Nocturne by Frank Swinnerton

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"And then, of course, we found Pa. Wasn't it strange of him to do it? He
couldn'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's
never done such a thing before in his life. He must have listened for
you going up, and then come creeping out here.... Why, there's his
candle 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 have
been, seeing the fire was black out. Did you go to sleep in front of
it? 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'd
have been in bed hours. Did you hear anything? He must have made a
racket falling off the chair. What made you come down again? Pa must
have listened like anything."

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

iv

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

"Jenny!" at last she said, unbelievingly. Accusing impulses showed in
her 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 thought
I _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 good
in it. He'll do you no good."

"He's a captain of a little yacht. He's not what you think," Jenny
protested, very pale, her heart sinking under such a rebuke, under such
knowledge 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 was
herself in need of comfort. "But I _had_ to go. You'd have gone
yourself!" She met Emmy's gaze steadily, but without defiance.

"No I shouldn't!" It was Emmy who became defiant. Emmy's jealousy was
again 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 love
Alf." She had the impulse, almost irresistible, to add "More!" but she
restrained her tongue just in time. That was a possibility Emmy could
never admit. It was only that they were different.

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

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

"You know he wouldn't," Emmy said, very quietly. Jenny felt a wave of
hysteria 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 felt
frightened."

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

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

"I always manage to. Don't I!" Jenny's speech still was without
defiance. 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 you
go 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 so
unanswerable that she was at liberty to answer it for herself. "I don't
know 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 goes
mine."

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 thrust
doubt of Keith from her: her trust in him was forced by dread into still
warmer and louder proclamation.

"You don't understand!" she cried. "You _couldn't_. You've never seen
him. Wait a minute!" She went quickly out of the kitchen and up to her
bedroom. There, secretly kept from every eye, was the little photograph
of 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 obviously
what is called a gentleman--looked honest and candid. She could not find
fault 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 at
Emmy's dilemma.

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

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

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

"Yes he will," Jenny said confidently. But the excitement had shaken
her, and she was not the firm Jenny of custom. She looked imploringly at
Emmy. "_Say_ you believe it!" she begged. Emmy returned her urgent
gaze, 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 to
see 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, in
every small detail of their history, had this in common--that each, in
her own manner, and with the consequences drawn from differences of
character and aim, had spent happy hours with the man she loved. What
was to follow remained undetermined. But Emmy's heart was warmed with
happiness: she was for the first time filled only with impulses of
kindness and love for Jenny. She would blame no more for Jenny's
desertion. It was just enough, since the consequences of that desertion
had been remedied, to enhance Emmy's sense of her own superiority. There
remained only the journey taken by Jenny. She again took from her
sister's hand the little photograph. Alf's face seemed to come between
the photograph and her careful, poring scrutiny, more the jealous
scrutiny of a mother than that of a sister.

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

"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 little
girl. To Emmy the moment was without alloy. Her own future assured, all
else fell into the orderly picture which made up her view of life. But
she was not quite calm, and it even surprised her to feel so much warmth
of love for Jenny. Still holding her sister, she was conscious of a
quick impulse that was both exulting and pathetically shy.

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

vi

To herself Jenny groaned a sufficient retort.

"I don't know that I'm feeling so tremendously happy my own self," she
thought. For the reaction had set in. She was glad enough to bring about
by various movements their long-delayed bedward journey. She was
beginning to feel that her head and her heart were both aching, and that
any more confidences from Emmy would be unbearable. And where Emmy had
grown communicative--since Emmy had nothing to conceal--Jenny had felt
more and more that her happiness was staled as thought corroded it. By
the time they turned out the kitchen gas the clock pointed to twenty
minutes past two, and the darkest hour was already recorded. In three
more hours the sun would rise, and Jenny knew that long before then she
would see the sky greying as though the successive veils of the
transformation were to reveal the crystal grotto. She preceded Emmy up
the stairs, carrying a candle and lighting the way. At the top of the
staircase Emmy would find her own candle, and they would part. They were
now equally eager for the separation, Emmy because she wanted to think
over and over again the details of her happiness, and to make plans for
a kind of life that was to open afresh in days that lay ahead. Arrived
at the landing the sisters did not pause or kiss, but each looked and
smiled seriously as she entered her bedroom. With the closing of the
doors noise seemed to depart from the little house, though Jenny heard
Emmy moving in her room. The house was in darkness. Emmy was gone; Pa
lay asleep in the dim light, his head bandaged and the water slowly
soaking into the towel protectively laid upon his chest; in the kitchen
the ailing clock ticked away the night. Everything seemed at peace but
Jenny, who, when she had closed the door and set her candle down, went
quickly to the bed, sitting upon its edge and looking straight before
her with dark and sober eyes.

She had much to think of. She would never forgive herself now for
leaving Pa. It might have been a more serious accident that had happened
during her absence; she could even plead, to Emmy, that the accident
might have happened if she had not left the house at all; but nothing
her quick brain could urge had really satisfied Jenny. The stark fact
remained that she had been there under promise to tend Pa; and that she
had failed in her acknowledged trust. He might have died. If he had
died, she would have been to blame. Not Pa! He couldn't help himself! He
was driven by inner necessity to do things which he must not be allowed
to do. Jenny might have pleaded the same justification. She had done so
before this. It had been a necessity to her to go to Keith. As far as
that went she did not question the paramount power of impulse. Not will,
but the strongest craving, had led her. Jenny could perhaps hardly
discourse learnedly upon such things: she must follow the dictates of
her nature. But she never accused Pa of responsibility. He was an
irresponsible. 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 like
to think it was."

After that she stayed a long time silent, swaying gently while her
candle flickered, her head full of a kind of formless musing. Then she
rose from the bed and took her candle so that she could see her face in
the small mirror upon the dressing-table. The candle flickered still
more in the draught from the open window; and Jenny saw her breath hang
like a cloud before her. In the mirror her face looked deadly pale; and
her lips were slightly drawn as if she were about to cry. Dark shadows
were upon her face, whether real or the work of the feeble light she did
not think to question. She was looking straight at her own eyes, black
with the dilation of pupil, and somehow struck with the horror which was
her deepest emotion. Jenny was speaking to the girl in the glass.

"I shouldn't have thought it of you," she was saying. "You come out
of a respectable home and you do things like this. Silly little fool,
you are. Silly little fool. Because you can't stand his not loving
you ... you go and do that." For a moment she stopped, turning away,
her lip bitten, her eyes veiled. "Oh, but he does love me!" she
breathed. "_Quite_ as much ... quite as much ... nearly ... nearly as
much...." 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 leave
Pa!" she was thinking, and shaking her head. "_That_ was wrong, when I'd
promised. I shall always know it was wrong. I shall never be able to
forget it as long as I live. Not as long as I live. And if I hadn't
gone, I'd never have seen Keith again--never! He'd have gone off; and my
heart would have broken. I should have got older and older, and hated
everybody. Hated Pa, most likely. And now I just hate myself.... Oh,
it's so difficult!" She moved impatiently, and at last went back to the
mirror, 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 to
her that for a long distance there was no sound at all: only there, all
the time, far behind all houses, somewhere buried in the heart of
London, there was the same unintermittent low growl. It was always in
her ears, even at night, like a sleepless pulse, beating steadily
through the silences.

Jenny was not happy. Her heart was cold. She continued to look from the
window, her face full of gravity. She was hearing again Keith's voice as
he planned their future; but she was not sanguine now. It all seemed too
far away, and so much had happened. So much had happened that seemed as
though it could never be realised, never be a part of memory at all, so
blank and sheer did it now stand, pressing upon her like overwhelming
darkness. She thought again of the bridge, and the striking hours; the
knock, the letter, the hurried ride; she remembered her supper and the
argument with Emmy; the argument with Alf; and her fleeting moods, so
many, so painful, during her time with Keith. To love, to be loved: that
was her sole commandment of life--how learned she knew not. To love and
to 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've
all got to have one pattern, whether it suits you or not. Else you're
not '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 they
say!"

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 humming
far beyond the houses, when the thought of unresting life made her heart
beat more quickly. Away there upon the black running current of the
river was Keith, on that tiny yacht so open upon the treacherous sea to
every kind of danger. And nothing between Keith and sudden, horrible
death but that wooden hulk and his own seamanship. She was Keith's: she
belonged to him; but he did not belong to her. To Keith she might, she
would 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 her
love 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 the
freedom she so cherished as her inalienable right. She had given him her
freedom. It was in his power. For her real freedom was her innocence and
her desire to do right. It was not that she wanted to defy, so much as
that she could bear no shackles, and that she had no respect for the
belief that things should be done only because they were always done,
and for no other reason but that of tradition. And she feared nothing
but her own merciless judgment.

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

Jenny sat once again upon the bed.

"Oh Keith, my dearest...." she began. "My Keith...." Her thoughts flew
swiftly to the yacht, to Keith. With unforgettable pain she heard his
voice ringing in her ears, saw his clear eyes, as honest as the day,
looking straight into her own. Pain mingled with love and pride; and
battled there within her heart, making a fine tumult of sensation; and
Jenny felt herself smiling in the darkness at such a conflict. She even
began very softly to laugh. But as if the sound checked her and awoke
the 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 was
there. Keith was far away--unreachable. Jenny pressed her hands to her
lips, that were trembling uncontrollably. She rose, struggling for
composure, struggling to get back to the old way of looking at
everything. 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 of
the evening was too great for Jenny. She threw herself upon the bed,
burying her face in the pillow.

"Keith ... oh Keith!..."

THE END

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