CHAPTER IX: WHAT FOLLOWED
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The Minerva slowly and gently rocked with the motion of the current. The stars grew brighter. The sounds diminished. Upon the face of the river 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 to make 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 precarious happiness. Far off, in her aspirations, love was desired as synonymous with peace and contentment; but in her heart Jenny had no such pretence. She knew that it was otherwise. She knew that passive domestic enjoyment would not bring her nature peace, and that such was not the love she needed. Keith alone could give her true love. And she was in Keith’s arms, puzzled and lethargic with something that was only not despair because 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. She tried 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 of some secret joy. When she could speak more calmly, she went on: “Suppose we don’t talk any more about being...what we are...and forgiving, and all that. We don’t mean it. We only say it...”
“Well, I mean it—about being a beast,” Keith said humbly. “That’s because I made you cry.”
“Well,” said Jenny, agreeingly, “you can be a beast—I mean, think you are one. And if I’m miserable I shall think I’ve been a fool. But we’ll cut out about forgiving. Because I shall never really forgive you. I couldn’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.”