Thereafter she began to think of Alf. He had taken her out several times—not as many times as Emmy imagined, because Emmy had thought about these excursions a great deal and not only magnified but multiplied them. Nevertheless, Alf had taken Jenny out several times. To a music hall once or twice; to the pictures, where they had sat and thrilled in cushioned darkness while acrobatic humans and grey-faced tragic creatures jerked and darted at top speed in and out of the most amazingly telescoped accidents and difficulties. And Alf had paid more than once, for all Pa said. It is true that Jenny had paid on her birthday for both of them; and that she had occasionally paid for herself upon an impulse of sheer independence. But there had been other times when Alf had really paid for both of them. He had been very decent about it. He had not tried any nonsense, because he was not a flirtatious fellow. Well, it had been very nice; and now it was all spoilt. It was spoilt because of Emmy. Emmy had spoilt it by wanting Alf for herself. Ugh! thought Jenny. Em had always been a jealous cat: if she had just seen Alf somewhere she wouldn’t have wanted him. That was it! Em saw that Alf preferred Jenny; she saw that Jenny went out with him. And because she always wanted to do what Jenny did, and always wanted what Jenny had got, Em wanted to be taken out by Alf. Jenny, with the cruel unerringness of an exasperated woman, was piercing to Emmy’s heart with fierce lambent flashes of insight. And if Alf had taken Em once or twice, and Jenny once or twice, not wanting either one or the other, or not wanting one of them more than the other, Em would have been satisfied. It would have gone no further. It would still have been sensible, without nonsense. But it wouldn’t do for Em. So long as Jenny was going out Emmy stayed at home. She had said to herself: “Why should Jenny go, and not me ... having all this pleasure?” That had been the first stage—Jenny worked it all out. First of all, it had been envy of Jenny’s going out. Then had come stage number two: “Why should Alf Rylett always take Jenny, and not me?” That had been the first stage of jealousy of Alf. And the next time Alf took Jenny, Em had stayed at home, and thought herself sick about it, supposing that Alf and Jenny were 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 woman than herself, and having her wounded jealousy moved into a strong craving for Alf, driven deeper and deeper into her heart by long-continued thought and frustrated desire. And so she had come to look upon herself as one defrauded by Jenny of pleasure—of happiness—of love—of Alf Rylett.
“And she calls it love!” thought Jenny bitterly. “If that’s love, I’ve got no use for it. Love’s giving, not getting. I know that much. Love’s giving yourself; wanting to give all you’ve got. It’s got nothing at all to do with envy, or hating people, or being jealous....” Then a swift feeling of pity darted through her, changing her thoughts, changing every shade of the portrait of Emmy which she had been etching with her quick corrosive strokes of insight. “Poor old Em!” she murmured. “She’s had a rotten time. I know she has. Let her have Alf if she wants. I don’t want him. I don’t want anybody ... except ...” She closed her eyes in the most fleeting vision. “Nobody except just Keith....”
Slowly Jenny raised her hand and pressed the back of her wrist to her lips, not kissing the wrist, but holding it against her lips so that they were forced hard back upon her teeth. She drew, presently, a deep breath, releasing her arm again and clasping her hands over her knees as she bent lower, staring at the glowing heart of the fire. Her lips were closely, seriously, set now; her eyes sorrowful. Alf and Emmy had receded from her attention as if they had been fantastic shadows. Pa, sitting holding his exhausted hubble-bubble, was as though he had no existence at all. Jenny was lost in memory and the painful aspirations of her own heart.
iii
How the moments passed during her reverie she did not know. For her it seemed that time stood still while she recalled days that were beautified by distance, and imagined days that should be still to come, made to compensate for that long interval of dullness that pressed her each morning into acquiescence. She bent nearer to the fire, smiling to herself. The fire showing under the little door of the kitchener was a bright red glowing ash, the redness that came into her imagination when the words “fire” or “heat” were used—the red heart, burning and consuming itself in its passionate immolation. She loved the fire. It was to her the symbol of rapturous surrender, that feminine ideal that lay still deeper than her pride, locked in the most secret chamber of her nature.
And then, as the seconds ticked away, Jenny awoke from her dream and saw that the clock upon the mantelpiece said half-past eight. Half-past eight was what, in the Blanchard home, was called “time.” When Pa was recalcitrant Jenny occasionally shouted very loud, with what might have appeared to some people an undesirable knowledge of customs, “Act of Parliament, gentlemen, please”—which is a phrase sometimes used in clearing 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 the other his sturdy walking-stick. Together they tottered into the bedroom, stood a moment while Jenny lighted the peep of gas which was Pa’s guardian angel during the night, and then made their way to the bed. Pa sat upon the bed, like a child. Jenny took off Pa’s collar and tie, and his coat and waistcoat; she took off his boots and his socks; she laid beside him the extraordinary faded scarlet nightgown in which Pa slept away the darkness. Then she left him to struggle out of his clothes as well as he could, which Pa did with a skill worthy of his best days. The cunning which replaces competence had shown him how the braces may be made to do their own work, how the shirt may with one hand be so manipulated as to be drawn swiftly over the head... Pa was adept at undressing. He was in bed within five minutes, after a panting, exhausted interval during which he sat in a kind of trance, and was then proudly as usual knocking upon the floor with his walking-stick for Jenny to come and tuck him in for the night.
Jenny came, gave him a big kiss, and went back to the kitchen, where she resumed work upon her hat. It had lost its interest for her. She stitched quickly and roughly, not as one interested in needlework or careful for its own sake of the regularity of the stitch. Ordinarily she was accurate: to-night her attention was elsewhere. It had come back to the rows, because there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it ever so much more important than it really is. Loneliness with happy thoughts is perhaps an ideal state; but no torment could be greater than loneliness with thoughts that wound. Jenny’s thoughts wounded her. The mood of complacency was gone: that of shame and discontent was upon her. Distress was uppermost in her mind—not the petulant wriggling of a spoilt child, but the sober consciousness of pain in herself and in others. In vain did Jenny give little gasps of annoyance, intended by her humour to disperse the clouds. The gasps and exclamations were unavailing. She was angry, chagrined, miserable. ...At last she could bear the tension no longer, but threw down her work, rose, and walked impatiently about the kitchen.
“Oh, do shut up!” she cried to her insistent thoughts. “Enough to drive 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 for Alf—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, and nobody expects them to marry. The girls may want it; but the fellows don’t. They don’t want to get settled down. And I don’t blame them. Why is Alf different? I suppose it’s me that’s different. I’m not like other girls....” That notion cheered her. “No: I’m not like other girls. I want my bit of fun. I’ve never had any. And just because I don’t want to settle down and have a lot of kids that mess the place to bits, of course I get hold of Alf! It’s too bad! Why can’t he choose the right sort 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. She said I should get left. That’s what she’s afraid of, herself; only she’s afraid of getting left on the shelf.... I wonder why it is the marrying men don’t get hold of the marrying girls! They do, sometimes, I suppose....” 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 say it’s good for you. It’s your ‘duty.’ Who to? And who are ‘they,’ to say such a thing? What are they after? Just to keep people like me in their place—do as you’re told. Well, I’m not going to do as I’m told. They can lump it! That’s what they can do. What does it matter—what happens to me? I’m me, aren’t I? Got a right to live, haven’t I? Why should I be somebody’s servant all my life? I won’t! If Alf doesn’t want to marry Emmy, he can go and whistle somewhere else. There’s plenty of girls who’d jump at him. But just because I don’t, he’ll worry me to death. If I was to be all over him—see Alf sheer off! He’d think there was something funny about me. Well, there is! I’m Jenny Blanchard; and I’m going to keep Jenny Blanchard. If I’ve got no right to live, then nobody’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 do anything—by any right they’ve got. People—managing people—think that because there isn’t a corner of the earth they haven’t collared they can tell you what you’ve got to do. Give you a ticket and a number, get up at six, eat so much a day, have six children, do what you’re told. That may 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 cried again. “Just because I’m poor, I’m to do what I’m told. They seem to think that because they like to do what they’re told, everybody ought to be the same. They’re afraid. They’re afraid of themselves—afraid of being left alone in the dark. They think everybody ought to be afraid—in case anybody should find out that they’re cowards! But I’m not 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 face flushed with tumultuous anger. This was her defiance to life. She had been made into a rebel through long years in which she had unconsciously measured herself with others. Because she was a human being, Jenny thought she had a right to govern her own actions. With a whole priesthood against her, Jenny was a rebel against the world as it appeared to her—a crushing, numerically overwhelming pressure that would rob her of her one spiritual reality—the sense of personal freedom.