CHAPTER XVII
"THE KEYS OF HEAVEN"
Nan awoke the next morning to find the sunlight pouring into her room.Outside, the notes of a bird's song lilted very sweetly on the air, whilethe creamy head of a rose tapped now and again at the window as thoughbidding her come out and share in the glory of the summer's day. She hadslept far into the morning--the deep, dreamless slumber of utter mentaland physical exhaustion. And now, waking, she stared about herbewilderedly, unable at first to recall where she was or what hadhappened.
But that blessed lack of realisation did not last for long. Almostimmediately the recollection of all that had occurred yesterday rushedover her with stunning force, and the sunlight, the bird song, and thatfutile rose tapping softly there against the window-pane, seemed stupidlyincongruous.
Nan felt she almost hated them. Only a few hours before she had saidgood-bye to the man she loved. Not good-bye for a month or a year, butfor the rest of life. Possibly, at some distant time, they might chanceto meet at the house of a mutual friend, but they would meet merely asacquaintances, never again as lovers. Triumphing in spirit over thedesire of the heart, they had taken their farewell of love--bowed to thedestiny which had made of that love a forbidden thing.
But last night, even through the anguish of farewell, they had beenunconsciously upheld by a feeling of exultation--that strange ecstasy ofsacrifice which sometimes fires frail human beings to live up to the godthat is within them.
To-day the inevitable reaction had succeeded and only the bleak, bitterfacts remained. Nan faced them squarely, though it called for all thepluck of which she was possessed. Peter had gone, and throughout theyears that stretched ahead she saw herself travelling through life stepby step with Roger, living the same dull existence year in, year out,till at last, when they were both too old for anything to matter verymuch--too supine for romance to send the quick blood racing through theirveins, too dull of sight to perceive the glamour and glory of theworld--merciful death would step in and take one or other of them away.
She shivered a little with youth's instinctive dread of the time when ageshall quieten the bounding pulses, slowly but surely taking the savourout of things. She wanted to live first, to gather up the joy of lifewith both hands. . . .
Her thoughts were suddenly scattered by the sound of the opening door andthe sight of Mrs. Seymour's inquiring face peeping round it.
"Awake?" queried Kitty.
With a determined mental effort Nan pulled herself together, prepared toface the world as it was and not as she wanted it to be. She answeredpromptly:
"Yes. And hungry, please. May I have some breakfast?"
"Good child!" murmured Kitty approvingly. "As a matter of fact, yourbrekkie is coming hard on my heels"--gesturing, as she spoke, towards thetrim maid who had followed her into the room, carrying anattractive-looking breakfast tray. When she had taken her departure,Kitty sat down and gossiped, while Nan did her best to appear as hungryas she had rashly implied she was.
Somehow she must manage to throw dust in Kitty's keen eyes--and asimulated appetite made quite an excellent beginning. She was determinedthat no one should ever know that she was anything other than happy inher engagement to Roger. She owed him that much, at least. So whenKitty, making an effort to speak quite naturally, mentioned that Peterhad been obliged to return to town unexpectedly, she accepted the newswith an assumption of naturalness as good as Kitty's own. Half an hourlater, leaving Nan to dress, Kitty departed with any suspicions she mighthave had entirely lulled.
But her heart ached for the man whose haggard, stern-set face, when hehad told her last night that he must go, had conveyed all, and more, thanhis brief words of explanation.
"Must you really go, Peter?" she had asked him wistfully. "Ithought--you told me once--that you didn't mean to break off yourfriendship? . . . Can't you even be friends with her?"
His reply came swiftly and with a definiteness there was no mistaking.
"No," he said. "I can't. It's true what you say--I did once think Imight keep her friendship. I was wrong."
There was a pause. Then Kitty asked quickly:
"But you won't refuse to meet her? It isn't as bad as that, Peter?"
He looked down at her oddly.
"It's quite as bad as that."
She felt herself trembling a little at the queer intensity of his tone.It was as though the man beside her were keeping in check, by sheer forceof will, some big emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. Shehesitated, then spoke very quietly and simply:
"That was a perfectly selfish question on my part, Peter. Don't take anynotice of it."
"How--selfish?" he asked, with a faint smile.
"Because, if you refuse to meet Nan, I shall always have to see youseparately--never together. I love you both and I can't give up eitherof you, so it will be rather like cutting myself in half."
Mallory took her hand in both his.
"You shall not have to cut yourself in half for me, dear friend," hesaid, with that touch of foreignness in his manner which revealed itselfat times--not infrequently when he was concealing some strong feeling."We shall meet again--some day--Nan and I. But not now--not at present."
"She'll miss you, Peter. . . . You're _such_ a good pal!" Kitty grippedhis hands hard and her voice was a trifle unsteady. After Barry, therewas no one in the whole world she loved as much as she loved Peter. Andshe was powerless to help him.
"You'll be back in town soon," he answered her. "I shall come and seeyou sometimes. After all"--smiling a little--"Nan isn't constantly withyou. She has her music." He paused a moment, then added gravely, with aquiet note of thankfulness in his voice: "As I, also, shall have my work."
There remained always that--work, the great palliative, a narcoticdulling the pain which, without it, would be almost beyond humanendurance.
* * * * * *
"Everything's just about as bad as it could be!"
Kitty's voice was troubled and the eyes that sought Lord St. John'slacked all their customary vivacity. The tall old man, pacing thequadrangle beside her in the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, made nocomment for a moment. Then he said slowly:
"Yes, it's pretty bad. I'm sorry Mallory had to leave this morning."
"Oh, well," murmured Kitty vaguely, "a well-known writer like that oftenhas to dash off to town in the middle of a holiday. Things crop up, youknow"--still more vaguely.
St. John paused in the middle of his pacing and, putting his hand underKitty's chin, tilted her face upward, scrutinising it with a kindly,quizzical gaze.
"Lookers-on see most of the game, my dear," he observed, "I've no doubtsabout the 'business' which called Mallory away."
"You've guessed, then?"
"I was there when we first thought Nan might be in danger last night--andI saw his face. Then I was sure. I'd only suspected before."
"I knew," said Kitty simply. "He told me in London. At first he didn'tintend coming down to Mallow at all."
"Better, perhaps, if he'd kept to his intention," muttered St. Johnabstractedly. He was thinking deeply, his fine brows drawn together.
"You see, he--some of us thought Maryon had come back meaning to fix upthings with Nan. So Peter kept out of the way. He thinks only ofher--her happiness."
"His own is out of the question, poor devil!"
Kitty nodded.
"And the worst of it is," she went on, "I can't feel quite sure that Nanwill be really happy with Roger. They're the last two people in theworld to get on well together."
Lord St. John looked out across the sea, his shoulders a little stooped,his hands clasped behind his back. No one regretted Nan's precipitateengagement more than he, but he recognised that little good could beaccomplished by interference. Moreover, to his scrupulous, old-worldsense of honour, a promise, once given, was not to be broken at will.
"I'm afraid, my dear," he said at last, turning back to Kitty, "I'ma
fraid we've reached a _cul-de-sac_."
His tones were despondent, and Kitty's spirits sank a degree lower. Shelooked at him bleakly, and he returned her glance with one equally bleak.Then, into this dejected council of two--cheerful, decided, andaboundingly energetic swept Aunt Eliza.
"Good afternoon, my dear," she said, making a peck at Kitty's cheek."That flunkey, idling his life away on the hall mat, said I should findyou here, so I saved him from overwork by showing myself in. How areyou, St. John? You're looking a bit peaky this afternoon, aren't you?"
"It's old age beginning to tell," laughed Lord St. John, shaking hands.
"Old age?--Fiddlesticks!" Eliza fumed contemptuously. "I suppose thetruth is you're fashin' yourself because Nan's engaged to be married.I've always said you were just like an old hen with one chick."
"I'd like to see the child with a nest of her own, all the same, Eliza."
"Hark to the man! And when 'tis settled she shall have the nest, helooks for all the world as though she had just fallen out of it!"
St. John wheeled round suddenly.
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of--that some day she may . . . fall outof this particular nest that's building."
"And why should she do that?" demanded Eliza truculently. "Roger's asbonnie and brave a mate as any woman need look for, and Trenby Hall's afine home to bring his bride to."
"Yes. But don't you see," explained Kitty, "it's all happened sosuddenly. A little while ago we thought Nan cared for someone else andnow we don't want her to rush off and tie herself up with anyone in ahurry--and be miserable ever after."
"I'm no' in favour of long engagements."
"In this case a little delay might have been wiser before any engagementwas entered upon," said Lord St. John.
"I don't hold with delays--nor interfering between folks that havepromised to be man and wife. The Almighty never intended us to play atbeing providence. If it's ordained for Nan to marry Roger Trenby--marryhim she will. And the lass is old enough to know her own mind; maybeyou're wrong in thinking her heart's elsewhere."
Then, catching an expression of dissent on Kitty's face, she addedshrewdly:
"Oh, I ken weel he's nae musician--but it's no' a few notes of the pianowill be binding husband and wife together. 'Tis the wee bairns build thebridges we can cross in safety."
There was an unwontedly tender gleam in her hard-featured face. Kittyjumped up and kissed her impulsively.
"Aunt Eliza dear, you've a much softer heart than you pretend, and if Nanweren't happily married you'd be just as sorry as the rest of us."
"Perhaps Eliza's right," hazarded St. John rather uncertainly. "We mayhave been too ready to assume Nan won't be happy with the man she'schosen."
"I know Nan," persisted Kitty obstinately. "And I know she and Rogerhave really nothing in common."
"Then perhaps they'll find something after they're married," retortedEliza, "and the looking for it will give a spice to life. There's many aman--ay, and woman, too!--who have fallen deeper in love after they'vetaken the plunge than ever they did while they were hovering on thebrink."
"That may be true in some cases," responded St. John. "But you'readvocating a big risk, Eliza."
"And there's mighty few things worth having in this world that aren'tobtained at a risk," averred Mrs. McBain stoutly. "You've always beenfor wrapping Nan up in cotton wool, St. John--shielding her from this,protecting her from that! Sic' havers! She'd be more of a woman ifyou'd let her stand on her own feet a bit."
Lord St. John sighed.
"Well, she'll have to stand on her own feet henceforth," he said.
"What about the money?" demanded Eliza. "Are you still going to allowher the same income?"
"I think not," he answered thoughtfully. "That was to give her freedomof choice--freedom from matrimony if she wished. Well, she's chosen.And I believe Nan will be all the better for being dependent on herhusband for--everything. At any rate, just at first."
Kitty looked somewhat dubious, but Mrs. McBain nodded her approvalvigorously.
"That's sound common-sense," she said decidedly. "More than I expectedof ye, St. John."
He smiled a little. Then, seeing the unspoken question in Kitty's eyes,he turned to her reassuringly.
"No need to worry, Madame Kitty. Remember, I'm always there, if need be,with the money-bags. My idea is that if Nan doesn't like entiredependence on her husband, it may spur her into working at her music.I'm always waiting for her to do something big. And the desire forindependence is a different spur--and a better one---than the necessityof boiling the pot for dinner."
"You seem to have forgotten that being a professional musician is nextdoor to a crime in Lady Gertrude's eyes," observed Kitty. "She doesn'tcare for anyone to do more than 'play a little' in a nice, amateur,lady-like fashion!"
"Then Lady Gertrude will have to learn better," replied St. John sharply.Adding, with a grim smile: "One of my wedding-presents to Nan will be afull-sized grand piano."
So, in accordance with Eliza's advice, everyone refrained from "playingprovidence" and Nan's engagement to Roger Trenby progressed alongconventional lines. Letters of congratulation poured in upon them both,and Kitty grew unmistakably bored by the number of her friends in theneighbourhood who, impelled by curiosity concerning the future mistressof Trenby Hall, suddenly discovered that they owed a call at Mallow andthat the present moment was an opportune time to pay it.
Nan herself was keyed up to a rather high pitch these days, and it wasdifficult for those who were watching her with the anxious eyes offriendship to gauge the extent of her happiness or otherwise. From themoment of Mallory's departure she had flung herself with zest into eachday's amusement behaving precisely as though she hadn't a care inlife--playing about with Sandy, and flirting so exasperatingly with Rogerthat, although she wore his ring, within himself he never felt quite sureof her.
Kitty used every endeavour to get the girl to herself for half an hour,hoping she might be able to extract the truth from her. But Nan haddeveloped an extraordinary elusiveness and she skilfully avoidedtete-a-tete talks with anyone other than Roger. Moreover, there was thatin her manner which utterly forbade even the delicate probing of afriend. The Nan who was wont to be so frank and ingenuous--surprisinglyso at times--seemed all at once to have retired behind an impenetrablewall of reticence.
Meanwhile Fenton and Penelope had mutually decided to admit none but afew intimate friends into the secret of their engagement. As Ralphsagely observed: "We shall be married so soon that it isn't worth whilefacing a barrage of congratulations over such a short engagement."
They were radiantly happy, with the kind of happiness that keeps bubblingup from sheer joy of itself--in love with each other in such adelightfully frank and barefaced manner that everyone at Mallow regardedthem with gentle amusement and loved them for being lovers.
Nothing pleased Nan better than to persuade them into singing thatquaintly charming old song, _The Keys of Heaven_--the words of which holdsuch a tender, whimsical understanding of the feminine heart. Perhapsthe refusal of the coach and four black horses "as black as pitch," andof all the other good things wherewith the lover in the song seeks toembellish his suit, was not rendered with quite as much emphasis as itshould have been. One might almost have suspected the lady of a desirenot to be too discouraging in her denials. But the final verse lackednothing in interpretation.
Passionate and beseeching, as the lover makes his last appeal, offeringthe greatest gift of all, Ralph's glorious baritone entreated her:
"Oh, I will give you the keys of my heart, And we'll be married till death us do part, Madam, will you walk? Madam, will you talk? Madam, will you walk and talk with me?"
Then Penelope's eyes would glow with a lovely inner light, as though thebeautiful possibilities of that journey through life together wereenvisioned in them, and her voice would deepen and mellow till it seemedto hold all the laughter and tears, and all the kindness
and tendergaiety and exquisite solicitude of love.
Sometimes, as she was playing the accompaniment, Nan's own eyes wouldfill unexpectedly with tears and the black and white notes of the pianorun together into an oblong blur of grey.
For though Peter had given her the keys of his heart that night of moonand sea at Tintagel, she might never use them to unlock the door ofheaven.