!" said Alf, in a tone of the gravest assent. "Exackly. "

vi

"I mean, " pursued Emmy, "you must have a _little_ common-sense. Butshe's been spoilt--she's the youngest. I'm a little older than sheis . .. _wiser_, I say; but she won't have it. .. . And Pa's always made afuss of her. Really, sometimes, you'd have thought she was a boy. Racing about! My word, such a commotion! And then going out to themillinery, and getting among a lot of other girls. You don't know _who_they are--if they're ladies or not. It's not a good influence forher. .. . "

"She ought to get out of it, " Alf said. To Emmy it was a ghastly moment. 

"She'll never give it up, " she hurriedly said. "You know, it's in herblood. Off she goes! And they make a fuss of her. She mimics everybody, and they laugh at it--they think it's funny to mimic people who can'thelp themselves--if they _are_ a bit comic. So she goes; and when shedoes come home Pa's so glad to see a fresh face that he makes a fuss ofher, too. And she stuffs him up with all sorts of tales--things thatnever happened--to keep him quiet. She says it gives him something tothink about. .. . Well, I suppose it does. I expect you think I'm veryunkind to say such things about my own sister; but really I can't helpseeing what's under my nose; and I sometimes get so--you know, workedup, that I don't know how to hold myself. She doesn't understand what itis to be cooped up indoors all day long, like I am; and it never occursto her to say 'Go along, Em; you run out for a bit. ' I have to say toher: 'You be in for a bit, Jen?' and then she p'tends she's always in. And then there's a rumpus. .. . "

Alf was altogether subdued by this account: it had that degree ofintimacy which, when one is in a sentimental mood, will always beabsorbing. He felt that he really was getting to the bottom of themystery known to him as Jenny Blanchard. The picture had verisimilitude. He could see Jenny as he listened. He was seeing her with the close andsearching eye of a sister, as nearly true, he thought, as any visioncould be. Once the thought, "I expect there's another story" camesidling into his head; but it was quickly drowned in furtherreminiscence from Emmy, so that it was clearly a dying desire that heleft for Jenny. Had Jenny been there, to fling her gage into the field, Alf might gapingly have followed her, lost again in admiration of hermore sparkling tongue and equipments. But in such circumstances thearraigned party is never present. If Jenny had been there the tale couldnot have been told. Emmy's virtuous and destructive monologue would notmerely have been interrupted: it would have been impossible. Jenny wouldhave done all the talking. The others, all amaze, would have listenedwith feelings appropriate to each, though with feelings in commonunpleasant to be borne. 

"I bet there's a rumpus, " Alf agreed. "Old Jen's not one to take a blow. She ups and gets in the first one. " He couldn't help admiring Jenny, even yet. So he hastened to pretend that he did not admire her; out of akind of tact. "But of course . .. That's all very well for a bit ofsport, but it gets a bit wearisome after a time. I know what youmean. .. . "

"Don't think I've been complaining about her, " Emmy said. "I wouldn't. Really, I wouldn't. Only I do think sometimes it's not quite fair thatshe should have all the fun, and me none of it. I don't want a lot. Mytastes are very simple. But when it comes to none at all--well, Alf, what do _you_ think?"

"It's a bit thick, " admitted Alf. "And that's a fact. "

"See, she's always having her own way. Does just what she likes. There'sno holding her. "

"Wants a man to do that, " ruminated Alf, with a half chuckle. "Eh?"

"Well, " said Emmy, a little brusquely. "I pity the man who tries it on. "

vii

Emmy was not deliberately trying to secure from Alf a proposal ofmarriage. She was trying to show him the contrast between Jenny andherself, and to readjust the balances as he appeared to have beenholding them. She wanted to impress him. She was as innocent of anyother intention as any girl could have been. It was jealousy thatspoke; not scheme. And she was perfectly sincere in her depreciation ofJenny. She could not understand what it was that made the admiring lookcome into the faces of those who spoke to Jenny, nor why the unwillingadmiration that started into her own heart should ever find a placethere. She was baffled by character, and she was engaged in the commontask of rearranging life to suit her own temperament. 

They had been walking for some little distance now along desertedstreets, the moon shining upon them, their steps softly echoing, andEmmy's arm as warm as toast. It was like a real lover's walk, she couldnot help thinking, half in the shadow and wholly in the stillness of thequiet streets. She felt very contented; and with her long account ofJenny already uttered, and her tough body already reanimated by thewalk, Emmy was at leisure to let her mind wander among sweeter things. There was love, for example, to think about; and when she glancedsideways Alf's shoulder seemed such a little distance from her cheek. And his hand was lightly clasping her wrist. A strong hand, was Alf's, with a broad thumb and big capable fingers. She could see it in themoonlight, and she had suddenly an extraordinary longing to press hercheek against the back of Alf's hand. She did not want any sillynonsense, she told herself; and the tears came into her eyes, and hernose seemed pinched and tickling with the cold at the mere idea of anynonsense; but she could not help longing with the most intense longingto press her cheek against the back of Alf's hand. That was all. Shewanted nothing more. But that desire thrilled her. She felt that if itmight be granted she would be content, altogether happy. She wanted solittle!

And as if Alf too had been thinking of somebody nearer to him thanJenny, he began:

"I don't know if you've ever thought at all about me, Em. But yoursaying what you've done . .. About yourself . .. It's made me think a bit. I'm all on my own now--have been for years; but the way I live isn'tgood for anyone. It's a fact it's not. I mean to say, my rooms that I'vegot . .. They're not big enough to swing a cat in; and the way the oldgirl at my place serves up the meals is a fair knock-out, if you noticethings like I do. If I think of her, and then about the way you dothings, it gives me the hump. Everything you do's so nice. But withher--the plates have still got bits of yesterday's mustard on them, andall fluffy from the dishcloth. .. . "

"Not washed prop'ly. " Emmy interestedly remarked; "that's what that is. "

"Exackly. And the meat's raw inside. Cooks it too quickly. And when Ihave a bloater for my breakfast--I'm partial to a bloater--it's blackoutside, as if it was done in the cinders; and then inside--well, I likethem done all through, like any other man. Then I can't get her to getme gammon rashers. She will get these little tiddy rashers, with littlewhite bones in them. Why, while you're cutting them out the bacon getscold. You may think I'm fussy . .. Fiddly with my food. I'm not, really;only I like it. .. . "

"Of course you do, " Emmy said. "She's not interested, that's what it is. She thinks anything's food; and some people don't mind at all what theyeat. They don't notice. "

"No. I _do_. If you go to a restaurant you get it different. You getmore of it, too. Well, what with one thing and another I've got veryfed up with Madame Bucks. It's all dirty and half baked. There's greatholes in the carpet of my sitting-room--holes you could put your footthrough. And I've done that, as a matter of fact. Put my foot throughand nearly gone over. _Should_ have done, only for the table. Well, Imean to say . .. You can't help being fed up with it. But she knows whereI work, and I know she's hard up; so I don't like to go anywhere else, because if anybody asked me if he should go there, I couldn't honestlyrecommend him to; and yet, you see how it is, I shouldn't like to leaveher in the lurch, if she knew I was just gone somewhere else down thestreet. "

"No, " sympathetically agreed Emmy. "I quite see. It's very awkward foryou. Though it's no use being too kind-hearted with these people;because they _don't_ appreciate it; and if you don't say anything theyjust go on in the same way, never troubling themselves about you. Theythink, as long as you don't say anything you're all right; and it's nottheir place to make any alteration. They're quite satisfied. Look atJenny and me. "

"Is she satisfied!" asked Alf. 

"With herself, she is. She's never satisfied with me. She never tries tosee it from my point of view. "

"No, " Alf nodded his head wisely. "That's what it is. They don't. " Henodded again. 

"Isn't it a lovely night, " ventured Emmy. "See the moon over there. "

They looked up at the moon and the stars and the unfathomable sky. Ittook them at once away from the streets and the subject of their talk. Both sighed as they stared upwards, lost in the beauty before them. Andwhen at last their eyes dropped, the street lamps had become so yellowand tawdry that they were like stupid spangles in contrast with thestars. Alf still held Emmy's arm so snugly within his own, and her wristwas within the clasp of his fingers. It was so little a thing to slidehis fingers into a firm clasp of her hand, and they drew closer. 

"Lovely, eh!" Alf ejaculated, with a further upward lift of his eyes. Emmy sighed again. 

"Not like down here, " she soberly said. 

"No, it's different. Down here's all right, though, " Alf assured her. "Don't you think it is?" He gave a rather nervous little half laugh. "Don't you think it is?"

"Grand!" Emmy agreed, with the slightest hint of dryness. 

"I say, it was awfully good of you to come to-night, " said Alf. "I've . .. You've enjoyed it, haven't you?" He was looking sharply at her, and Emmy's face was illumined. He saw her soft cheeks, her thin, softlittle neck; he felt her warm gloved hand within his own. "D'you mind?"he asked, and bent abruptly so that their faces were close together. Fora moment, feeling so daring that his breath caught, Alf could not carryout his threat. Then, roughly, he pushed his face against hers, kissingher. Quickly he released Emmy's arm, so that his own might be moreprotectingly employed; and they stood embraced in the moonlight. 

viii

It was only for a minute, for Emmy, with instinctive secrecy, drew awayinto the shadow. At first Alf did not understand, and thought himselfrepelled; but Emmy's hands were invitingly raised. The first delight wasbroken. One more sensitive might have found it hard to recapture; butAlf stepped quickly to her side in the shadow, and they kissed again. Hewas surprised at her passion. He had not expected it, and the flatterywas welcome. He grinned a little in the safe darkness, consciously andeven sheepishly, but with eagerness. They were both clumsy and a littletrembling, not very practised lovers, but curious and excited. Emmy felther hat knocked a little sideways upon her head. 

It was Emmy who moved first, drawing herself away from him, she knew notwhy. 

"Where you going?" asked Alf, detaining her. "What is it? Too rough, amI?" He could not see Emmy's shaken head, and was for a moment puzzled atthe ways of woman--so far from his grasp. 

"No, " Emmy said. "It's wonderful. "

Peering closely, Alf could see her eyes shining. 

"D'you think you're fond enough of me, Emmy?" She demurred. 

"That's a nice thing to say! As if it was for me to tell you!" shewhispered archly back. 

"What ought I to say? I'm not . .. Mean to say, I don't know how to saythings, Emmy. You'll have to put up with my rough ways. Give us a kiss, old sport. "

"How many more! You _are_ a one!" Emmy was not pliant enough. In hervoice there was the faintest touch of--something that was notself-consciousness, that was perhaps a sense of failure. Perhaps she wasback again suddenly into her maturity, finding it somehow ridiculous tobe kissed and to kiss with such abandon. Alf was not baffled, however. As she withdrew he advanced, so that his knuckle rubbed against thebrick wall to which Emmy had retreated. 

"I say, " he cried sharply. "Here's the wall. "

"Hurt yourself?" Emmy quickly caught his hand and raised it, examiningthe knuckle. The skin might have been roughened; but no blood was drawn. Painfully, exultingly, her dream realised, she pressed her cheek againstthe back of his hand. 

ix

"What's that for?" demanded Alf. 

"Nothing. Never you mind. I wanted to do it. " Emmy's cheeks were hot asshe spoke; but Alf marvelled at the action, and at her confession ofsuch an impulse. 

"How long had you . .. Wanted to do it?"

"Mind your own business. The idea! Don't you know better than that?"Emmy asked. It made him chuckle delightedly to have such a retort fromher. And it stimulated his curiosity. 

"I believe you're a bit fond of me, " he said. "I don't see why. There'snothing about me to write home about, I shouldn't think. But there itis: love's a wonderful thing. "

"Is it?" asked Emma, distantly. Why couldn't he say he loved her? Tooproud, was he? Or was he shy? He had only used the word "love" once, andthat was in this general sense--as though there _was_ such a thing. Emmywas shy of the word, too; but not as shy as that. She was for a momentanxious, because she wanted him to say the word, or some equivalent. Ifit was not said, she was dependent upon his charity later, and would crysleeplessly at night for want of sureness of him. 

"D'you love me?" she suddenly said. Alf whistled. He seemed for thatinstant to be quite taken aback by her inquiry. "There's no harm in measking, I suppose. " Into Emmy's voice there came a thread of roughness. 

"No harm at all, " Alf politely said. "Not at all. " He continued tohesitate. 

"Well?" Emmy waited, still in his arms, her ears alert. 

"We're engaged, aren't we?" Alf muttered shamefacedly. "Erum . .. Whatsort of ring would you like? I don't say you'll get it . .. And it's toolate to go and choose one to-night. "

Emmy flushed again: he felt her tremble. 

"You _are_ in a hurry, " she said, too much moved for her archness totake effect. 

"Yes, I am. " Alf's quick answer was reassuring enough. Emmy's heart waseased. She drew him nearer with her arms about his neck, and they kissedagain. 

"I wish you'd say you love me, " she whispered. "Mean such a lot to me. "

"No!" cried Alf incredulously. "Really?"

"Do you?"

"I'll think about it. Do you--me?"

"Yes. I don't mind saying it if you will. "

Alf gave a little whistle to himself, half under his breath. He lookedcarefully to right and left, and up at the house-wall against which theywere standing. Nobody seemed to be in danger of making him feel anabject fool by overhearing such a confession as he was invited to make;and yet it was such a terrible matter. He was confronted with adifficulty of difficulties. He looked at Emmy, and knew that she waswaiting, entreating him with her shining eyes. 

"Er, " said Alf, reluctantly and with misgiving. "Er . .. Well, I . .. A . .. Suppose I do. .. . "

Emmy gave a little cry, that was half a smothered laugh of happiness ather triumph. It was not bad! She had made him admit it on the firstevening. Later, when she was more at ease, he should be more explicit. 

x

"Well, " said Alf, instantly regretting his admission, and inclined tobluster. "Now I suppose you're satisfied?"

"Awfully!" breathed Emmy. "You're a dear good soul. You're splendid, Alf!"

For a few minutes more they remained in that benign, unforgettableshadow; and then, very slowly, with Alf's arm about Emmy's waist, andEmmy's shoulder so confidingly against his breast, they began to returnhomewards. Both spoke very subduedly, and tried to keep their shoes fromtoo loudly striking the pavement as they walked; and the wandering windcame upon them in glee round every corner and rustled like a busybodyamong all the consumptive bushes in the front gardens they passed. Sounds carried far. A long way away they heard the tramcars grindingalong the main road. But here all was hush, and the beating of twohearts in unison; and to both of them happiness lay ahead. Their aimswere similar, in no point jarring or divergent. Both wanted a home, andloving labour, and quiet evenings of pleasant occupation. To both thedaily work came with regularity, not as an intrusion or a wrong tomanhood and womanhood; it was inevitable, and was regarded asinevitable. Neither Emmy nor Alf ever wondered why they should beworking hard when the sun shone and the day was fine. Neither comparedthe lot accorded by station with an ideal fortune of blessed ease. Theywere not temperamentally restless. They both thought, with a practicalsense that is as convenient as it is generally accepted, "somebody mustdo the work: may as well be me. " No discontent would be theirs. And Alfwas a good worker at the bench, a sober and honest man; and Emmy couldmake a pound go as far as any other woman in Kennington Park. They hadbefore them a faithful future of work in common, of ideals (workadayideals) in common; and at this instant they were both marvellouslycontent with the immediate outlook. Not for them to change the order ofthe world. 

"I feel it's so suitable, " Emmy startlingly said, in a hushed tone, asthey walked. "Your . .. You know . .. 'supposing you do' . .. Me; andme . .. Doing the same for you. "

Alf looked solemnly round at her. His Emmy skittish? It was not what hehad thought. Still, it diverted him; and he ambled in pursuit. 

"Yes, " he darkly said. "What do you 'suppose you do' for me?"

"Why, love you, " Emmy hurried to explain, trapping herself by speed intothe use of the tabooed word. "Didn't you know? Though it seems funny tosay it like that. It's so new. I've never dared to . .. You know . .. Sayit. I mean, we're both of us quiet, and reliable . .. We're not either ofus flighty, I mean. That's why I think we suit each other--better thanif we'd been different. Not like we are. "

"I'm sure we do, " Alf said. 

"Not like some people. You can't help wondering to yourself however theycame to get married. They seem so unlike. Don't they! It's funny. Ahwell, love's a wonderful thing--as you say!" She turned archly to him, encouragingly. 

"You seem happy, " remarked Alf, in a critical tone. But he was notoffended; only tingled into desire for her by the strange gleam ofmerriment crossing her natural seriousness, the jubilant note of happyconsciousness that the evening's lovemaking had bred. Alf drew her moreclosely to his side, increasingly sure that he had done well. She wasbeginning to intrigue him. With an emotion that startled himself asmuch as it delighted Emmy, he said thickly in her ear, "D'you loveme . .. Like this?"

xi

They neared the road in which the Blanchards lived: Emmy began to pressforward as Alf seemed inclined to loiter. In the neighbourhood thechurch that had struck eight as they left the house began once again torecord an hour. 

"By George!" cried Alf. "Twelve . .. Midnight!" They could feel the daypass. 

They were at the corner, beside the little chandler's shop whichadvertised to the moon its varieties of tea; and Alf paused once again. 

"Half a tick, " he said. "No hurry, is there?"

"You'll come in for a bit of supper, " Emmy urged. Then, plumbing hishesitation, she went on, in a voice that had steel somewhere in itsdepths. "They'll both be gone to bed. She won't be there. "

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of that, " Alf declared, with unconvincingnonchalance. 

"I'll give you a drop of Pa's beer, " Emmy said drily. 

She took out a key, and held it up for his inspection. 

"I say!" Alf pretended to be surprised at the sight of a key. 

"Quite a big girl, aren't I! Well, you see: there are two, and Pa nevergoes out. So we have one each. Saves a lot of bother. " As she spoke Emmywas unlocking the door and entering the house. "See, you can have supperwith me, and then it won't seem so far to walk home. And you can throwMadame Buck's rinds at the back of the fire. You'll like that; and sowill she. "

Alf, now perfectly docile, and even thrilled with pleasure at the ideaof being with her for a little while longer, followed Emmy into thepassage, where the flickering gas showed too feeble a light to be of anyservice to them. Between the two walls they felt their way into thehouse, and Alf softly closed the door. 

"Hang your hat and coat on the stand, " whispered Emmy, and wenttiptoeing forward to the kitchen. It was in darkness. "Oo, she is amonkey! She's let the fire out, " Emmy continued, in the same whisper. "Have you got a match? The gas is out. " She opened the kitchen doorwide, and stood there taking off her hat, while Alf fumbled his wayalong the passage. "Be quick, " she said. 

Alf pretended not to be able to find the matches, so that he might giveher a hearty kiss in the darkness. He was laughing to himself because hehad only succeeded, in his random venture, in kissing her chin; andthen, when she broke away with a smothered protest and a half laugh, heput his hand in his pocket again for the match-box. The first matchfizzed along the box as it was struck, and immediately went out. 

"Oh, _do_ hurry up!" cried Emmy in a whisper, thinking he was stillsporting with her. "Don't keep on larking about, Alf!"

"I'm not!" indignantly answered the delinquent. "It wouldn't strike. Half a tick!"

He moved forward in the darkness, to be nearer the gas; and as he tookthe step his foot caught against something upon the floor. He exclaimed. 

"Now what is it?" demanded Emmy. For answer Alf struck his match, andthey both looked at the floor by Alf's feet. Emmy gave a startled cryand dropped to her knees. 

"Hul-lo!" said Alf; and with his lighted match raised he moved to thegas, stepping, as he did so, over the body of Pa Blanchard, which waslying at full length across the kitchen floor. 

CHAPTER XII: CONSEQUENCES

i

In the succeeding quietness, Emmy fumbled at the old man's hands; thenquickly at his breast, near the heart. Trembling violently, she lookedup at Alf, as if beseeching his aid. He too knelt, and Emmy took Pa'slolling head into her lap, as though by her caress she thought torestore colour and life to the features. The two discoverers did notspeak nor reason: they were wholly occupied with the moment's horror. Atlast Alf said, almost in a whisper:

"I think it's all right. He's hit his head. Feel his head, and see ifit's bleeding. "

Emmy withdrew one hand. A finger was faintly smeared with blood. Sheshuddered, looking in horror at the colour against her hand; and Alfnodded sharply at seeing his supposition verified. His eye wandered fromthe insensible body, to a chair, to the open cupboard, to the topmostshelf of the cupboard. Emmy followed his glance point by point, and inconclusion they looked straight into each other's eyes, with perfectunderstanding. Alf's brows arched. 

"Get some water--quick!" Emmy cried sharply. She drew her handkerchieffrom her breast as Alf returned with a jugful of water; and, havingfolded it, she dangled the kerchief in the jug. 

"Slap it on!" urged Alf. "He can't feel it, you know. "

So instructed, Emmy first of all turned Pa's head to discover the wound, and saw that her skirt was already slightly stained by the oozing blood. With her wetted handkerchief she gently wiped the blood from Pa's hair. It was still quite moist, and more blood flowed at the touch. That factmade her realise instinctively that the accident, the stages of whichhad been indicated by Alf's wandering glances, had happened within a fewminutes of their arrival. When Alf took the jug and threw some of itscontents upon the old man's grey face, splashing her, she made animpatient gesture of protest. 

"No, no!" she cried. "It's all over _me!_" "Been after his beer, hehas, " Alf unnecessarily explained. "That's what it is. Got up on thechair, and fell off it, trying to get at it. Bad boy!"

As she did not answer, from the irritation caused by nervousapprehensiveness, he soaked his own handkerchief and began to slap itacross Pa's face, until the jug was empty. Alf thoughtfully sprinkledthe last drops from it so that they fell cascading about Pa. He wasturning away to refill the jug, when a notion occurred to him. 

"Any brandy in the house?" he asked. "Ought to have thought of itbefore. Pubs are all closed now. "

"See if there's any . .. Up there. " Emmy pointed vaguely upwards. She wasbent over Pa, gently wiping the trickles of water from his ghastly face, caressing with her wet handkerchief the closed eyes and the furrowedbrow. 

Alf climbed upon the chair from which Pa had fallen, and reached hishand round to the back of the high shelf, feeling for whatever wasthere. With her face upturned, Emmy watched and listened. She heard avery faint clink, as if two small bottles had been knocked together, andthen a little dump, as if one of them had fallen over. 

"Glory!" said Alf, still in the low voice that he had used earlier. "Believe I've got it!"

"Got it? Is there any in it?" Emmy at the same instant was asking. 

Alf was sniffing at the little bottle which he had withdrawn from thecupboard. He then descended carefully from the chair, and held theuncorked bottle under her nose, for a corroborative sniff. It was abouthalf full of brandy. Satisfied, he knelt as before, now trying, however, to force Pa's teeth apart, and rubbing some of the brandy upon theparted lips. 

"This'll do it!" Alf cheerfully and reassuringly cried. "Half a tick. I'll get some water to wet his head again. " He stumbled once more outinto the scullery, and the careful Emmy unconsciously flinched as sheheard the jug struck hard in the darkness against the tap. Her eye wasfixed upon the jug as it was borne brimming and splashing back to herside. She could not help feeling such housewifely anxiety even amid thetremors of her other acute concern. As Alf knelt he lavishly sprinkledsome more water upon Pa's face, and set the jug ready to Emmy's hand, working with a quiet deftness that aroused her watchful admiration. Hewas here neither clumsy nor rough: if his methods were as primitive asthe means at hand his gentle treatment of the senseless body showed himto be adaptable to an emergency. How she loved him! Pride gleamed inEmmy's eyes. She could see in him the eternal handy-man of her delight, made for husbandhood and as clearly without nonsense as any working wifecould have wished. 

Pa's nightshirt was blackened with great splashes of water, and thesoaked parts clung tightly to his breast. At the neck it was alreadyopen, and they both thought they could see at this moment a quickcontraction of the throat. An additional augury was found in the factthat Alf simultaneously had succeeded in dribbling some of the brandybetween Pa's teeth, and although some of it ran out at the corners ofhis mouth and out on to his cheeks, some also was retained and wouldhelp to revive him. Alf gave another quick nod, this time one ofsatisfaction. 

"Feel his heart!" Emmy whispered. He did so. "Can you feel it?"

"It's all right. Famous!"

Pa gave a little groan. He seemed to stir. Emmy felt his shoulders moveagainst her knees; and she looked quickly up, a faint relieved smilecrossing her anxious face. Then, as Alf returned her glance, his eyesbecame fixed, and he looked beyond her and up over her head. Jenny stoodin the doorway, fully dressed, but without either hat or coat, her faceblanched at the picture before her. 

ii

To Jenny, coming with every precautionary quietness into the house, thesight came as the greatest shock. She found the kitchen door ajar, heardvoices, and then burst upon the three feebly illumined figures. Emmy, still in her out-of-doors coat, knelt beside Alf upon the floor; andbetween them, with a face terribly grey, lay Pa, still in his old rednightshirt, with one of his bare feet showing. The stained shirt, uponwhich the marks of water, looking in this light perfectly black, mighthave been those of blood, filled Jenny with horror. It was only when shesaw both Emmy and Alf staring mutely at her that she struggled againstthe deadly faintness that was thickening a veil of darkness before hereyes. It was a dreadful moment. 

"Hullo Jen!" Alf said. "Look here!"

"I thought you must be in bed, " Emmy murmured. "Isn't it awful!"

Not a suspicion! Her heart felt as if somebody had sharply pinched it. They did not know she had been out! It made her tremble in a suddenflurry of excited relief. She quickly came forward, bending over Pa. Into his cheeks there had come the faintest wash of colour. His eyelidsfluttered. Jenny stooped and took his hand, quite mechanically, pressingit between hers and against her heart. And at that moment Pa's eyesopened wide, and he stared up at her. With Alf at his side and Emmybehind him, supporting his head upon her lap, Pa could see only Jenny, and a twitching grin fled across his face--a grin of loving recognition. It was succeeded by another sign of recovery, a peculiar fumblingsuggestion of remembered cunning. 

"Jenny, my dearie, " whispered Pa, gaspingly. "A good . .. Boy!" His eyesclosed again. 

Emmy looked in quick challenge at Alf, as if to say "You see how it is!She comes in last, and it's her luck that he should see her. .. . _Always_the same!" And Jenny was saying, very low:

"It looks to me as if you'd been a bad boy!"

"Can't be with him _all_ the time!" Emmy put in, having reached a pointof general self-defence in the course of her mental explorations. Shewas recovering from her shock and her first horrible fears. 

"Shall we get him to bed? Carry him back in there?" Jenny asked. "Thefloor's soaking wet. " She had not to receive any rebuke: Emmy, althoughshaken, was reviving in happiness and in graciousness with each second'sdiminution of her dread. She now agreed to Pa's removal; and they allstumbled into his bedroom and laid him upon his own bed. Alf wentquickly back again to the kitchen for the brandy; and presently a gooddose of this was sending its thrilling and reviving fire through Pa'sperson. Emmy had busied herself in making a bandage for his woundedhead; and Jenny had arranged him more comfortably, drying his chest andlaying a little towel between his body and the night-short lest heshould take cold. Pa was very complacently aware of these ministrations, and by the time they were in full order completed he was fast asleep, having expressed no sort of contrition for his naughtiness or for thealarm he had given them all. 

Reassured, the party returned to the kitchen. 

iii

Alf could not now wait to sit down to supper; but he drank a glass ofbeer, after getting it down for himself and rather humorouslyillustrating how Pa's designs must have been frustrated. He then, with aquick handshake with Jenny, hurried away. 

"I'll let you out, " Emmy said. There were quick exchanged glances. Jennywas left alone in the kitchen for two or three minutes until Emmyreturned, humming a little self-consciously, and no longer pale. 

"Quite a commotion, " said Emmy, with assumed ease. 

Jenny was looking at her, and Jenny's heart felt as though it werebursting. She had never in her life known such a sensation ofguilt--guilt at the suppression of a vital fact. Yet above that sense ofguilt, which throbbed within all her consciousness, was a moresuperficial concern with the happenings of the moment. 

"Yes, " Jenny said. "And. .. . Had you been in long?" she asked quickly. 

"Only a minute. We found him like that. We didn't come straight home. "

"Oh, " said Jenny, significantly, though her heart was thudding. "Youdidn't come straight home. " Emmy's colour rose still higher. Shefaltered slightly, and tears appeared in her eyes. She could notexplain. Some return of her jealousy, some feeling of what Jenny would"think, " checked her. The communication must be made by other means thanwords. The two sisters eyed each other. They were very near, and Emmy'slids were the first to fall. Jenny stepped forward, and put a protectivearm round her; and as if Emmy had been waiting for that she begansmiling and crying at one and the same moment. 

"Looks to me as if. .. . " Jenny went on after this exchange. 

"I'm sorry I was a beast, " Emmy said. "I'm as different as anythingnow. "

"You're a dear!" Jenny assured her. "Never mind about what you said. "

It was an expansive moment. Their hearts were charged. To both theevening had been the one poignant moment of their lives, an evening toprovide reflections for a thousand other evenings. And Emmy was happy, for the first time for many days, with the thought of happy life beforeher. She described in detail the events of the theatre and the walk. Shedid not give an exactly true story. It was not to be expected that shewould do so. Jenny did not expect it. She gave indications of herhappiness, which was her main object; and she gave further indications, less intentional, of her character, as no author can avoid doing. AndJenny, immediately discounting, and in the light of her own temperamentre-shaping and re-proportioning the form of Emmy's narrative, was likethe eternal critic--apprehending only what she could personallyrecognise. But both took pleasure in the tale, and both saw forward intothe future a very satisfactory ending to Emmy's romance. 

"And we got back just as twelve was striking, " Emmy concluded. 

A deep flush overspread Jenny's face. She turned away quickly in orderthat it might not be seen. Emmy still continued busy with her thoughts. It occurred to her to be surprised that Jenny should be fully dressed. The surprise pressed her further onward with the narrative. 

"And then, of course, we found Pa. Wasn't it strange of him to do it? Hecouldn't have been there long. .. . He must have waited for you to go up. He must have listened. I must find another place to keep it, though he'snever done such a thing before in his life. He must have listened foryou going up, and then come creeping out here. .. . Why, there's hiscandle on the floor! Fancy that! Might have set fire to the whole house!See, you couldn't have been upstairs long. .. . I thought you must havebeen, seeing the fire was black out. Did you go to sleep in front ofit? I thought you might have laid a bit of supper for us. I thought you_would_ have. But if you were asleep, I don't wonder. I thought you'dhave been in bed hours. Did you hear anything? He must have made aracket falling off the chair. What made you come down again? Pa musthave listened like anything. "

"I didn't come down, " Jenny said, in a slow, passionless voice. "Ihadn't gone to bed. I was out. I'd been out all the evening . .. Sincequarter-to-nine. "

iv

At first Emmy could not understand. She stood, puzzled, unable tocollect her thoughts. 

"Jenny!" at last she said, unbelievingly. Accusing impulses showed inher face. The softer mood, just passing, was replaced by one of anger. "Well, I must say it's like you, " Emmy concluded. "I'm not to have a_moment_ out of the house. I can't even leave you. .. . "

"Half-an-hour after you'd gone, " urged Jenny, "I got a note from Keith. "

"Keith!" It was Emmy's sign that she had noted the name. 

"I told you. .. . He'd only got the one evening in London. "

"Couldn't he have come here?"

"He mustn't leave his ship. I didn't know what to do. At first I thoughtI _couldn't_ go. But the man was waiting--"

"Man!" cried Emmy. "What man?"

"The chauffeur. "

Emmy's face changed. Her whole manner changed. She was outraged. 

"Jenny! Is he _that_ sort! Oh, I warned you. .. . There's never any goodin it. He'll do you no good. "

"He's a captain of a little yacht. He's not what you think, " Jennyprotested, very pale, her heart sinking under such a rebuke, under suchknowledge as she alone possessed. 

"Still, to go to him!" Emmy was returned to that aspect of the affair. "And leave Pa!"

"I know. I know, " Jenny cried. She was no longer protective. She washerself in need of comfort. "But I _had_ to go. You'd have goneyourself!" She met Emmy's gaze steadily, but without defiance. 

"No I shouldn't!" It was Emmy who became defiant. Emmy's jealousy wasagain awake. "However much I wanted to go. I should have stayed. "

"And lost him!" Jenny cried. 

"Are you sure of him now?" asked Emmy swiftly. "If he's gone again. "

With her cheeks crimson, Jenny turned upon her sister. 

"Yes, I'm sure of him. And I love him. I love him as much as you loveAlf. " She had the impulse, almost irresistible, to add "More!" but sherestrained her tongue just in time. That was a possibility Emmy couldnever admit. It was only that they were different. 

"But to leave Pa!" Emmy's bewildered mind went back to what was the realdifficulty. Jenny protested. 

"He was in bed. I thought he'd be safe. He was tucked up. Supposing Ihadn't gone. Supposing I'd gone up to bed an hour ago. Still he'd havedone the same. "

"You know he wouldn't, " Emmy said, very quietly. Jenny felt a wave ofhysteria pass through her. It died down. She held herself very firmly. It was true. She knew that she was only defending herself. 

"I don't know, " she said, in a false, aggrieved voice. "How do I know?"

"You do. He knew you were out. He very likely woke up and feltfrightened. "

"Felt thirsty, more like it!" Jenny exclaimed. 

"Well, you did wrong, " Emmy said. "However you like to put it toyourself, you did wrong. "

"I always manage to. Don't I!" Jenny's speech still was withoutdefiance. She was humble. "It's a funny thing; but it's true. .. . "

"You always want to go your own way, " Emmy reproved. 

"Oh, I don't think _that's_ wrong!" hastily said Jenny. "Why should yougo anybody else's way?"

"I don't know, " admitted Emmy. "But it's safer. "

"Whose way do you go?" Jenny had stumbled upon a question sounanswerable that she was at liberty to answer it for herself. "I don'tknow whose way you go now; but I do know whose way you'll go soon. You'll go Alf's way. "

"Well?" demanded Emmy. "If it's a good way?"

"Well, I go Keith's way!" Jenny answered, in a fine glow. "And he goesmine. "

Emmy looked at her, shaking her head in a kind of narrow wisdom. 

"Not if he sends a chauffeur, " she said slowly. "Not that sort of man. "

v

For a moment Jenny's heart burned with indignation. Then it turned cold. If Emmy were right! Supposing--just supposing. .. . Savagely she thrustdoubt of Keith from her: her trust in him was forced by dread into stillwarmer and louder proclamation. 

"You don't understand!" she cried. "You _couldn't_. You've never seenhim. Wait a minute!" She went quickly out of the kitchen and up to herbedroom. There, secretly kept from every eye, was the little photographof Keith. She brought it down. In anxious triumph she showed it to Emmy. Emmy's three years' seniority had never been of so much account. "There, " Jenny said. "That's Keith. Look at him!"

Emmy held the photograph under the meagre light. She was astonished, although she kept outwardly calm; because Keith--besides being obviouslywhat is called a gentleman--looked honest and candid. She could not findfault with the face. 

"He's very good-looking, " she admitted, in a critical tone. "Very. "

"Not the sort of man you thought, " emphasised Jenny, keenly elated atEmmy's dilemma. 

"Is he . .. Has he got any money?"

"Never asked him. No--I don't think he has. It wasn't _his_ chauffeur. Alord's. "

"There! He knows lords. .. . Oh, Jenny!" Emmy's tone was still one ofwarning. "He won't marry you. I'm sure he won't. "

"Yes he will, " Jenny said confidently. But the excitement had shakenher, and she was not the firm Jenny of custom. She looked imploringly atEmmy. "_Say_ you believe it!" she begged. Emmy returned her urgentgaze, and felt Jenny's arm round her. Their two faces were very close. "You'd have done the same, " Jenny urged. 

Something in her tone awakened a suspicion in Emmy's mind. She tried tosee what lay behind those glowing mysteries that were so close to hers. Her own eyes were shining as if from an inner brightness. The sisters, so unlike, so inexpressibly contrary in every phase of their outlook, inevery small detail of their history, had this in common--that each, inher own manner, and with the consequences drawn from differences ofcharacter and aim, had spent happy hours with the man she loved. Whatwas to follow remained undetermined. But Emmy's heart was warmed withhappiness: she was for the first time filled only with impulses ofkindness and love for Jenny. She would blame no more for Jenny'sdesertion. It was just enough, since the consequences of that desertionhad been remedied, to enhance Emmy's sense of her own superiority. Thereremained only the journey taken by Jenny. She again took from hersister's hand the little photograph. Alf's face seemed to come betweenthe photograph and her careful, poring scrutiny, more the jealousscrutiny of a mother than that of a sister. 

"He's rather _thin"_, Emmy ventured, dubiously. "What colour are hiseyes?"

"Blue. And his hair's brown. .. . He's lovely. "

"He _looks_ nice, " Emmy said, relenting. 

"He _is_ nice. Em, dear. .. . Say you'd have done the same!"

Emmy gave Jenny a great hug, kissing her as if Jenny had been her littlegirl. To Emmy the moment was without alloy. Her own future assured, allelse fell into the orderly picture which made up her view of life. Butshe was not quite calm, and it even surprised her to feel so much warmthof love for Jenny. Still holding her sister, she was conscious of aquick impulse that was both exulting and pathetically shy. 

"It's funny us both being happy at once. Isn't it!" she whispered, allsparkling. 

vi

To herself Jenny groaned a sufficient retort. 

"I don't know that I'm feeling so tremendously happy my own self, " shethought. For the reaction had set in. She was glad enough to bring aboutby various movements their long-delayed bedward journey. She wasbeginning to feel that her head and her heart were both aching, and thatany more confidences from Emmy would be unbearable. And where Emmy hadgrown communicative--since Emmy had nothing to conceal--Jenny had feltmore and more that her happiness was staled as thought corroded it. Bythe time they turned out the kitchen gas the clock pointed to twentyminutes past two, and the darkest hour was already recorded. In threemore hours the sun would rise, and Jenny knew that long before then shewould see the sky greying as though the successive veils of thetransformation were to reveal the crystal grotto. She preceded Emmy upthe stairs, carrying a candle and lighting the way. At the top of thestaircase Emmy would find her own candle, and they would part. They werenow equally eager for the separation, Emmy because she wanted to thinkover and over again the details of her happiness, and to make plans fora kind of life that was to open afresh in days that lay ahead. Arrivedat the landing the sisters did not pause or kiss, but each looked andsmiled seriously as she entered her bedroom. With the closing of thedoors noise seemed to depart from the little house, though Jenny heardEmmy moving in her room. The house was in darkness. Emmy was gone; Palay asleep in the dim light, his head bandaged and the water slowlysoaking into the towel protectively laid upon his chest; in the kitchenthe ailing clock ticked away the night. Everything seemed at peace butJenny, who, when she had closed the door and set her candle down, wentquickly to the bed, sitting upon its edge and looking straight beforeher with dark and sober eyes. 

She had much to think of. She would never forgive herself now forleaving Pa. It might have been a more serious accident that had happenedduring her absence; she could even plead, to Emmy, that the accidentmight have happened if she had not left the house at all; but nothingher quick brain could urge had really satisfied Jenny. The stark factremained that she had been there under promise to tend Pa; and that shehad failed in her acknowledged trust. He might have died. If he haddied, she would have been to blame. Not Pa! He couldn't help himself! Hewas driven by inner necessity to do things which he must not be allowedto do. Jenny might have pleaded the same justification. She had done sobefore this. It had been a necessity to her to go to Keith. As far asthat went she did not question the paramount power of impulse. Not will, but the strongest craving, had led her. Jenny could perhaps hardlydiscourse learnedly upon such things: she must follow the dictates ofher nature. But she never accused Pa of responsibility. He was anirresponsible. She had been left to look after him. She had not stayed;and ill had befallen. A bitter smile curved Jenny's lips. 

"I suppose they'd say it was a punishment, " she whispered. "They'd liketo think it was. "

After that she stayed a long time silent, swaying gently while hercandle flickered, her head full of a kind of formless musing. Then sherose from the bed and took her candle so that she could see her face inthe small mirror upon the dressing-table. The candle flickered stillmore in the draught from the open window; and Jenny saw her breath hanglike a cloud before her. In the mirror her face looked deadly pale; andher lips were slightly drawn as if she were about to cry. Dark shadowswere upon her face, whether real or the work of the feeble light she didnot think to question. She was looking straight at her own eyes, blackwith the dilation of pupil, and somehow struck with the horror which washer deepest emotion. Jenny was speaking to the girl in the glass. 

"I shouldn't have thought it of you, " she was saying. "You come outof a respectable home and you do things like this. Silly little fool, you are. Silly little fool. Because you can't stand his not lovingyou . .. You go and do that. " For a moment she stopped, turning away, her lip bitten, her eyes veiled. "Oh, but he does love me!" shebreathed. "_Quite_ as much . .. Quite as much . .. Nearly . .. Nearly asmuch. .. . " She sighed deeply, standing lone in the centre of the room, her long, thin shadow thrown upon the wall in front of her. "And to leavePa!" she was thinking, and shaking her head. "_That_ was wrong, when I'dpromised. I shall always know it was wrong. I shall never be able toforget it as long as I live. Not as long as I live. And if I hadn'tgone, I'd never have seen Keith again--never! He'd have gone off; and myheart would have broken. I should have got older and older, and hatedeverybody. Hated Pa, most likely. And now I just hate myself. .. . Oh, it's so difficult!" She moved impatiently, and at last went back to themirror, not to look into it but to remove the candle, to blow it out, and to leave the room in darkness. This done, Jenny drew up the blind, so that she could see the outlines of the roofs opposite. It seemed toher that for a long distance there was no sound at all: only there, allthe time, far behind all houses, somewhere buried in the heart ofLondon, there was the same unintermittent low growl. It was always inher ears, even at night, like a sleepless pulse, beating steadilythrough the silences. 

Jenny was not happy. Her heart was cold. She continued to look from thewindow, her face full of gravity. She was hearing again Keith's voice ashe planned their future; but she was not sanguine now. It all seemed toofar away, and so much had happened. So much had happened that seemed asthough it could never be realised, never be a part of memory at all, soblank and sheer did it now stand, pressing upon her like overwhelmingdarkness. She thought again of the bridge, and the striking hours; theknock, the letter, the hurried ride; she remembered her supper and theargument with Emmy; the argument with Alf; and her fleeting moods, somany, so painful, during her time with Keith. To love, to be loved: thatwas her sole commandment of life--how learned she knew not. To love andto work she knew was the theory of Emmy. But how different they were, how altogether unlike! Emmy with Alf; Jenny with Keith. .. . 

"Yes, but she's got what she wants, " Jenny whispered in the darkness. "That's what she wants. It wouldn't do for me. Only in this world you'veall got to have one pattern, whether it suits you or not. Else you'renot 'right. ' 'They' don't like it. And I'm outside . .. I'm a misfit. Eh, well: it's no good whimpering about it. What must be, must; as theysay!"

Soberly she moved from the window and began to undress in the darkness, stopping every now and then as if she were listening to that low hummingfar beyond the houses, when the thought of unresting life made her heartbeat more quickly. Away there upon the black running current of theriver was Keith, on that tiny yacht so open upon the treacherous sea toevery kind of danger. And nothing between Keith and sudden, horribledeath but that wooden hulk and his own seamanship. She was Keith's: shebelonged to him; but he did not belong to her. To Keith she might, shewould give all, as she had done; but he would still be apart from her. He might give his love, his care: but she knew that her pride and herlove must be the love and pride to submit--not Keith's. Away from him, released from the spell, Jenny knew that she had yielded to him thefreedom she so cherished as her inalienable right. She had given him herfreedom. It was in his power. For her real freedom was her innocence andher desire to do right. It was not that she wanted to defy, so much asthat she could bear no shackles, and that she had no respect for thebelief that things should be done only because they were always done, and for no other reason but that of tradition. And she feared nothingbut her own merciless judgment. 

It was not now that she dreaded Emmy's powerlessness to forgive her, orthe opinion of anybody else in the world. It was that she could notforgive herself. Those who are strong enough to live alone in the world, so long as they are young and vigorous, have this rare faculty ofself-judgment. It is only when they are exhausted that they turnelsewhere for judgment and pardon. 

Jenny sat once again upon the bed. 

"Oh Keith, my dearest. .. . " she began. "My Keith. .. . " Her thoughts flewswiftly to the yacht, to Keith. With unforgettable pain she heard hisvoice ringing in her ears, saw his clear eyes, as honest as the day, looking straight into her own. Pain mingled with love and pride; andbattled there within her heart, making a fine tumult of sensation; andJenny felt herself smiling in the darkness at such a conflict. She evenbegan very softly to laugh. But as if the sound checked her and awokethe secret sadness that the tumultuous sensations were trying to hide, her courage suddenly gave way. 

"Keith!" she gently called, her voice barely audible. Only silence wasthere. Keith was far away--unreachable. Jenny pressed her hands to herlips, that were trembling uncontrollably. She rose, struggling forcomposure, struggling to get back to the old way of looking ateverything. It seemed imperative that she should do so. In a forlorn, quivering voice she ventured:

"What a life! Golly, what a life!"

But the effort to pretend that she could still make fun of the events ofthe evening was too great for Jenny. She threw herself upon the bed, burying her face in the pillow. 

"Keith . .. Oh Keith!. .. "

THE END