The Moon out of Reach

  CHAPTER XXIX

  ON THIN ICE

  May had slipped away into the ranks of the dead months, and June--aJune resplendent with sunshine and roses--had taken her place.

  Nan, an open letter in her hand, sat perched on the low wall of thequadrangular court at Mallow, delicately sniffing the delicious salttang which wafted up from the expanse of blue sea that stretched infront of her. Physically she felt a different being from the girl whohad lain on a couch in London and grumbled fretfully at the housesopposite. A month at Mallow had practically restored her health. Thegood Cornish cream and butter had done much towards rounding thesharpened contours of her face, and to all outward appearance she wasthe same Nan who had stayed at Mallow almost a year ago.

  But within herself she knew that a great gulf lay fixed between thoseinsouciant, long-ago days and this golden, scented morning. The worldhad not altered. June was still vivid and sweet with the rapture ofsummer. It was she herself who had changed.

  Looking backward, she almost wondered how she had endured the agony oflove and suffering and sacrifice which had been compressed into asingle year. She wished sometimes that they had let her die when shewas so ill--let her slip easily out of the world while the delirium offever still closed the door on conscious knowledge of all that she hadlost. It seemed foolish to make so much effort to hold on to life wheneverything which had made it lovely and pleasant and desirable had goneout of it. Yet there were still moments, as to-day, when the sheerbeauty of the earth so thrilled her that for the time being life was athousand times worth living.

  And behind it all--back of the tears and suffering which seemed socruelly incomprehensible--there lay always the inscrutable and splendidpurposes of God, and the Ultimate Light beyond. Lord St. John hadtaught her that. It had been his own courageous, unshakable belief.But now he had gone from her she found her faith faltering. It was toodifficult--well-nigh impossible--to hold fast to the big uplift of suchthought and faith as had been his.

  Her marriage loomed ahead in the near future, and in spite of herdogged intention to fulfil her bargain, she dreaded unspeakably theactual day which would make her Roger's wife--compelling her to aphysical and spiritual bondage from which she shrank with loathing.

  But there could be no escape. None. Throughout her illness, and sincethen, while she had groped her way slowly back to health here atMallow, Roger had been thoughtful and considerate to an astonishingdegree. Never once, during all the hours they had passed together, hadhe let that strong passion of his break loose, though once or twice shethought she had heard it leap against the bars which prisoned it--thehot, imperious desire to which one day she must submit unmurmuringly.

  Drilled by Kitty, he had been very undemanding up till now. Often hehad left her with only a kindly pressure of the hand or a light kiss onher forehead, and she had been grateful to him. Grateful, too, thatshe had been spared a disagreeable scene with his mother. LadyGertrude had met her without censure, even with a certain limitedcordiality, and accordingly Nan, whose conscience was over-sensitivejust now, had reproached herself the more severely for her treatment ofher future mother-in-law.

  Perhaps she would have felt rather less self-reproachful if she hadknown the long hours of persuasion and argument by which Roger had atlast prevailed upon his mother to refrain from pouring out the vials ofher wrath on Nan's devoted head. Only fear lest she might alienate thegirl so completely that Roger would lose the wife he wanted had inducedher to yield. She had consented at last, but with a mental reservationthat when Nan was actually Roger's wife she would tell her preciselywhat she thought of her whenever occasion offered. Nothing wouldpersuade her to overlook such flagrant faults in any daughter-in-law ofhers!

  Latterly, however, she had been considerably mollified by the Seymours'tactful agreement to her cherished scheme that Nan's marriage shouldtake place from Mallow Court. Actually, Kitty had consented becauseshe considered that the longer Nan could lead an untrammelled life atMallow, prior to her marriage, the better, and thanks to her skilfulmanagement the date was now fixed for the latter end of July.

  Roger had chafed at the delay, but Kitty had been extremely firm on thepoint, assuring him that she required as long as possible to recuperatefrom her recent illness. In her own mind she felt that, since Nan mustinevitably go through with the marriage, every day's grace she couldprocure for her would help to restore her poise and strengthen nerveswhich had already been tried to the uttermost.

  Between them, Barry and Kitty and the two Fentons--who had joined theMallow party for a short holiday--did their utmost to make the timethat must still elapse before the wedding a little space of restfulnessand peace, shielding Nan from every possible worry and annoyance. Eventhe question of trousseau was swept aside by Kitty of the high hand.

  "Leave it to me. I'll see to it all," she proclaimed. "Good gracious,there's a post in the country, isn't there? Patterns can be sent andeverything got under way, and finally Madame Veronique shall come downhere for the fittings. So that's that!"

  But in spite of Kitty's good offices, Nan was beginning to find thethorns in her path. Now that her health was more or less restored,Roger no longer exercised the same self-control. The postponing of thewedding-day to a date six weeks ahead roused him to an impatience hemade no effort to conceal.

  "But for your uncle's death and Kitty's prolonging your convalescenceso absurdly, we should have been married by now," he told her one daywith a thwarted note in his voice.

  Nan shivered a little.

  "Yes," she said. "We should have been married."

  "Well"--his keen, grey eyes swept her face--"there'll be no furtherpostponement. I shall marry you if the whole of your family chooses todie at the same moment. Even if you yourself were dying you should bemy wife--_my wife_--first."

  Roger's nature seemed to have undergone a curious change--anintensifying of his natural instincts, as it were. Those long hours ofapprehension during which he had really believed that Nan had left him,followed by her illness, when death so nearly snatched her from him,had strengthened his desire for possession, rousing his love to feverheat and setting loose within him a corresponding jealousy.

  Nan could not understand his attitude towards her in the very least.In the first instance he had yielded with a fairly good grace toKitty's advice regarding the date of the wedding, but within a few dayshe had suddenly become restive and dissatisfied. Had Nan known it, anapparently careless remark of Isobel Carson's had sown the seed.

  "It's curious that your marriage with Nan still seems to hang on thehorizon, Roger," she had remarked reflectively. "It's always 'jamto-morrow,' isn't it? You'd better take care she doesn't give you theslip altogether!"--smilingly.

  Very often, since then, he would sit watching Nan with a sullen,brooding look in his eyes, and on occasion he seemed a prey to morosesuspicion, when he would question her dictatorially as to what she hadbeen doing since they had last met. At times he was roughly tenderwith her, abruptly passionate and demanding, and she grew to dreadthese moods even more than his outbreaks of temper.

  It was now more than ever impossible for her to respond, and onlyyesterday, when he had suddenly caught her in his arms, kissing herfiercely yet feeling her lips lie stiff and unresponsive beneath hisown, he had almost flung her from him. Then, gripping her by the armuntil the delicate flesh showed red and bruised beneath the pressure,he had said savagely:

  "By God, Nan! I'll make you love me--or break you!"

  Nan turned back her sleeve and looked at the red weals now darkeninginto a bruise which his grasp had made on the white skin of her arm.Then she re-read the letter in her hand. It bore yesterday's date andwas very brief.

  "I'm hoping to get out of town very soon now, and I propose to comedown and inspect my new property with a view to re-decorating thehouse. I could never live with dear godfather's Early Victorian chairsand tables! So you may expect to see me almost any day now on thedoorstep of Mallow Court.


  "Yours as always.

  "MARYON."

  Nan's first impulse was to beg him not to come. She had screwed up hercourage to fulfil her pledge to marry Roger, and she felt that thepresence in the neighbourhood of Maryon--Maryon with his familiar charmand attraction, and his former love for her intensified by losingher--might be a somewhat disturbing factor.

  Looking out over the sea, she smiled to think how futile Maryon's charmwould be to touch her if she were going to marry Peter Mallory. Shewould have no wish even to see him. But yesterday's scene with Rogerhad increased her fear and dread of her coming marriage, and she wasconscious of a captive's longing for one more taste of freedom, for onemore meeting with the man who had played a big part in the old Bohemianlife she had loved so well.

  For long she hesitated how to answer Maryon's letter, sitting there onthe seaward wall, her chin cupped in her hand. Should she write andask him to postpone his visit? Or reply just as though she wereexpecting him? At last her decision was taken. She tore up his letterand, strolling to the edge of the cliff, tossed the pieces into thesea. She would send no answer at all, leaving it to the shuttle offate to weave the next strand in her life.

  And a week later Maryon Rooke came down to take possession of his newdomain.

  "I can take six clear weeks now," he told Nan. "That's better than myfirst plan of week-ending down here. I have been working hard sinceyou blew into my studio one good day, and now for six weeks I toil not,neither do I spin. Unless." he added suddenly, "I paint a portrait ofyou while I'm here!"

  Nan glanced at him delightedly.

  "I should love it. Only you won't paint my soul, will you, Maryon, asyou did Mrs. T. Van Decken's?"

  His eyes narrowed a little.

  "I don't know, Nan. I think I should rather like to paint it. Yoursoul would be an intricate piece of work."

  "I'm sure it wouldn't make nearly as nice a picture as my face. Ithink it's rather a plain soul."

  "The answer to that is obvious," he replied lightly. "Well, I shalltalk to Trenby about the portrait. I suppose permission fromheadquarters would be advisable?"

  Nan made a small grimace.

  "Of the first importance, my friend."

  Rather to Nan's surprise, Roger quite readily gave permission for Rooketo paint her portrait. In fact, he appeared openly delighted with theidea that her charming face should be permanently transferred tocanvas. In his own mind he had promptly decided to buy the portraitwhen completed and add it to the picture gallery at the Hall, wheremany a lovely Trenby of bygone generations looked down, smiling or sad,from the walls.

  The sittings were begun out of doors in the tranquil seclusion of therose garden, Rooke motoring across to Mallow almost daily, and Nanposed in a dozen different attitudes while he made sketches of her bothin line and colour, none of which, however, satisfied him in the least.

  "My dear Nan," he exclaimed one day, as he tore up a rough charcoalsketch in disgust, "you're the worst subject I've ever encountered---orelse my hand has lost its cunning! I can't get you--_you_--in the veryleast!"

  "Oh, Maryon"--breaking her pose to look across at him with a provokingsmile--"can't you find my soul, after all?"

  "I don't believe you've got one. Anyway, it's too elusive to pin downon canvas. Even your face seems out of my reach. You won't look as Iwant you to. Any other time of the day I see just the expression onyour face want to catch--the expression"--his voice dropped ashade--"which means Nan to me. But the moment you come out here andpose, it's just a pretty, meaningless mask which isn't you at all."

  He surveyed her frowningly.

  "After all, it _is_ your soul I want!" he said vehemently.

  He took a couple of quick strides across the grass to her side.

  "Give it me, Nan--the heart and soul that looks out of your eyessometimes. This picture will never be sold. It's for me . . . me!Surely"--with a little uneven laugh--"as I've lost the substance, youwon't grudge me the shadow?"

  A faint colour ran up under her clear skin.

  "Oh, I know it was my own fault," he went on. "There was a time, Nan,when I had my chance, wasn't there?"

  She hesitated. Then:

  "Perhaps there was--once," she acknowledged slowly.

  "And I lost it! Well, I've paid for it every day of my life," he saidshortly. "And twice a day since your engagement," he added, with oneof those odd touches of whimsicality which were liable to cross evenhis moments of deep feeling, giving a sense of unreality to them--asomething insincere.

  "To get back to the picture--" suggested Nan.

  He laughed.

  "We can't get _back_--seeing we've never got there at all yet.These"--with a gesture to the various sketches littering the lawn--"aremerely preliminary. When I begin the portrait itself, we'll retireindoors. I think the music-room here will answer the purpose of astudio very well."

  "Two whole weeks!" observed Nan meditatively. "I fancy Roger will besomewhat surprised that progress is so slow."

  "Trenby? Pooh! It's not his picture. I shall have to explain tohim"--smiling--"that art is long."

  "He'll get fidgety about it. You see, already we've stayed at homeseveral times when the others have arranged a picnic expedition."

  "Choosing the better part," he retorted. "I should like to make onemore attempt this afternoon, if you're not too tired. See, yourarms . . . so! And I want your face the least bit tilted."

  He put his hand very gently beneath her chin, posing her head as hewished it. For a moment he held her so, her face cupped in his hand,while his hazel eyes stared down at her with a smouldering fire intheir depths.

  Slowly the hot colour crept into her face beneath his scrutiny.

  "Maryon!" Her lips moved protestingly.

  "I think you've got the shortest upper lip of any woman I know," hesaid, calmly releasing her and going back to his easel. "And womenwith short upper lips are the very devil."

  He sketched rapidly for a time.

  Her pose at the moment was practically perfect--the small head tilted alittle on the long round throat, while the slanting rays of the sunturned the dusky hair into a shadowy, gold-flecked nimbus.

  Rooke worked on in silence, though once as he looked across at her hecaught his underlip suddenly betwixt his teeth. She was so utterlydesirable--the curve of her cheek, the grace of her lissom body, thefaint blue veins that showed beneath the warm, ivory skin. And she wasgoing to be Trenby's wife!

  "There!" he said abruptly. "That's the idea at last. Tomorrow we'llbegin the portrait itself."

  Nan rose, stretching her arms above her head.

  "I'm sure I shall die of fatigue, Maryon," she observed, coming roundto his side to inspect the sketch.

  "Nonsense! I shall allow due intervals for rest and--mentalrefreshment. What do you think of it?"

  "I look rather--attractive"--impertinently.

  "You do. Only I could suggest a substitute for the word 'rather.'"

  Her eyes defied him.

  "Could you? . . . What would it be?"

  Before he could make any answer, there came a sound of voices close athand, and a minute later Trenby and Isobel Carson appeared from roundthe corner of a high box hedge.

  "We've been farming," announced Isobel. "I've been looking at Roger'sprize sheep and cattle. I mean"--with a laughing, upward glance at hercompanion--"at the ones that are _going_ to be his prize sheep andcattle as soon as they come under the judged eye. Then we thought we'dmotor across and inspect the portrait. How's it going, Mr. Rooke?"

  "The portrait isn't yet begun, Miss Carson," he replied blandly.

  "It seems to take a long time to get under way," she retorted. "Is itso difficult to make a start? Surely not--for the great Mr.Rooke!"--with delicate mockery.

  There was a perpetual warfare between herself and Rooke. She was thekind of woman he cordially detested--the pseudo sporting, outdoor type,with a strong tendency towards the feline--"Neither male nor femalecreated He
them," as he had once said. And when Rooke disliked man orwoman he took small pains to conceal the fact. Isobel had winced, morethan once, under the lash of his caustic tongue.

  "I've made a start, Miss Carson, as these sketches testify"--waving hisarm towards them. "But some subjects require very much more delicatehandling than--others would do." And his half-closed eyes swept herinsolently from head to foot.

  Isobel reddened and her mouth took on a somewhat disagreeableexpression.

  "Then Nan must be an unusually difficult subject, mustn't she, Roger?Why, you've been at it two weeks and have literally nothing to show forit! You want speeding up."

  Meanwhile Roger had been regarding the sketches in silence, an uneasyfeeling of dissatisfaction stirring in his mind.

  "Yes," he said slowly. "You don't seem to have made much progress."And his eyes travelled rather sombrely from Nan's face to that of theartist.

  "You must have a little patience, Trenby," replied Rooke pleasantly."The start is the difficult part. Tell me"--placing a couple ofsketches on the easel as he spoke--"which of those two poses do youlike the better?"

  For the moment Roger's thoughts, slowly moving towards a vaguesuspicion, were directed into another channel, precisely as Rooke hadintended they should be, and he examined the sketches carefully.Finally he gave his opinion with surprisingly good judgment.

  "That's Nan," he said, indicating one of them--the last of theafternoon's efforts.

  "Yes," agreed Rooke. "That's my choice." Then, turning laughingly toNan, he went on: "The die is cast. To-morrow we'll begin work in goodearnest."

  "To-morrow?" broke in Isobel. "Oh, Roger, you mustn't let him takepossession of Nan to-morrow! We're all motoring over to Denleigh Abbeyfor lunch, and the Peabodys will think it most odd if Nan doesn't come."

  "The Peabodys?" queried Rooke. "Are those the 'new rich' people who'vebought the Abbey?"

  "Yes. And they want us all to go--Mrs. Peabody made a special point ofit the other day. She asked everyone from Mallow as well as ourselves."

  "What extensive hospitality!" murmured Rooke.

  "They're quite nice people," asserted Isobel defiantly.

  "Dear lady, they must indeed be overflowing with the milk of humankindness--and Treasury notes."

  Isobel's bird-like eyes gleamed maliciously.

  "They want to hear Nan play," she persisted.

  "And to see me paint?" he suggested ironically.

  She ignored his retort and, turning to Nan, appealed to her directly.

  "Shan't you come?" she asked bluntly.

  "Well, if Maryon wants me to sit for him--" Nan began hesitatingly.

  "The sooner the portrait's begun, the sooner it will be finished,"interposed Rooke. "Can't you dispense with your fiancee to-morrow,Trenby? . . . But just as you like, of course," he added courteously.

  Roger hesitated. The frank appeal was disarming, shaking the suspicionhe was harbouring.

  "Let's leave it like this," continued Rooke, following up hisadvantage. "If the light's good, you'll let me have Nan, but if it's adull day she shall be swept into the gilded portals of the Peabodys."

  "Very well," agreed Roger, rather reluctantly.

  "I think you'll find," said Isobel, as she and Roger strolled back tothe car, "that the light _will_ be quite good enough for painting."

  And that seemingly harmless remark lodged in Roger's mind and rankledthere throughout the whole of the following day when the Peabody lunchtook place as arranged--but lacking the presence of Maryon Rooke andNan.