Then her body arched in one last desperate attempt, and so strong was that effort that he was almost flung from her. He fell beside her on the bed, still half straddling her, and the lamplight struck down on her face, and he saw it.
What he saw was utter and complete terror, unaffected terror, virginal terror. He had seen it but once before in his life, when he had been nineteen, and he never liked to recall that episode and had always felt shame at the memory. It was not to be mistaken for anything else but what it was—the affrighted woman faced with the unknown and recoiling from it and preparing to fight to the death against it.
He held her but did not move, and he looked down into her eyes and saw the awful and shivering fear there and the blue and fainting cloudiness, and he saw her stricken lips and heard the chattering of her teeth. He leaned over her, all desire gone, and with only shame and remorse.
"Jenny," he said, "my God, Jenny."
She looked up into his face and she lay very still and tears began to roll from her widely opened eyes and she uttered a whimpering sound of total defeat. He took the edge of the sheet and pulled it over her nakedness with tender care and shaking hands, then stood up and looked at her as she lay
with the sheet under her chin and her eyes now closed, and weeping, her girl's young body outlined under the covering.
Dazed and infuriated with himself, and ashamed beyond anything he had ever felt before, he looked about the room and saw that it resembled a monastic cell in its small and quiet simplicity. The walls were white, the polished floor bare except for one small rug, and there were only a desk, two straight chairs, a painted wardrobe, a table, and one single lamp in the room. There were no ornaments here, no womanish daintinesses or ribbons or silks or taffetas, no intense scent of perfume. There was not even a dressing table with a mirror. In fact, there was no mirror at all. It was the cell of a nun, the bed the narrow hard bed of an ascetic woman.
If Harald had ever occupied that bed, he had occupied it alone! That was the foolish and humiliated thought that came to Jonathan as he clumsily rearranged and smoothed his clothing, which had been rumpled in his tussle with the girl and his attempted rape of her. He detested himself. He wanted to take one of Jenny's hands, now so flaccid on the sheet, and kneel beside her and beg her pardon for his animalistic attack on her, which seemed completely monstrous and unbelievable now. How was it possible that he had tried to do this thing? How was it possible for him to have believed the lies about her? Now his hate for himself was mixed with pity for the girl, and abysmal love.
"Jenny," he said. "I wouldn't blame you if you never forgave me. No, don't ever forgive me. I'm so ashamed, Jenny." His voice was humble as his voice had never been humble before in all his self-confident and self-assured life. "Jenny, I wish there were some way I could tell you— But I suppose there isn't."
He leaned his palms on the bed beside her and stiffened his arms and bent over her. She continued to cry helplessly with her eyes shut. "Jenny, I want to say just one thing: I love you, darling. I've always loved you, since that day in the garden, when you were sixteen. Think about that, dear, and perhaps you'll be able to forgive me, someday, sometime." But she continued to cry silently, far removed from him.
"Jenny? I really love you, my darling. That's no excuse for what I—well, what I tried to do. Don't be afraid, Jenny. I'm going away now. Watch for my lantern through your window," and he glanced at the little bare casement, innocent of any draperies at all "Then when you see I've gone, go downstairs and lock the door. Jenny?"
But she did not answer him. She only lay there rigidly, her black hair flung about her in complete disorder. There was a growing bruise near her mouth and when he saw it, he hated himself more than ever and he had to hold back to keep from bending and kissing it gently. He wanted to do this with a passion greater than any lust he had felt for her, and he hesitated. Then he straightened up and went from the room.
Jenny heard his footsteps dragging slowly and wearily down the stairs. She heard them echoing in the hall. Then the bronze doors opened, and she could hear him close them behind him. She saw the faint reflection of the lantern on her window, and then she heard him going down the flagged marble of the walk, and finally she could hear him no more.
She sat up in bed, then sprang from it and ran to her casement window and flung it open. She saw the flickering lantern light retreating down the length of the island, twinkling through bushes and trees, dying away into the distance.
She dropped her head on the wide windowsill and burst into anguished little cries. "Oh, Jon, Jon, Jon! Oh, Jon!" She cried for a long time, until she slipped to the floor, and then pressed her cheek against the stark wall and mourned over and over, "Jon, Jon." She was exhausted and desolate. She slept there, crouched in nakedness on the wooden floor, and when she awoke, it was a dim and purple dawn.
When Jonathan let himself quietly into his father's house, he hoped that his mother had gone to bed, but he was no sooner in the soft and silvery hall than he heard her voice from the morning room. "Jon? Is that you? I'm in here, having a cup of tea. Do have one with me."
He cursed silently to himself, and hesitated. Then he went into the dining room, and by a very dim light he filled a glass full of whiskey and soda and carried it into the room where his mother was waiting for him. She looked extremely fatigued, but she smiled at him affectionately. "Was everything safe on the island?" she asked. Then she uttered a consternated exclamation. "Jon! What's wrong with your cheek, all puffed and red, and with that long scratch on it?"
Lies were unfamiliar things to him, and so he felt his face and tried to think of one. He finally said, "Oh, that. I bumped into something in the infernal dark on the island."
Marjorie stared at him thoughtfully, and then she smiled inwardly. Jenny! She felt a real pang of happiness. Was it really possible that at last he had admitted to himself what
she had known of him and Jenny for several years? Her tired hazel eyes began to shine. "Do sit down, dear, and talk to me for a minute before I go to bed. I just didn't have the strength to move until I had some tea and a little quiet. What a noisy day, wasn't it?"
He had seated himself reluctantly on a chair in this charming and restful room, but he could not force himself to look at his mother, so he examined the contents of his glass and frowned at it. "Awful day," he said.
"I do believe," said Marjorie, "that your young Robert has what we used to call a crush on Jenny, but Jenny is oblivious. Such an innocent girl. She never learned to flirt or be young or gay or lighthearted. Poor child. It was that awful Peter Heger, you know. Wouldn't it be nice if Robert and she—What's the matter, Jon?"
"That's nonsense," said Jonathan. The little white ridges had come out about his mouth. "Mother, you know Jenny well. She's often here. Is there anyone?"
Marjorie made her eyes very artless. "Oh, yes, indeed. There is someone she dearly cares about. Quite a bit older than herself, of course, but eminently suitable. She's loved him a long time. I know you don't like the word 'love,' Jon, and think it is absurd and that there's no such thing, but only 'love' can describe the way Jenny feels about that certain man."
"What's his name?" asked Jonathan. "Do I know him?"
"She never mentioned his name, and I never asked, and I only know about it because I am a woman, too, though that, too, will probably surprise you, my dear. But there are certain things a woman can't conceal from another woman, and among them is when she is in love. I know all the signs."
Jonathan drank half his glass of whiskey and soda in one breath. He shook the glass. His black brows drew together. It was unbearable to think of Jenny in love with a stranger. He had tried to take her forcibly tonight, had intolerably insulted and attacked her, had gone away certain that he would never be allowed to see her again and knew it was all he deserved.
"It's possible that you're mistaken, Mother. Do you have any idea who he is?"
"Yes."
He stared at her formidably. "Who?"
"Why don't you ask Jenny yourself?" He stood up and began to walk slowly up and down the room. "If she never told you, she certainly would never tell me. That's ridiculous. Does Harald know?"
"No," said Marjorie, with slowness. "He doesn't. As I've told you before, he wants to marry Jenny. But you always laughed when I told you."
Jonathan stopped and looked at her. "Mother, who has been spreading those disgusting lies about Jenny in Hambledon?"
If Marjorie had had any doubts before, she did not have them now and she almost laughed with joy. "I don't know, Jon." But she dropped her eyes to her teacup.
"Does Jenny know—about these vicious tales?"
"Jenny?" Marjorie was shocked. She put down her teacup. "She's never once suspected! You don't know Jenny very well, Jon. She's as simple and innocent as an infant, and it would seem incredible to her that wicked people would make up vile lies about others. She just wouldn't believe it. It would have shaken Jenny to her very heart. She avoids people because her father told her, when she was a child, that she was ugly and unattractive and that no one, except him, of course, could ever love her, and so she must stay at home with him." Marjorie's pale face colored, but she looked Jonathan straight in the eye. "I'm not a simpering, old-fashioned woman, Jon. I wasn't brought up in a velvet-lined box and put away with Mama's pearls in a dark and secluded place. My father liked the very idea of the 'new woman,' and what he called 'the new candor.' Personally, I think he carried it a little too far sometimes.
"Well, I know all about Peter Heger, Jonathan, from the perfectly innocent things Jenny said about him. I think he—"
Jonathan smiled nastily. "He had incestuous thoughts about our little gosling?"
"Well, yes. It isn't a word you hear very often; it isn't a word 'nice' people use all the time in polite conversation. But that is it, exactly. Jenny once told me that he had 'flattered' her by saying she looked exactly like his mother, her grandmother, who died in Germany when he was a young boy, and that he had always dreamed of building a schloss for his mother. But, as she was dead, he was building a castle for Jenny in which to live, as he had dreamed of his mother living in such a castle."
"I follow his ideas," said Jonathan. "Yes."
"Jenny thought it very touching. She is such a simple young woman. There are times when I'm sure that Jenny thinks children are procreated by osmosis or something."
Jonathan could not help laughing. He sat down near his mother and eyed her with genuine pleasure. Then he said, and he stopped smiling: "Somehow, I don't think Jenny believes that. No, I don't think she believes that."
So, you did teach her something, then, Jonathan, thought Marjorie. A rather strenuous lesson, from the look of you.
"So," Marjorie continued, "Jenny believed her father and so she became abnormally shy with people, thinking she offended them with her 'ugliness.' Then she was much taller than the other girls at school, and this is the day of the little dimpled darling, Jon, and the cupid's bow lips, and 'the head no higher than my heart.' You are really a stupid race, you men! Never mind. Then she was secluded on that island, even though her father was dead. He had built the schloss for her, contrary to the popular notion that he had built it for Myrtle. She not only feels compelled to live there but she loves the fantastic thing. I don't think Jenny ever once considered that a man might want her—" She stopped, for Jonathan was looking at her grimly.
"She does now," he said. "All right. I must tell you something before Jenny does, or even if she doesn't, you'll wonder why she never wants to come here again. I tried to rape her tonight. Do you understand me?"
Though Marjorie more than suspected that and was delighted at the thought, she knew that propriety demanded some quite contrary reaction from her. So she sat upright, arranged her features into an outraged expression, and exclaimed, "Jon! How could you, how dare you, a defenseless young girl alone and unprotected! How terrible, how dreadful, how unbelievable of you!"
He waved his hand wearily. "Very well, I'm a blackguard, a dog, a despoiler, a stinker, a hound—think them all. I'm all of them. Well. I didn't succeed. Jenny fought me off like a wildcat, like a female cougar. Partly, it was her fault. She called me—something. I think that precipitated the whole thing, though perhaps not. So, while we're being so bloody frank, as our English cousins call it, I might as well say that she convinced me that she was what is prissily called a 'pure' girl, and that I was particularly loathsome to her anyway. That stopped me. Of course, had I continued the little wrestling match, I'd have discovered the whole truth in a minute or two for myself, and that, of course, would have been beyond repair."
"Yes," said Marjorie, "it indeed would have. Women don't like to be taken by force."
"Like hell they don't," said Jonathan. "Mama dear, I'm not a little boy. I've known a considerable number of women. But Jenny wouldn't have liked it, to use an understatement. Did you say you didn't know the name of the man she's in love with?"
"I didn't say." Marjorie considered what Jonathan had told her and now she felt a trifle disturbed. Would Jenny ever forgive her son? Yes, she would, eventually. She might even look into a mirror and study herself very soon and wonder what there was about her that had aroused Jonathan so and had incited the attack upon her. Once let a woman suspect she has charms that could drive a man to assault her, and she will love him then—if she had never before—for desiring her. Things were progressing very nicely, thought Marjorie. She gave a great yawn and then regarded her son seriously.
"Jonathan, you have behaved atrociously, as you know yourself. I don't have to tell you that. If Jenny were not fond of me, she might prefer charges against you. This isn't a light matter. Poor Jenny. By the way, what did make you lose your head like that?"
"It's not important," he said. "Men are always losing their heads over some damned woman, figuratively or literally." He smiled at her. "You've called us men 'a stupid race.' No doubt. Say I lost my head. Jenny's a very beautiful girl and a very desirable one, and I was having one of my moods today, and tonight, and there Jenny was, apparently available, though I don't suppose you understand that."
"Yes, I do. Still it was an abominable thing. Jenny's only twenty, and a very young twenty, and you are an experienced man of thirty-five, and a widower. You're almost old enough to be Jenny's father. In some cultures you would be." She paused and watched him closely. "I don't suppose, while this joyous caper was going on, that you gave a single thought to Mavis?"
He looked at her blankly. "Mavis?" He was more blank than ever and Marjorie thought, Thank God, then, it is all over. "What has Mavis to do with it?"
"Nothing, to be sure!" Marjorie almost sang. "Dear, do let me bathe that ugly scratch. I presume Jenny did that to you, and it's all you deserve."
He carried a fresh glass of whiskey into his bedroom, then looked at it with distaste and put it down. He went to the window and looked out at the hot and breathless night, so Still now that all festivities had ended and the fireworks already forgotten. He craned for a glimpse of the river, which held the island in a watery moat, and he thought of Jenny. Then he thought of Mavis.
The old misery and despair did not return to him now, and when he thought of Mavis, he could hardly remember her appearance, though she was dead much less than a year. He could only faintly recall her raucous laughter. He was amazed. She was like someone he had not thought of for many years and whom he had hardly known. He stood quietly and waited for the sickness of mind to come, as always it had come, but it did not. Where the memory of Mavis had lived there was an empty place but not a wretched one. It was like a room being prepared for a new guest, for the first stranger had gone forever. Mavis no longer had the power to make him suffer and hate and turn away from living.
He felt intoxicated with relief and gratitude. The infection of Mavis had been dissipated. He could even think of her now with a kind of remote pity, recalling her youth and the swift ending of her life and the grave which he never visited but which was always covered with flowers
from her aunt and uncle and others who had loved her. He went into her dressing room and then her bedroom, and lit a lamp and looked at the beauty there and the rosy lamps and pretty furniture. The very ghost of Mavis' perfume floated toward him, but Mavis would never wear it again. He closed the door upon her room as one closes the door on someone who would never wake again.
Now he could think of Jenny. It was, possible-—though he did not actually believe it—that he would never see her again, or that, if seeing, she would never speak to him. He had done a violent and unpardonable thing to her, but women have rarely held that against a man. He dismissed the thought of her loving someone else as totally inconsequential and not to be given serious consideration. What did young Jenny know of love, anyway? He would contrive means of putting himself near her. She would not be able to avoid him! He chuckled. Then, after many months—but not too many —she would be forced to take him seriously, she would begin to think about him. How long would it take? A year, perhaps, if he could wait that long. Sweet Jenny. He remembered how she had felt in his arms and the touch of her mouth and her warm breath and how—how could he have forgotten that for a minute?—she had not resisted for a few seconds in that gloomy library and had let him kiss her throat
He turned from the window, smiling. He felt young as he had never felt young even when he had been a boy. He felt rejuvenated, alive, tingling, excited and expectant. For the first time he considered the thought that it was probable that life indeed had moments when it was desirable to be alive, and even rapturous. He was thirty-five and so he was not really young, and he could never give himself enthusiastically ever again to joy, or even truly believe in it, but there could be some contentment, some purpose, some infrequent happiness, in existence. Above all, there could be a purpose, and that was even more than enough for any man and much more than the majority of humanity ever could know.
CHAPTER TWENTY