CHAPTER II--“I'M HALF SICK OF SHADOWS”

The strange man was rather amused as he climbed the stairs, but he

showed no amusement when he entered.

Jehane laid aside her book leisurely and rose from her chair; he was

even better to look at than she had expected. It was his clothes that

impressed her first; the gray tweeds fitted his athletic figure with

just that maximum of good taste that stops short of perfection. Then it

was his face, clean-shaven and intellectual--the face of a boyish man,

mobile and keen in expression. She liked the way he did his dark brown

hair, almost as dark as hers, swept straight back without a parting from

his forehead. His eyes were kindly, piercing and blue-gray; for a man he

had exceptionally long, thin hands. She liked him entirely; she wondered

whether he was equally well impressed.

“So thoughtless of father--he's out. Is there anything I can do for

you?”

Jehane was tall, but she only reached up to his shoulders. His eyes

looked down on hers and twinkled into a smile at her nervous gravity.

“We all know the Professor; there's no need to apologize. Please don't

stand.”

She was about to comply with his request, when she realized that she no

longer held his attention. He was staring past her. She turned her head.

“Oh, allow me to introduce you, Mr. Barrington, to my friend, Miss

Tudor.”

“I thought it was.” His tones had become extraordinarily glad. “No one

could forget little Nan, who'd once known her. But Nan, you've grown

older. What do you mean by it? It's so uncalled for, so unexpected.

You're no longer the Princess Pepperminta that you were.”

Nan crossed the room in a romping bound and commenced pumping his arm up

and down.

“It's Billy, dear old Billy! You remember, Jehane; I've told you. Billy

who sewed up father's surplice, and Billy who tied knots in my hair, and

Billy who, when I got angry, used to call me the Princess Pepperminta.

You made yourself so detestable, Billy, that our village talks about you

even now.”

“A doubtful compliment; but it's ripping to see you--simply ripping.”

Jehane stood aside and watched them. She had heard Nan talk of Billy

Barrington and how her father had tutored him for Oxford--but that must

be twelve years back. She had never known him herself and had never been

very curious about him. But now, as she watched, she felt the appeal of

this big, broad-shouldered boy of thirty.

They were talking--talking of things beyond her knowledge, things which

shut her out.

“And why didn't you write in all these years? Father and I often

mentioned you. In Cassingland you were an event. It wasn't kind of you,

Billy.”

“Things at home were in such a mess. I'd to start work at once. Somehow,

with working so hard, other things faded out.”

“Poor Nan with the rest!”

“No, I remembered you. 'Pon my honor I did, Nan; but I thought----”

“Yes?”

“You were such a kid in those days; I thought you'd forgotten. As though

either of us could forget. I was an ass.”

Jehane had turned her back and was looking out of the window. For the

first time she envied Nan--Nan, the daughter of a country parson. It was

too bad.

“Miss Usk.”

She glanced across her shoulder.

“We're being intolerably rude, talking all about our own affairs. You

see, once Nan was almost my sister. How old were you, Nan? Thirteen,

wasn't it? And I was eighteen. We've not met since then. My father died

suddenly, you know. I had to step into his shoes--they were much too big

for me. That was the end of Oxford and Cassingland.”

“We were going out on the river,” said Jehane. “Perhaps you'll join

us. I'll sit very quiet and listen. You can talk over old times to your

heart's content.”

They piled his arms with cushions, and together set out through the

glistening meadows to the barges. After the rain, the air was intensely

still. Sounds carried far; from tall trees on the Broad Walk and from

the uttermost distance came the fluty cry of birds, from the river the

rattle of oars being banked, and from every side the slow patter of

dripping branches. Like a canvas, fresh from an artist's brush, colors

in the landscape stood out distinct and wet--flowers against the gray

walls of Corpus, trunks of trees with their velvety blackness and shorn

greenness of the Hinksey Hills. Men in disreputable shorts, returning

from the boats, passed them. Some ran; some sauntered chatting.

Barrington laughed shortly and drew a long breath. “Nothing to do but

enjoy themselves. Nothing to do but grow a fine body and learn to be

gentlemen. I missed all that. After the rush and drive, it's topping to

sink back.”

“You're right; it is sleepy. One day's just like the next. We stand as

still as church-steeples. People come and go; we're left. We exist for

visitors to look at, like the Martyr's Memorial and Calvary Tower.”

He glanced down at Jehane quickly: she interested him--there was

something about her that he could not understand. The long penciled

brows, the thick lashes, the cloudy eyes and the straight, pale features

attracted and yet repelled him. He felt that she was not happy and had

never been quite happy. The natural generosity of the man made him eager

to hear her speak about herself.

But Jehane was aware that she had struck a discord in what she had said.

He had flinched like a child, with whom the thought of pain had not

yet become a habit. She made haste to cover up her error by directing

attention to himself.

“But you--what are you?”

“I'm a pub.”

“A pub! But you can't be. You don't mean that you----”

Nan caught his arm in her merriment and leant across him. “Of course he

doesn't. He's a publisher. He always did clip his words.”

“But not _the_ Barrington--father's publisher?”

“Yes, _the_ Barrington. It's funny, Jehane, but it can't be helped.

Anyhow, he's only Billy now.”

Barrington stood still, eying the two girls--the one fair and all

mischief, the other dark and serious. “What's the matter with you, Miss

Usk? Why do you object?”

“If I told you, you might not like it.”

“Rubbish.”

“Well then, you ought to have a long gray beard like father. You're not

old enough.”

“I've sometimes thought that myself.”

“Billy's always been young for his age,” said Nan; “he's minus twenty

now.”

But, as they walked on, Jehane was saying to herself, “Then he was only

coming to see father, as everybody comes! It wasn't my face that drew

him.”

They strewed the cushions on the floor of the punt. Barrington took the

pole and Jehane seated herself in front so that she could face him.

All that he should see of Nan's attractions was the back of her golden

head--Jehane had arranged all that.

They swung out into mid-stream unsteadily; Barrington was struggling to

recover a forgotten art. Their direction was erratic. They nearly fouled

a returning eight; the maledictions of the cox, each stinging epithet of

whose abuse politely ended in “sir,” drew unwelcome attention to their

wandering progress. When they had collided with the opposite bank, Nan

stood up and took the pole herself. Jehane was in luck.

She had often pictured such a scene to herself--a man, herself, and a

punt on the river; in these pictures she had never included Nan. She

had heard herself brilliantly conversing, saying amusing things that had

made the man laugh, saying deep things that had made him solemn; then,

presently she had ceased to torment him, his arms had gone about her,

and she had lain a fluttering wild thing on his breast.

Now, in reality, she had nothing to say. When he spoke, she gave him

short answers. She was not mistress of herself. She trailed her hands in

the water and was afraid to look up, lest he should guess the tumult in

her heart.

The punt had turned out of the main stream into the Cherwell, and

was stealing between narrow banks. Jehane knew that she was appearing

sullen; she always appeared like that with men. In her mind's eye she

saw herself acting the other part of gay, responsive woman of the world.

She was angry with herself.

Barrington, hampered by her embarrassment, had twisted round on his

cushions and was chaffing Nan. Nan was looking her best and, as usual,

was quite unconscious of the fact. In her loose, blowy muslin, standing

erect, leaning against the pole with the water dripping from her

hands, she seemed the soul of summer and unspoilt girlhood against

the background of lazy river and green shadows. There was something

infantile and appealing about Nan. Her flaxen hair fitted her like a

shining cap of satin. Her eyes were inextinguishably bright and blue;

above them were delicate, golden brows. Her red lips seemed always

slightly parted, ready to respond to mischief or merriment. She was

small in build--the kind of girl-woman a man is tempted to pick up and

carry. Her chief beauty was her long, slim throat and neck; she was a

white flower, swaying from a fragile stem. It was impossible to think

that Nan knew anything that was not good.

After they had passed under Magdalen Bridge they had the river very much

to themselves: the rain had driven most of the voyagers to cover. For

long stretches there was no sound but their own voices, the splash of

the pole and the secret singing of birds.

Jehane, with trailing hands and brooding eyes, watched this man; she

wanted him--she did not know why--she wanted him for herself. Sometimes

she became so concentrated in her mood that she forgot to listen to

what was being said. Through her head went humming significant and

disconnected stanzas, which she repeated over and over:

“Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed:

'I am half sick of shadows,' said

The Lady of Shalott.”

Jehane had once been told that she was Pre-Raphaelite in appearance;

she never forgot that--it explained her to herself. She had quarreled

forever with a man who had said that Rossetti's women resulted

from tuberculosis of the imagination. The truth of the remark was

unforgivable--she knew that she herself suffered from some such

spiritual malady.

A question roused her from her trance.

“I say, Billy, are you married yet?”

It was extraordinary how Jehane's heart pounded as she waited for the

question to be answered.

He clasped his hands in supplication, “Promise not to tell my wife that

we came out like this together.”

Nan let the pole trail behind her and gazed down at him mockingly. Her

face was flushed with the exertion of punting: the faint gold of the

stormy afternoon, drifting through gray willows, spangled her hair and

dress. “When you like you can make yourself as big an ass as anyone. I

don't believe you are a pub: you're a big, lazy fellow playing truant.

Answer my question.”

“But Pepperminta, why should I?”

“Don't call me ridiculous names. Answer my question.”

Barrington stretched himself indolently on the cushions. “You've not

changed a bit; you're just as funny and imperious as ever. Soon you'll

stamp your little foot; when that fails, you'll try coaxing. After

twelve years of being away from you, I can read you like a book.”

“You can't; I never coax now. I scowl, and get angry and cruel.”

He glanced up at her gentle, laughing face. “You couldn't make your face

scowl, however much you tried.”

Jehane told herself that they were two children, rehearsing an old game

together. People must be very fond of one another to play a game of

pretending to quarrel. She felt strangely grown up and out of it, and

quite unreasonably hurt. Nan was surprising her at every turn.

“You'll enjoy yourself much better,” he was saying, “if I leave you in

suspense. You can spend your time in guessing what she looks like. Then

you can start watching me closely to see whether I love her. And then

you can wonder how much I'm going to tell her of what we say to each

other.”

Nan jerked the punt forward. “I don't want to know. You can keep your

secret to yourself.” Then, glancing at Jehane, “I say, Janey, you ask

him. He can't be rude to you. He'll have to answer.”

Jehane had no option but to enter into the jest. “I know. Father told

me. Mr. Barrington is a widower.”

The man's eyes flashed and held hers steadily; they twinkled with

surprise and humor. “Go on, Miss Usk; you tell her. It's altogether too

sad.”

While she was speaking, she was excitedly conscious that he was

examining her and approving her impertinence. “Mr. Barrington married

his mother's parlor-maid soon after he left Cassingland. She was a

beautiful creature and very modest; because she felt herself unworthy of

the brilliant Mr. Barrington, she made it a condition of their marriage

that it should be kept secret. Then she got it into her head that she

was spoiling his promising career, and----- Well, she died suddenly--of

gas. After she was dead, a volume of poems was discovered--love

poems--and published anonymously; my mother attributes them to Bacon and

my father used to attribute them to Shakespeare. Then father found out,

but he's never dared to tell mother; she was always so positive about

it.”

Nan had stared at her friend while she was talking. Could this be the

serious Jehane? What had happened? At the end she broke into a peal of

laughter. “It won't do, old girl; you're stuffing. Billy hasn't got a

mother.”

“And he isn't married,” he said; “and he doesn't want to be married yet.

Now are you content?”

Jehane was not content. As they drifted through Mesopotamia with its

pollard-willows, sound of running waters and constant fluttering of

birds, she kept hearing those words “And he doesn't want to be married

yet.” Did men ever want to be married, or was it always necessary to

catch them? _Catch them!_ It sounded horrid to put it like that,

and robbed love of all its poetry. As a girl with a Pre-Raphaelite

appearance, she had liked to believe all the legends of chivalry: that

it was woman's part to be remote and disdainful, while men endangered

themselves to win her favor. But were those legends only ideals--had

anything like them ever happened? And supposing a woman wanted to catch

Barrington, how would she set about it?

The roar of water across the lasher at Parsons' Pleasure grew louder,

drowning the conversation which was taking place in low tones at the

other end of the punt. As they drew in at the landing, Jehane

bent forward and heard Barrington say, “I believe you'd have been

disappointed if I had been married”; and Nan's retort, “I believe I

should. You know, it does make a difference.”

Nan turned to Jehane, “What are we going to do next? There's hardly time

to go further.”

“Oh, don't go back yet,” Barrington protested; “let's get tea at Marston

Ferry.”

“But who'll take the punt round to the ladies' landing? Ladies aren't

allowed through Parsons' Pleasure, and I hardly trust you to come round

by yourself.” Nan eyed him doubtfully. “You may be a good pub, but

you're a rotten punter.”

“Dash it all, you needn't rub it in. If the worst comes to the worst, I

shall only get a wetting.”

“You're sure you can swim?”

“Quite sure, thanks.”

“Well, good-by, and good luck. I should hate to lose you after all these

years of parting.”

As they struck out along the path across the island and the screen of

bushes shut him from their view, Jehane felt her arm taken.

“Don't you like him, Janey?”

“What I've seen of him, yes.”

“I was afraid you didn't.”

“Whatever made you think that?”

“Because he thought it. I could feel that he thought it.”

“But I did nothing.”

“You wore your touch-me-not-manners, Janey. You looked so tragic and

black. I had to talk my head off to fill in the awkwardnesses.”

“I know you did; but I wasn't sure of the reason.”

Nan glanced up quickly and her eyes filled; the blood surged into her

face and throat; her lips trembled. She pressed her cheek coaxingly

against the tall girl's shoulder. “You foolish Jehane; you're jealous.

Why, Billy and I use to eat blackberries out of each other's hands.”

Then Jehane relented. Drawing Nan to her with swift, protecting passion,

she kissed the wet eyes and pouting mouth. “You dear little Nan, I _was_

jealous. You're so sweet and gentle; no one could help loving you. I was

angry with myself--angry because I'm so different.”

“So much cleverer,” Nan whispered.

“I don't want to be clever; I'd give everything I possess to look as

good and happy as you.”

“But you are good. If you weren't, we shouldn't all love you.”

“_All?_ It's enough that you do.”

When Barrington rounded the island, he found them standing oddly near

together; then he noticed a moist ball of handkerchief crushed in Nan's

free hand--and he guessed.