The Moon out of Reach

  CHAPTER II

  THE GOOD SAMARITAN

  Penelope tapped sharply at Nan's bedroom door.

  "Nan, are you ready? Your taxi's waiting outside."

  "Ticking tuppences away like the very dickens, too!" returned Nan,emerging from her room dressed for a journey.

  It was a week or two later and in response to a wire--and as the resultof a good deal of persuasion on the part of Penelope--Nan had accepted anengagement to play at a big charity concert in Exeter. Lady Chatterton,the organiser of the concert, had offered to put her up for the couple ofnights involved, and Nan was now hurrying to catch the PaddingtonWest-country train.

  "I've induced the taxi-driver to come up and carry down your baggage,"pursued Penelope. "You'll have to look fairly sharp if you're to catchthe one-fifty."

  "I _must_ catch it," declared Nan. "Why, the Chattertons are fourteenmiles from Abbencombe Station and it would be simply ghastly if they sentall that way to meet me--and there _was_ no me! Besides, there's arehearsal fixed for ten o'clock to-morrow morning."

  While she spoke, the two girls were making their way down the circularflight of stone steps--since the lift was temporarily out oforder--preceded by the driver grumblingly carrying Nan's suit-case andhat-box. A minute or two later the taxi emitted a grunt from somewherewithin the depths of its being and Nan was off, with Penelope's cheery"Good luck!" ringing in her ears.

  She sat back against the cushions and gasped a sigh of relief. She hadrun it rather close, but now, glancing down at her wrist-watch, sherealised that, failing a block in the traffic, she would catch her trainfairly easily.

  It was after they had entered the Park that the first contre-tempsoccurred. The taxi jibbed and came abruptly to a standstill. Nan letdown the window and leaned out.

  "What's the matter?" she asked with some anxiety.

  The driver, descending leisurely from his seat, regarded her with acomplete lack of interest.

  "That's just w'ot I'm goin' to find out," he replied in a detached way.

  Nan watched him while he poked indifferently about the engine, then sankback into her seat with a murmur of relief as he at last climbed oncemore into his place behind the wheel and the taxi got going again.

  But almost before two minutes had elapsed there came another halt,followed by another lengthy examination of the engine's internals.Engine trouble spelt disaster, and Nan hopped out and joined the driverin the road.

  "What's wrong?" she asked. She looked down anxiously at her wrist-watch."I shall miss my train at this rate."

  "_I_ cawn't 'elp it if you do," returned the man surlily. He was one ofthe many drivers who had taken advantage of a long-suffering publicduring the war-time scarcity of taxi-cabs and he hoped to continue theprocess during the peace. Incivility had become a confirmed habit withhim.

  "But I can't miss it!" declared Nan.

  "And this 'ere taxi cawn't catch it."

  "Do you mean you really can't get her to go?" asked Nan.

  "'Aven't I just bin sayin' so?"--aggressively. "That's just 'ow itstands. She won't go."

  He ignored Nan's exclamation of dismay and renewed his investigation ofthe engine.

  "No," he said at last, straightening himself. "I cawn't get you toPaddington--or anyw'ere else for the matter o' that!"

  He spoke with a stubborn unconcern that was simply maddening.

  "Then get me another taxi--quick!" said Nan.

  "W'ere from?"--contemptuously. "There ain't no taxi-rank 'ere in 'YdePark."

  Nan looked hopelessly round. Cars and taxis, some with luggage and somewithout, went speeding past her, but never a single one that was empty.

  "Oh"--she turned desperately to her driver--"can't you do _anything_?Run down and see if you can hail one for me. I'll stay by the taxi."

  He shook his bead.

  "Callin' taxis for people ain't my job," he remarked negligently. "I'm adriver, I am."

  Nan, driven by the extreme urgency of her need, stepped out into themiddle of the road and excitedly hailed the next taxicab that passed hercarrying luggage. The occupant, a woman, her attention attracted byNan's waving arm, leaned out from the window and called to her driver tostop. Nan ran forward.

  "Oh, _are_ you by any chance going to Paddington?" she asked eagerly."My taxi's broken down and I'm afraid I'll miss my train."

  The woman smiled her sympathy. She had a delightful smile.

  "How awful for you! But I'm not going anywhere near there. I'm so sorryI can't help."

  The taxicab slid away and Nan stood once more forlornly watching thestream go by. The precious moments were slipping past, and no one in theworld looked in the least as if they were going to Paddington. Thedriver, superbly unconcerned, lit up a cigarette, while Nan stood in themiddle of the road, which seemed suddenly to have almost emptied oftraffic.

  All at once a taxi sped up the wide road with only a single suit-caseup-ended in front beside the chauffeur. She planted herself directly inits path, and waved so frantically that the driver slowed up, althoughwith obvious reluctance. Someone looked out of the window, and with avague, troubled surprise Nan realised that the cab's solitary passengerwas of the masculine persuasion. But she was far beyond being deterredby a mere detail of that description.

  "Are you going to Paddington?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Yes, I am," came the answer. The speaker's voice had a slight,well-bred drawl in it, reminiscent of the public school. "Can I doanything for you?"

  "You can drive me there, if you will," she replied, with the bluntness ofdespair. "My taxi's broken down."

  "But with pleasure."

  The man was out of his own cab in an instant, and held the door openwhile she paid her fare and ordered her luggage to be transferred. Thedriver showed no very energetic appreciation of the idea; in fact, heseemed inclined to dispute it, and, at the end of her patience, Nanherself made a grab at her hat-box with the intention of carrying itacross to the other taxicab. In the same moment she felt it quietlytaken from her and heard the same drawling voice addressing herrecalcitrant driver.

  "Bring that suit-case across and look sharp about it."

  There was a curious quality of authority in the lazy voice to which thetaxi-man responded in spite of himself, and he proceeded to obey theorder with celerity. A minute later the transference was accomplishedand Nan found herself sitting side by side in a taxi with an absolutestranger.

  "He was a perfect _beast_ of a driver!" was her first heart-feltejaculation.

  The man beside her smiled.

  "I'm sure he was--a regular 'down-with-everything' type," he replied.

  She stole a veiled glance at him. His face was lean, with a squarishjaw, and the very definitely dark brows and lashes contrasted oddly withhis English-fair hair and blue-grey eyes. In one eye he wore ahorn-rimmed monocle from which depended a narrow black ribbon.

  "I can't thank you enough for coming to my rescue," said Nan, after herquick scrutiny. "It was so frightfully important that I should catchthis train."

  "Was it?"

  Somehow the brief question compelled an explanation, although it held nosuggestion of curiosity--nothing more than a friendly interest.

  "Yes. I have a concert engagement to-morrow, and if I missed this trainI couldn't possibly make my connection at Exeter. I change on to theSouth-Western line there."

  "Then I'm very glad I sailed in at the crucial moment. Although you'dhave been able to reach your destination in time for the concert even hadthe worst occurred to-day. You could have travelled down by an earliertrain to-morrow; if everything else had failed."

  "But they've fixed a rehearsal for ten o'clock to-morrow morning."

  "That certainly does complicate matters. And I suppose, in any case,you'd rather not have to play in public immediately after a long railwayjourney."

  "How do you know I play?" demanded Nan. "It's just conceivable I mightbe a singer!"

  A distinct twinkle showed behind t
he monocle.

  "There are quite a number of 'conceivable' things about you. But I heardMiss Nan Davenant play several times during the war--at concerts wherespecial seats were allotted to the wounded. I'm sorry to say I haven'theard you lately. I've only just come back from America."

  "Oh, were you in the war?" she asked quickly.

  "Why, naturally." He smiled a little. "I was perfectly sound in windand limb--then."

  Nan flushed suddenly. She knew of one man who had taken no fightingpart. Maryon Rooke's health was apparently more delicate than anyone hadimagined, and his artistes hands were, so he explained, an asset to thecountry, not to be risked like hands made of commoner clay. This holdingback on his part had been the thing that had tortured Nan more thananything else during the long years of the war, in spite of the reasonshe had offered in explanation, not least of which was theindispensability of his services at Whitehall--in which he genuinelybelieved.

  "It's simply a choice between using brains or brawn as cannon-fodder," heused to say. "I'm serving with my brain instead of with my body."

  And Nan, attracted by Rooke's odd fascination, had womanlike, tried tobelieve this and to thrust aside any thoughts that were disloyal to herfaith in him. But, glancing now at the clever, clean-cut face of the manbeside her, with its whimsical, sensitive mouth and steady eyes, sherealised that he, at least, had kept nothing back--had offered brain andbody equally to his country.

  "And now? You look quite sound in wind and limb still," she commented.

  "Oh, I've been one of the lucky ones. I've only got a game leg as mysouvenir of hell. I just limp a bit, that's all."

  "I'm so sorry you've a souvenir of any kind," said Nan quickly, with thespontaneousness which was part of her charm.

  "Now that's very nice of you," answered the man. "There's no reason whyyou should burden yourself with the woes of a perfect stranger."

  "I don't call you a perfect stranger," replied Nan serenely. "I call youa Good Samaritan."

  "I'm generally known as Peter Mallory," he interjected modestly.

  "And you know my name. I think that constitutes an introduction."

  "Thank you," he said simply.

  Nan laughed.

  "The thanks are all on my side," she answered. "Here we are atPaddington, and it's entirely due to you that I shall catch my train."

  The taxi pulled up and stood panting.

  "Shares, please!" said Nan, when he had paid the driver.

  For an instant a look of swift negation flashed across Mallory's face,then he replied composedly:

  "Your share is two shillings."

  Nan tendered a two-shilling piece, blessing him in her heart forrefraining from putting her under a financial obligation to a stranger.He accepted the money quite simply, and turning away to speak to aporter, he tucked the two-shilling piece into his waistcoat pocket, whilean odd, contemplative little smile curved his lips.

  There was some slight confusion in the mind of the porter, who exhibiteda zealous disposition to regard the arrivals as one party and to securethem seats in the same compartment.

  Mallory, unheard by Nan, enlightened him quietly.

  "I see, sir. You want a smoker?"

  Mallory nodded and tipped him recklessly.

  "That's it. You find the lady a comfortable corner seat. I'll lookafter myself."

  He turned back to Nan.

  "I've told the porter to find you a good seat. I think you ought to beall right as the trains aren't crowded. Good-bye."

  Nan held out her hand impulsively.

  "Good-bye," she said. "And, once more, thank you ever so much."

  His hand closed firmly round hers.

  "There's no need. I'm only too glad to have been of any service."

  He raised his hat and moved away and Nan could see the slight limp ofwhich he had spoken--his "souvenir of hell."

  The porter fulfilled his obligations and bestowed her in an emptyfirst-class carriage, even exerting himself to fetch a newspaper boy fromwhom she purchased a small sheaf of magazines. The train started andvery soon the restaurant attendant came along. Since she detested thesteamy odour of cooking which usually pervades the dining-car of a train,she gave instructions that her lunch should be served to her in her owncompartment. This done, she settled down to the quiet monotony of thejourney, ate her lunch in due course, and finally drowsed over a magazineuntil she woke with a start to find the train at a standstill. Thinkingshe had arrived at St. David's Station, where she must change on toanother line, she sprang up briskly. To her amazement she found theywere not at a station at all. Green fields sloped away from the railwaytrack and there was neither house nor cottage in sight. The voices ofthe guard and ticket-collector in agitated conference sounded just belowand Nan thrust her head out of the window.

  "Why are we stopping?" she asked. "Have we run into something?"

  The guard looked up irritably. Then, seeing the charming face bent abovehim, he softened visibly. Beauty may be only skin deep, but it has anamazing faculty for smoothing the path of its possessor.

  "Pretty near, miss. There's a great piece of timber across the line.Luckily the driver saw it and just pulled up in time, and a miss is asgood as a mile, isn't it?"

  "How horrible!" ejaculated Nan. "Who d'you think put it there?"

  "One of they Bolshies, I expect. We've got more of them in England thanwe've any need for."

  "I hope you'll soon get the line clear?"

  The guard shook his head discouragingly.

  "Well, it'll take a bit of time, miss. Whoever did, the job did itthoroughly, and even when we get clear we'll have to go slow and keep asharp look-out."

  "Then I shall miss my connection at Exeter--on to Abbencombe by theSouth-Western?"

  "I'm afraid you will, miss."

  Her face fell.

  "It's better than missing a limb or two, or your life, maybe," observedthe guard with rebuke in his tones.

  She nodded and tipped him.

  "Much better," she agreed.

  And the guard, with a beaming smile, moved off to the other end of thetrain, administering philosophic consolation to the disturbed passengerson his way.

  It was over half-an-hour before the obstruction on the line was removedand the train enabled to steam ahead once more.

  Nan, strung up by the realisation of how close she had been to probabledeath, found herself unable to continue reading and gazed out of thewindow, wondering in a desultory fashion how long she would have to waitat St. David's before the next train ran to Abbencombe. It wasimpossible now for her to catch the one she had originally proposed totake. She was faintly disquieted, too, by the fact that she could notprecisely recollect noticing any later train quoted in the time-table.

  The train proceeded at a cautious pace and finally pulled into St.David's an hour late. Nan jumped out and made enquiry of a porter, onlyto learn that her suspicions were true. There was no later train toAbbencombe that day!

  Rather shaken by the misadventures of the journey, she felt as though shecould have screamed at the placidly good-natured porter: "But there mustbe! There _must_ be another train!" Instead, she turned hopelessly awayfrom him, and found herself face to face with Peter Mallory.

  "In trouble again?" he asked, catching sight of her face.

  She was surprised into another question, instead of a reply.

  "Did you come down by this train, then, too?" she asked.

  "Yes. I travelled smoker, though."

  "So did I. At least"--smiling--"I converted my innocent compartment intoa temporary smoker."

  But she was pleased, nevertheless, that neither their unconventionalintroduction, nor the fact that he had rendered her a service, hadtempted him into assuming he might travel with her. It showed a rarelysensitive perception.

  "I suppose you've missed your connection?" he pursued.

  "Yes. That's just it. The last train to Abbencombe has gone, and myfriends' car was to meet me ther
e. I'm stranded."

  He pondered a moment.

  "So am I. I must get on to Abbencombe, though, and I propose to hire acar and drive there. Will you let me give you a lift? Probably yourchauffeur will still be at the Station. The side-line train is a veryslow one and stops at every little wayside place on the way. To makesure, we could telephone from here to the Abbencombe station-master,asking him to tell your man to wait for you as you're coming on by motor."

  "Oh--" Nan almost gasped at his quick masculine grip of the situation.Before she had time to make any answer he had gone off to see abouttelephoning.

  It was some little time before he returned, but when he finallyreappeared, his face wore an expression of humorous satisfaction.

  "I've fixed it all," he said. "Your car has just arrived at Abbencombeand the chauffeur told to wait there. I've got hold of another one herefor our journey. Now let me put you into it and then I'll see about yourluggage."

  Nan took her seat obediently and reflected that there was somethingtremendously reliable about this man. He had a genius for appearing atthe critical moment and for promptly clearing away all difficulties.Almost unconsciously she was forced into comparing him with MaryonRooke--Rooke, with his curious fascination and detached, half-cynicaloutlook on life, his beautiful ideals and--Nan's inner self flinched fromthe acknowledgment--his frequent fallings-short of them. Unwillingly shehad to confess to the fact that Maryon was something both of poseur andactor, with an ineradicable streak of cynicism in his composition addedto a strange undercurrent of passion which he rarely allowed to carry himaway. Apart from this he was genuine, creative artist. Whereas PeterMallory, beautifully unself-conscious, was helpful in a simple,straightforward way that gave one a feeling of steadfast reliance uponhim. And she liked his whimsical smile.

  She was more than ever sure of the latter fact when he joined her in thecar, remarking smilingly:

  "This is a great bit of luck for me. I should have had a long drive oftwenty-five miles all by myself if you hadn't been left high and dry aswell."

  "It's very nice of you to call it luck," replied Nan, as the car slidaway into the winter dusk of the afternoon. "Are you usually a luckyperson? You look as if you might be."

  Under the light of the tiny electric bulb which illuminated the car shesaw his face alter suddenly. The lines on either side the sensitivemouth seemed to deepen and a weary gravity showed for an instant in hisgrey-blue eyes.

  "Appearances are known to be deceitful, aren't they?" he answered, withan attempt at lightness. "No, I'm afraid I've not been specially lucky."

  "In love or in cards?"

  The words left Nan's lips unthinkingly, almost before she was aware, andshe regretted them the moment they were spoken. She felt he mustinevitably suspect her of a prying curiosity.

  "I'm lucky at cards," he replied quietly.

  There was something in his voice that appealed to Nan's quick, warmsympathies.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she said, rather tremulously. "Perhaps, some day,the other kind of luck will come, too."

  "That's out of the question"--harshly.

  "Do you know a little poem called 'Empty Hands'?" she asked. "I set itto music one day because I liked the words so much. Listen."

  In a low voice, a trifle shaken by reason of the sudden tensity which hadcrept into the atmosphere, she repeated the brief lyric:

  "But sometimes God on His great white Throne Looks down from the Heaven above, And lays in the hands that are empty The tremulous Star of Love."

  As she spoke the last verse Nan's voice took on a tender, instinctivenote of consolation. Had she been looking she would have seen PeterMallory's hand clench itself as though to crush down some sudden, urgentmotion. But she was gazing straight in front of her into the softly litradiance of the car.

  "Only sometimes there isn't any star, and your hands would be'outstretched in vain,' as the song says," he commented.

  "Oh, I hope not!" cried Nan. "Try to believe they wouldn't be!"

  Mallory uttered a short laugh.

  "I'm afraid it's no case for 'believing.' It's hard fact."

  Nan remained silent. There was an undertone so bitter in his voice thatshe felt as though her poor little efforts at consolation were utterlytrivial and futile to meet whatever tragedy lay behind the man's curtspeech. It seemed as though he read her thought, for he turned to herquickly with that charming smile of his.

  "You'd make a topping pal," he said. And Nan knew that in someindefinable way she had comforted him.

  They drove on in silence for some time and when, later on, they began totalk again it was on ordinary commonplace topics, by mutual consentavoiding any by-way that might lead them back to individual matters. Thedepths which had been momentarily stirred settled down once more intomisleading tranquillity.

  In due course they arrived at Abbencombe, and the car purred up to thestation, where the Chattertons' limousine, sent to meet Nan, still waitedfor her. The transit from one car to the other was quickly effected, andPeter Mallory stood bareheaded at the door of the limousine.

  "Good-bye," he said. "And thank you, little pal. I hope you'll neverfind _your_ moon out of reach."

  Nan held out her hand. In the grey dusk she felt him carry it to hislips.

  "Good-bye," he said once more.