Barrington, noticing the change in Jehane, said, “There are only two things that could do it: money or love. It isn’t love, so we have to believe that it’s——”
But it was love—love for Barrington and the effect of being near him. Even she herself wondered at how the old infatuation had lasted. Her very bitterness had been a form of love. Now that he went out of his way to be kind to her all the passion in her responded—but she had to disguise its response.
At night, with another man’s child in her arms, she lay awake. In the darkness and silence she told herself stories, juggling with circumstances.
Once she heard a tapping on her door. She crouched against the wall, shuddering.
The handle turned. Nan stood on the threshold. “I thought I heard you moving.”
Guilty and angry, Jehane said nothing. Nan groped her way toward the bed and found it empty.
“Jehane, Janey,” she called.
Then she saw her, stooped to her and caught her in her arms, begging for an explanation. Just as once, when she had asserted, “Jehane I did, I did play fair,” so now she got no answer—only, “I’m stupid, dear; I’ll be better in the morning.”
Cold with alarm, Nan crept downstairs and hid herself in Billy’s arms. He was too sleepy to give the matter much attention. “She’s odd, darling. Never understood her. Poor old Ocky!”
The intoxication and the madness were gone. Fear had come. Any moment they might guess. With fear came contrition: she would idolize her husband more, till he became for her the man he was not. Next morning she surprised Nan by announcing that she was homesick for Ocky, that her things were packed and she would return to Sand-port at once. There was no dissuading her. In her heart she had determined to wipe out her faithlessness by educating her husband into largeness by love.