Carnival Part 28

Then, since he had offered to kiss Jenny, he felt bound to kiss Irene.

The latter allowed the compliment as she would have let him pick up a handkerchief. Arrangements were made to meet again on the morrow at the same place, and at last the cab was pulled up some two hundred yards from Irene's house. Maurice jumped out and shook hands very politely and waved to her as she ran up a side-street. Then he sat back beside Jenny in the cab. The driver turned his horse and for a minute or two they traveled silently through the rain and lamplight.

"Jenny," he whispered, "Jenny, won't you kiss me now?"

She yielded herself to his arms, and while the wind rattled the gla.s.s shield, while the raindrops danced in the road before them, while lights faltered and went out in pa.s.sing window-panes, Jenny nestled closer, ardent and soft and pa.s.sionate.

"Are you glad we're alone?" he whispered.

"Rather."

"I suppose you knew I've been burning all the time to sit with you like this?"

"No."

"Oh, I have, Jenny. Jenny, I saw you when you first came on the stage, and afterwards I never saw anyone else. I wish you lived a thousand miles away."

"Why?"

"Because then we should travel together for a thousand hours."

"You date."

"You're so delightful."

"Am I?"

"I wish Irene weren't coming to-morrow. We shall have such a lot to talk about," he vowed.

"Shall we?"

"What on earth made me ask her?"

"It's done now."

Maurice sighed. Then he caught her close again and breathless they sat till Jenny suddenly cried:

"Gee! Here's Hagworth Street. Goodnight!"

At the end of the road, under the tall plane tree where once Jenny had danced, they sat in the old hansom cab, while the steam rose in clouds from the horse and the puddles sang with rain and the driver smoked meditatively. The world was fading away in sounds of traffic very remote. The wetness of the night severed them from humanity. They needed no blue Pacific haven to enrich their love. They perceived no omen in the desolation of the London night.

"What times we shall have together," said Maurice.

"Shall we?" the girl replied.

"It's all happened so exactly right."

"It does sometimes," said Jenny.

The horse pawed the road, impatient of the loitering. The driver knocked out the ashes of his pipe on the roof.

"I _must_ go now," she said.

"Must you?"

"Yes."

"One more kiss."

To Maurice each kiss of Jenny's seemed a first kiss.

"Isn't it glorious?" he exclaimed.

"What?"

"Oh, everything--life and London and you and I."

He stood in the road and lifted her on to the pavement.

"Good night, my Jenny."

"Good night."

"To-morrow?"

"Rather."

"Good night. Bless you."

"Bless _you_," she murmured. Then, surprised by herself, she ran through the rain as swift as the shadow of a cloud, while the horse trotted southward with a dreaming pa.s.senger.

Chapter XIV: _Rain on the Roof_

Upstairs in the room she shared with May, Jenny sat before the gla.s.s combing her hair, while outside the rain poured down with volume increasing every moment. The wash of water through the black, soundless night, lent the little room, with its winking candle, a comfortable security. The gentle breathing of May and the swish of the hairbrush joined the stream of rain without in a monotone of whisperings that sighed endless round Jenny's vivid thoughts. Suddenly she sprang from her reverie, and, pulling up the blind with a rattle, flung open the window to dip her hands into the wet darkness. May sat up, wild-eyed from sleep. The candle gasped and fluttered.

"Whatever is it?" cried May.

"Oh, Maisie, Maisie," said her sister; "it's raining real kisses to-night. It is, really."

"Have you gone mad?"

"Oh, let me get into bed quick and dream. Oh, May, I'd go mad to dream to-night."

And soon the rain washed down unheard, where Jenny, lying still as coral, dreamed elusive ardors, ghostly ecstasies.