The Moon out of Reach

  CHAPTER III

  A QUESTION OF EXTERNALS

  It was a grey November afternoon two days later. A faint, filmysuggestion of fog hung about the streets, just enough to remind theLondoner of November possibilities, but in the western sky hung a goldensun, and underfoot there was the blessing of dry pavements.

  Penelope stood at one of the windows of the flat in Edenhall Mansions,and looked down at the busy thoroughfare below. Hither and thither menand women hurried about their business; there seemed few indeed nowadaysof the leisured loiterers through life. A tube strike had only recentlybeen brought to a conclusion, and Londoners of all classes wereendeavouring to make good the time lost during those days of enforcedstagnation. Unfortunately, time that is lost can never be recovered.Even Eternity itself can't give us back the hours which have been flungaway.

  Rather bitterly Penelope reflected that, in spite of all our vauntedcivilisation and education, men still resorted, as did their ancestors ofold, to brute force in order to obtain their wishes. For, after all, astrike, however much you may gloss over the fact, is neither more norless than a modern substitute for the old-time revolt of men armed withpikes and staves. That is to say, in either instance you insist on whatyou want by a process of making other people thoroughly uncomfortabletill you get your way--unless they happen to be stronger than you! Andincidentally a good many innocent folk who have nothing to do with thematter get badly hurt in the fray.

  All the miseries which inevitably beset the steadfast worker when astrike occurs had fallen to Penelope's lot. She had scrambled hopelesslyfor a seat on a motor-'bus, or, driven by extremity into a fit of wildextravagance, had vainly hailed a taxi. Sometimes she had been compelledto tramp the whole way home, through drenching rain, from some house atwhich she had been giving a lesson, in each case enduring the very kindof physical stress which plays such havoc with a singer's onlycapital--her voice. She wondered if the strikers ever realised the extrastrain they inflicted on people so much less able to contend with thehardships of a worker's life than they themselves.

  The whirr and snort of a taxi broke the thread of her thoughts. With agrinding of brakes the cab came to a standstill at the entrance to theblock of flats, and after a few minutes Emily, the unhurriedmaid-of-all-work, whom Nan's sense of fitness had re-christened "ourAdagio," jerked the door open, announcing briefly:

  "A lidy."

  Penelope turned quickly, and a look of pleasure flashed into her face.

  "Kitty! Back in town at last! Oh, it's good to see you again!"

  She kissed the new-comer warmly and began to help off her envelopingfurs. When these--coat, stole, and a muff of gigantic proportions--wereat last shed, Mrs. Barry Seymour revealed herself as a small, plump,fashionable little person with auburn hair--the very newest shade--browneyes that owed their shadowed lids to kohl, a glorious skin (which shehad had the sense to leave to nature), and, a chic little face at once sokind and humorous and entirely delightful, that all censure was disarmed.

  Her dress was Paquin, her jewellery extravagant, but her heart was as bigas her banking account, and there was not a member of her household, fromher adoring husband down to the kitchen-maid who evicted the grubs fromthe cabbages, who did not more or less worship the ground she walked on.Even her most intimate women friends kept their claws sheathed--and that,despite the undeniable becomingness of the dyed hair.

  "We only got back to town last night," she said, returning Penelope'ssalute with fervour. "So I flew round this morning to see how you twowere getting on. I can't think how you've managed without the advantageof my counsels for three whole months!"

  "I don't think we have managed too well," admitted Penelope drily.

  "There! What did I say?"--with manifest delight. "I told Barry, when hewould go up to Scotland just for the pleasure of killing small birds,that I was sure something would happen in my absence. What is it?Nothing very serious, of course. By the way, where's Nan this morning?"

  "Playing at a concert in Exeter. At least, the concert took place lastnight. I'm expecting her back this afternoon."

  "Well, that's good news, not bad. How did you induce her to do it?She's been slacking abominably lately."

  Penelope nodded sombrely.

  "I know. I've been pitching into her for it. The Peace has upset her."

  "She's like every other girl. She can't settle down after four years ofperpetual thrills and excitement. But if she'd had a husbandfighting"--Kitty's gay little face softened incredibly--"she'd bethanking God on her knees that the war is over--however beastly," sheadded characteristically, "the peace may be."

  "She worked splendidly during the war," interposed Penelope, her sense ofjustice impelling the remark.

  "Yes"--quickly. "But she's done precious little work of any kind since.What's she been doing lately? Has she written anything new?"

  Penelope laughed grimly.

  "Oh, a song or two. And she's composed one gruesome thing which makesyour blood run cold. It's really for orchestra, and I believe it's meantto represent the murder of a soul. . . . It does!"

  "She's rather inclined to err on the side of tragedy," observed Kitty.

  "Especially just now," added Penelope pointedly.

  Kitty glanced sharply across at her.

  "What do you mean? Is anything wrong with Nan?"

  "Yes, there's something very wrong. I'm worried about her."

  "Well, what is it?"--impatiently.

  "It's all the fault of that wretched artist man we met at your house."

  "Do you mean Maryon Rooke?"

  "Yes"--briefly. "He's rather smashed Nan up."

  "_He_? _Nan_?" Kitty's voice rose in a crescendo of incredulity. "Buthe was crazy about her! Has been, all through the war. Why, I thoughtthere was practically an understanding between them!"

  "Yes. So did most people," replied Penelope shortly.

  "For goodness' sake be more explicit, Penny! Surely she hasn't turnedhim down?"

  "He hasn't given her the chance."

  "You mean--you _can't_ mean that he's chucked her?"

  "That's practically what it amounts to. And I don't understand it. Nanis so essentially attractive from a man's point of view."

  "How do you know?" queried Kitty whimsically. "You're only a woman."

  "Why, because I've used my eyes, my dear! . . . But in this case itseems we were all mistaken. If ever a man deliberately set himself tomake a woman care, Maryon Rooke was the man. And when he'd succeeded--hewent away."

  Kitty produced a small gold cigarette case from the depths of anelaborate bead bag and extracted a cigarette. She lit it and begansmoking reflectively.

  "And I suppose all this, coming on top of the staleness of things ingeneral after the war, has flattened her out?"

  "It's given her a bad knock."

  "Did she tell you anything about it?"

  "A little. He came here to say good-bye to her before going to France--"

  "I know," interpolated Kitty. "He's going there to paint PrincessSomebody-or-other while she's staying in Paris."

  "Well, I came in when he'd left and found Nan sitting like a stonestatue, gazing blankly in front of her. She wouldn't say much, but bitby bit I dragged it out of her. Since then she has never referred to thematter again. She is quite gay at times in a sort of artificial way, butshe doesn't do any work, though she spends odd moments fooling about atthe piano. She goes out morning, noon, and night, and comes backdead-beat, apparently not having enjoyed herself at all. Can you imagineNan like that?"

  "Not very easily."

  "I believe he's taken the savour out of things for her," said Penelope,adding slowly, in a voice that was quite unlike her usual practicaltones: "Brushed the bloom off the world for her."

  "Poor old Nan! She must be hard hit. . . . She's never been hurt badlybefore."

  "Never--before she met that man. I can't forgive him, Kitty. I'mhorribly afraid what sort of effect this miserable a
ffair is going tohave on a girl of Nan's queer temperament."

  Kitty turned the matter over in her mind in silence. Then with a small,sage nod of her red head, she advanced a suggestion.

  "Bring her over to dinner to-morrow--no, not to-morrow, I'm booked. SayThursday, and I'll have a nice man to meet her. She needs someone toplay around with. There's nothing like another man to knock the firstone out of a woman's head. It's cure by homeopathy."

  Penelope smiled dubiously.

  "It's a bit of bad luck on the second man, isn't it--if he's nice? Youknow, Nan is rather fatal to the peace of the male mind."

  "Oh, the man I'm thinking of has himself well in hand. He's anovelist--and finds safety in numbers. His mother was French."

  "And Nan's great-grandmother. Kitty, is it wise?"

  "Extreme measures are sometimes necessary. He and she will hit it offtogether at once, I know."

  As Kitty finished speaking there came a trill at the front-door bell,followed a minute later by a masculine knock on the door.

  "Come in," cried Penelope.

  The door opened to admit a tall, fair man who somehow reminded one of abig, genial Newfoundland.

  "I've called for my wife," he said, shaking hands with. Penelope, andsmiling down at her with a pair of lazily humorous blue eyes. "Can Ihave her?"

  "In a minute, Barry"--Kitty nodded at him cheerfully. "We're justsettling plans about Nan."

  "Nan? I should have imagined that young woman was very capable of makingher own plans," returned Barry Seymour, letting his long length down intoa chair. "In fact, I was under the impression she'd already made 'em,"he added with a grin.

  "No, they're unsettled at present," returned Kitty. "She's not very keenabout Maryon Rooke now." Kitty was of the opinion that you should nevertell even the best of husbands more than he need know. "So we think sherequires distraction," she pursued firmly.

  "And who's the poor devil you've fixed on as a burnt-offering?" enquiredSeymour, tugging reflectively at his big, fair moustache.

  "It certainly is a man," conceded Kitty.

  "Naturally," agreed her husband amicably.

  "But I'm not going to tell you who it is or I know you'd let the cat outof the bag, and then Nan will be put off at the beginning.Men"--superbly--"never can keep a secret."

  "But they can use their native observation, my dear," retorted Barrycalmly. "And I bet you five to one in gloves that I tell you the name ofthe man inside a week."

  "In a week it won't matter," pronounced Kitty oracularly. "Give me aweek--and you can have all the time that's left."

  "Well, we'd better occupy what's left of this afternoon in getting backhome, old thing," returned her husband. "Or you'll never be dressed intime for the Granleys' dinner to-night."

  Kitty looked at the clock and jumped up quickly.

  "Good heavens! I'd forgotten all about them! Penelope, I must fly!Thursday, then--don't forget. Dinner at eight."

  She caught up her furs. There was a faint rustle of feminine garments, afleeting whiff of violets in the air, and Kitty had taken her departure,followed by her husband.

  A short time afterwards a taxi pulled up at Edenhall Mansions and Nanstepped out of it. Penelope sprang up to welcome her as she entered thesitting-room. She was darning stockings, foolish, pretty, silkenthings--Nan's, be it said.

  "Well, how did it go?" she asked eagerly.

  "The concert? Oh, quite well. I had a very good reception, and thismorning's notices in the newspapers were positively calculated to make meblush."

  There was an odd note of indifference in her voice; the concert did notappear to interest her much. Penelope pursued her interrogation.

  "Did you enjoy yourself?"

  A curious look of reminiscence came into Nan's eyes.

  "Oh, yes. I enjoyed myself. Very much."

  "I'm so glad. I thought the Chattertons would look after you well."

  "They did."

  She omitted to add that someone else had looked after her evenbetter--someone distinctly more interesting than dear old LadyChatterton, kindest soul alive though she might be. For some reason orother Nan felt reluctant to share with Penelope--or with anyone else justat present--the fact of her meeting with Peter Mallory.

  "You caught your train all right at Paddington?" went on Penelope.

  Nan's mouth tilted in a faint smile.

  "Quite all right," she responded placidly.

  Finding that the question and answer process was not getting them veryfar, Penelope resumed her darning and announced her own small item ofnews.

  "Kit's been here this afternoon," she said.

  Nan shrugged her shoulders.

  "Just my luck to miss her," she muttered irritably.

  "No, it isn't 'just your luck,' my dear. It's anyone's luck. You makesuch a grievance of trifles."

  In an instant Nan's charming smile flashed out.

  "I _am_ a _beast_," she said in a tone of acquiescence. "What on earthshould I do without you, Penny, to bully me and generally lick me intoshape?" She dropped a light kiss on the top of Penelope's bent head."But, truly, I hate to miss Kit Seymour. She's as good as a tonic--andjust now I feel like a bottle of champagne that's been uncorked for aweek."

  "You're overtired," replied Penelope prosaically. "You're so--so_excessive_ in all you do."

  Nan laughed.

  "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," sheacknowledged. "Well, what's the Kitten's news? What colour is her hairthis season?"

  "Red. It suits her remarkably well."

  Nan rippled with mirth.

  "I never knew a painted Jezebel so perfectly delightful as Kitty. EvenAunt Eliza can't resist her."

  Mrs. McBain, generally known to her intimates as "Aunt Eliza," was aconnection of Nan's on the paternal side. She was a lady of Scottishantecedents and Early Victorian tendencies, to whom the modern woman andher methods were altogether anathema. She regarded her niece aswalking--or, more truly, pirouetting aggressively--along the road whichleads to destruction.

  Penelope folded a pair of renovated stockings and tossed them into herwork-basket.

  "The Seymours want us to dine there on Thursday. I suppose you can?" sheasked.

  "With all the pleasure in life. Their chef is a dream," murmured Nanreminiscently.

  "As though you cared!" scoffed Penelope.

  Nan lit a cigarette and seated herself on the humpty-dumpty cushion bythe fire.

  "But I do care--extremely." she averred. "It isn't my little insidewhich cares. It's a purely external feeling which likes to haveeverything just right. If it's going to be a dinner, I want it perfectfrom soup to savoury."

  Penelope regarded her with a glint of amusement.

  "You're such a demanding person."

  "I know I am--about the way things are done. What pleasure is there inanything which offends your sense of fitness?"

  "You bestow far too much importance on the outside of the cup andplatter."

  Nan shook her head.

  "_Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais--Je bois dans mon verre._" she quoted,frivolously obstinate.

  "Bah!" Penelope grunted, "The critical faculty is over-developed in you,my child."

  "Not a bit! Would you like to drink champagne out of a kitchen tea-cup?Of course not. I merely apply the same principle to other things. Forinstance, if the man I married ate peas with a knife and made loud juicynoises when he drank his soup, not all the sterling qualities he mightpossess would compensate. Whereas if he had perfect manners, I believe Icould forgive him half the sins in the Decalogue."

  "Manners are merely an external," protested Penelope, although privatelyshe acknowledged to a sneaking agreement with Nan's point of view.

  "Well," retorted Nan. "We've got to live with externals, haven't we?It's only on rare occasions that people admit each other on to theirsouls' doorsteps. Besides"--argumentatively--"decent manners _aren't_ anexternal. They're the 'outward and visible si
gn.' Why"--waxingenthusiastic--"if a man just opens a door or puts some coal on the firefor you, it involves a whole history of the homage and protectiveinstinct of man for woman."

  "The theory may be correct," admitted Penelope, "though a trifleidealistic for the twentieth century. Most men," she added drily,"Regard coaling up the fire as a damned nuisance rather than a 'historyof homage.'"

  "It oughtn't to be idealistic." There was a faint note of wistfulness inNan's voice. "Why should everything that is beautiful be invariablytermed 'idealistic'? Oh, there are ten thousand things I'd like alteredin this world of ours!"

  "Of course there are. You wouldn't be you otherwise! You want aspecially constructed world and a peculiarly adapted human nature. Infact--you want the moon!"

  Nan stared into the fire reflectively.

  "I wonder," she said slowly, "if I shall get it?"

  Penelope glanced at her sharply.

  "It's highly improbable," she said. "But a little philosophy would bequite as useful--and a far more likely acquisition."

  As she finished speaking a bell pealed through the flat--pealed with anirritable suggestion that it had been rung unavailingly before. Followedthe abigail's footstep as she pursued her unhurried way to answer itsimperative demand, and presently a visitor was shown into the room. Hewas a man of over seventy, erect and well-preserved, with white hair andclipped moustache. There was an indefinable courtliness of manner abouthim which recalled the days of lace ruffles and knee-breeches. The twogirls rose to greet him with unfeigned delight.

  "Uncle!" cried Nan. "How dear of you to come just when our spirits wereat their lowest ebb!"

  "My dears!" He kissed his niece and shook hands with Penelope. Nanpushed an armchair towards the fire and tendered her cigarette case.

  "You needn't be afraid of them, Uncle David," she informed himreassuringly. "They're not gaspers."

  "Sybarite! With the same confidence as if they were my own." And LordSt. John helped himself smilingly.

  "And why," he continued, "has the barometer fallen?"

  Nan laughed.

  "You can't expect it to be always 'set fair'!"

  "I'd like it to be," returned St. John simply.

  A fugitive thought flashed through Nan's mind that he and Peter Mallorywere merely young and old representatives of a similar type of man. Shecould imagine Mallory growing into the same gracious old manhood as heruncle.

  "A propos," pursued Lord St. John, with a twinkle, "your handmaidenappears to me a quite just cause and impediment."

  "Oh, our 'Adagio'?" exclaimed Nan. "We've long since ceased to expectmuch from her. Did she keep you waiting on the doorstep long?"

  "Only about ten minutes," murmured St. John mildly. "But seriously, whydon't you--er--give her warning?"

  "My dear innocent uncle!" protested Nan amusedly. "Don't you know thatthat sort of thing isn't done nowadays--not in the best circles?"

  "Besides," added Penelope practically, "we should probably be only out ofthe frying pan into the fire. The jewels in the domestic line are fewand far between and certainly not to be purchased within our financiallimits. And frankly, there are very few jewels left at any price. Mostof the nice ones got married during the war--the servants you loved andregarded as part of the family--and nine-tenths of those that are lefthave no sense of even giving good work in return for their wages--letalone civility! The tradition of good service has gone."

  "Have you been having much bother, then?" asked St. John concernedly."You never used to have trouble with maids."

  "No. But everyone has now. You wouldn't believe what they're like! Idon't think it's in the least surprising so many women have nervousbreak-downs through nothing more nor less than domestic worry. Why, thehome-life of women these days is more like a daily battlefield thananything else!"

  Penelope spoke strongly. She had suffered considerably at the hands ofvarious inefficient maids and this, added to the strain of her ownprofessional work, had brought her at one time to the verge of abreak-down in health.

  "I'd no idea you were so strong on domestic matters, Penelope," chaffedSt. John, smiling across at her.

  "I'm not. But I've got common sense, and I can see that if the smallwheels of the machine refuse to turn, the big wheels are bound to stick."

  "If only servants knew how much one liked and respected a really goodmaid!" murmured Nan with a recrudescence of idealism.

  "Do wages make any difference?" ventured St. John somewhat timidly.Penelope was rather forcible when the spirit moved her, and he wasbecoming conscious of the fact that he was a mere ignorant man.

  "Of course they do--to a certain extent," she replied.

  "Money makes a difference to most things, doesn't it?"

  "There are one or two things it can't taint," he answered quietly, butnow you've really brought me to the very object of my visit."

  "I thought it was a desire to enquire after the health of your favouriteniece," hazarded Nan impertinently.

  "So it was. And as finance plays a most important part in that affair,the matter dovetails exactly!"

  He smoked in silence for a moment. Then he resumed:

  "I should like, Nan, with your permission, to double your allowance andmake it six hundred a year."

  Nan gasped.

  "You see," he pursued, "though I'm only a mere man, I know the cost ofliving has soared sky-high, including"--with a sly glance atPenelope--"the cost of menservants and maidservants."

  "Well, but really, Uncle, I could manage with less than that," protestedNan. "Four or five hundred, with what we earn, would be quitesufficient--quite."

  St. John regarded her reflectively.

  "It might be--for some people. But not for you, my child. I know yourtemperament too well! You've the Davenant love of beauty and theinstinct to surround yourself with all that's worth having, and I hate tothink of its being thwarted just for lack of money. After all, money isonly of value for what it can procure--what it does for you. Well, beinga Davenant, you want a lot of the things that money can procure--thingswhich wouldn't mean anything at all to many people. They wouldn't evennotice whether they were there or not. So six hundred a year it will be,my dear. On the same understanding as before--that you renounce theincome should you marry."

  Nan gripped his hand hard.

  "Uncle," she began. "I can't thank you--"

  "Don't, my dear. I merely want to give you a little freedom. You mayn'thave it always. You won't if you marry"--with a twinkle. "Now, may Ihave my usual cup of coffee--_not_ from the hands of your Hebe!"

  She nodded and slipped out of the room to make the coffee, while Penelopeturned towards the visitor with an expression of dismay on her face.

  "Do forgive me, Lord St. John," she said. "But is it wise? Aren't youtaking from her all incentive to work?"

  "I don't believe in pot-boiling," he replied promptly. "The best work ofa talent like Nan's is not the work that's done to buy the dinner."

  He lit another cigarette before he spoke again. Then he went on ratherwistfully:

  "I may be wrong, Penelope. But remember, my wife was a Davenant, nearerthan Nan by one generation to Angele de Varincourt. And she was neverhappy! Though I loved her, I couldn't make her happy."

  "I should have thought you would have made her happy if any man could,"said Penelope gently.

  "My dear, it's given to very few men to make a woman of temperamenthappy. And Nan is so like my dear, dead Annabel that, if for no otherreason, I should always wish to give her what happiness I can." Hepaused, then went on thoughtfully: "Unfortunately money won't buyhappiness. I can't do very much for her--only give her what money canbuy. But even the harmony of material environment means a great deal toNan--the difference between a pert, indifferent maid and a civil andexperienced one; flowers in your rooms; a taxi instead of a scramble fora motor-'bus. Just small things in such a big thing as life, but theymake an enormous difference."

  "You of all men
surely understand a temperamental woman!" exclaimedPenelope, surprised at his keen perception of the details which can freta woman so sorely in proportion to their apparent unimportance.

  St. John hardly seemed to hear her, for he continued:

  "And I want to give her freedom--freedom from marriage if she wishes it.That's why I stipulate that the income ceases If she marries. I'm tryingto weight the balance against her marrying."

  Penelope looked at him questioningly.

  "But why? Surely love is the best thing of all?"

  "Love and marriage, my dear, are two very different things," commentedSt. John, with an unwonted touch of cynicism. After a moment he went on:"Annabel and I--we loved. But I couldn't make her happy. Ourtemperaments were unsuited, we looked out on life from different windows.I'm not at all sure"--reflectively--"that the union of sympathetictemperaments, even where less love is, does not result in a much largerdegree of happiness than the union of opposites, where there is greatlove. The jar and fret is there, despite the attraction, and lovestarves in an atmosphere of discord. For the race, probably themysterious attraction of opposites will produce the best results. Butfor individual happiness the sympathetic temperament is the firstnecessity."

  There was a silence, Penelope feeling that Lord St. John had crystallisedin words, thoughts and theories that she sensed as being the foundationof her own opinions, hitherto unrecognised and nebulous.

  Presently he spoke again.

  "And I don't really think men are at all suited to have the care andguardianship of women."

  "Unfortunately they're all that Providence has seen fit to provide,"replied Penelope, with her usual bluntly philosophical acceptance offacts.

  "And yet--we men don't understand women. We're constantly hurting themwith our clumsy misconceptions--with our failure to respond to theircomplexities."

  Penelope's eyes grew kind.

  "I don't think you would," she said.

  "Ah, my dear, I'm an old man now and perhaps I understand. But there wasa time when I understood no better than the average youngster who gailyasks some nice woman to trust her future in his hands--without a secondthought as to whether he's fit for such a trust. And that was just thetime when a little understanding would have given happiness to the womanI loved best on earth."

  He spoke rather wearily, but contrived a smile as Nan entered, carrying acup of coffee in her hand.

  "My compliments, Nan. Your coffee equals that of any Frenchwoman."

  "A reversion to type. Don't forget that Angele de Varincourt is alwaysat the back of me."

  St. John laughed and drank his coffee appreciatively, and after a littlefurther desultory conversation took his departure, leaving the two girlsalone together.

  "Isn't he a perfect old dear?" said Nan.

  "Yes," agreed Penelope. "He is. And he absolutely spoils you."

  Nan gave a little grin.

  "I really think he does--a bit. Imagine it, Penny, after our strenuouseconomies! Six hundred a year in addition to our hard-earned pence!Within limits it really does mean pretty frocks, and theatres, and taxiswhen we want them."

  Penelope smiled at her riotous satisfaction. Nan lived tremendously inthe present--her capacity for enjoyment and for suffering was so intensethat every little pleasure magnified itself and each small fret and jarbecame a minor tragedy.

  But Penelope was acutely conscious that beneath all the surface tears andlaughter there lay a hurt which had not healed, the ultimate effect andconsequence of which she was afraid to contemplate.