CHAPTER XXXV
THE GATES OF FATE
The fishing party returned to Mallow the following morning. They werein high spirits, full of stories and cracking jokes about each other'sprowess or otherwise--especially the "otherwise," although, both menunited in praising Penelope's exploits as a fisherwoman.
"Beginner's luck, of course!" chaffed Barry. "It was your firstserious attempt at fishing, wasn't it, Penny?"
"Yes. But it's not going to be my last!" she retorted. "And I'll takea bet with you as to who catches the most trout next time."
The advent of three people who were in complete ignorance of thehappenings of the last few days went far to restore the atmosphere tonormal. Amid the bustle of their arrival and the gay chatter whichaccompanied it, it would have been impossible for Kitty, at least, notto throw aside for the moment the anxieties which beset her and join inthe general fun and laughter.
But Nan, although she played up pluckily, so that no suspicions werearoused in the minds of the returned wanderers, was still burdened bythe knowledge of what yet remained for her to do, and when the jollyclamour had abated a trifle she escaped upstairs to write her letter toRoger. It was a difficult letter to write because, though nothing hecould say or do would alter her determination, she realised that in hisown way he loved her and she wanted to hurt him as little as possible.
"I know you will think I am being both dishonourable and disloyal," shewrote, after she had first stated her decision quite clearly andsimply. "But to me it seems I am doing the only thing possible inloyalty to the man I love. And in a way it is loyal to you, too,Roger, because--as you have known from the beginning--I could nevergive you all that a man has a right to expect from the women hemarries. One can't 'share out' love in bits. I've learned, now, thatlove means all or nothing, and as I cannot give you all, it must benothing. And of this you may be sure--perhaps it may make you feelthat I have behaved less badly to you--I am not breaking off ourengagement in order to marry someone else. I shall never marry anyone,now."
Nan read it through, then slipped it into an envelope and sealed it.When she had directed it to "Roger Trenby, Esq.," she leaned back inher chair, feeling curiously tired, but conscious of a sense of peaceand tranquillity that had been absent from her since the day on whichshe had promised to marry Roger. . . . And the next day, by theshattered Lovers' Bridge, Peter had carried her in his arms across thestream and kissed her hair. She had known then, known very surely,that love had come to her--Peter loved her, and his slightest touchmeant happiness so poignantly sweet as to be almost unbearable. Onlythe knowledge had come too late.
But now--now she was free! Though she would never know the supreme joyof mating with the man she loved, she had at least escaped the prisonwhich the wrong man's love can make for a woman. Just as no other manthan Peter would ever hold her heart, so henceforth no kiss but hiswould ever touch her lips. But for Peter the burden would be heavier.It would be different--harder. Could she not guess how infinitelyharder? And there was nothing in the world which might avail tolighten that burden. Only, perhaps, later on, it might comfort him toknow that, though in this world they could never come together, thewoman he loved was his completely, that she had surrendered nothing ofherself to any other man.
She picked up her letter to Roger and made her way downstairs,intending to drop it herself into the post-box at the gates of Mallow.Once it had left her hands for the close guardianship of that scarlettablet streaked against the roadside wall she would feel more at ease.
As she turned the last bend of the stairs she came upon an agitatedlittle group of people clustering round Sandy McBain, who hadapparently only recently arrived. Her hand tightened on the banister.Why had everyone collected in the hall? Even one or two scared-lookingservants were discernible in the background, and on every face sat astrange, unusual gravity. Nan felt as though someone had suddenlyslipped a band round her heart and were drawing it tighter and tighter.
Nobody seemed to notice her as with reluctant, dragging footsteps shedescended the remainder of the staircase. Then Ralph caught sight ofher and exclaimed: "Here's Nan!" and her name ran through the group ina shocked murmur of repetition, followed by a quick, hushed silence.
"What is it?" she asked apprehensively.
Several voices answered, but only the words "Roger" and "accident" cameto her clearly out of the blur of sound.
"What is it?" she repeated. "What has happened?"
"There's been an accident," began Barry awkwardly. "Lady Gertrude--"
"Is she killed?"--in shocked tones.
"No, no. But she had another attack this morning--heart, ortemper--and as the doctor was out when they 'phoned for him, she sentRoger rushing off post-haste in the car to find him and bring himalong. And"--he hesitated a little--"I'm afraid he's had rather a badsmash-up."
Nan's face went very white, and half-unconsciously her grip tautenedround the letter she was holding, crushing it together.
"Do you mean--in the car?" she asked in a queer, stiff voice.
"Yes." It was Sandy who answered her, "He'd just swerved to avoiddriving over a dog and the next minute a kiddy ran out from the otherside of the road, right in his path, and he swerved again, so sharplythat the car ran up the side of the hedge and overturned.
"And Roger?"
Sandy's face twisted and he looked away.
"He was--underneath the car," he said at last, reluctantly.
Nan took a step forward and laid a hand on his arm. She had read themeaning of that quick contraction of his face.
"You were there!" She spoke more as though stating a fact than askinga question. "You saw it!"
"Yes," he acknowledged. "We got him out from under the car and carriedhim home on a hurdle. Then I found the doctor, and he's with him now."
"I'd better go right across and see if I can help," said Nanimpulsively.
"No need. Isobel will be back this afternoon--I've wired her. Andthey've already 'phoned for a couple of trained nurses. Besides, LadyGertrude's malady vanished the minute she heard Roger was injured. Ithink"--with a brief smile--"her illness was mostly due to the factthat Isobel was away, so of course she wanted to keep Roger by her sideall the time. Lady G. must always have a 'retinue' in attendance, youknow!"
A general smile acknowledged the truth of Sandy's diagnosis, but it wasquickly smothered. The suddenness and gravity of the accident whichhad befallen Roger had shocked them all.
"What does the doctor say?" asked Penelope.
"He hasn't said anything very definite yet," replied Sandy. "He'safraid there's some injury to the spine, so he's wired for a Plymouthconsultant. When he comes, they'll make a thorough examination."
"Ah!" Nan drew in her breath sharply.
"I suppose we shall hear to-night?" said Kitty. "The Plymouth man willget here early this afternoon."
"I'll come over and let you know the report," answered Sandy. "I'mgoing back to Trenby now, to see if I can do any errands or odd jobsfor them. A man's a useful thing to have about the place at a timelike this."
Kitty nodded soberly.
"Quite right, Sandy. And if there's anything we can any of us do tohelp, 'phone down at once."
A minute later Sandy was speeding back to the Hall as fast as the"stink-pot" could take him.
"It's pretty ghastly," said Kitty, as she and Nan turned away together."Poor old Roger!"
"Yes," replied Nan mechanically. "Poor Roger."
A sudden thought had sprung into her mind, overwhelming her with itssignificance. The letter she had written to Roger--she couldn't sendit now! Common humanity forbade that it should go. It would have towait--wait till Roger had recovered. The disappointment, cuttingacross a deep and real sympathy with the injured man, was sharp andbitter.
Very slowly she made her way upstairs. The letter, which she stillclasped rigidly, seemed to burn her palm like red-hot iron. She feltas though she could not unclench the hand which held it. But
thisphase only lasted for a few minutes. When she reached her room sheopened her hand stiffly and the crumpled envelope fell on to the bed.
She stared at it blankly. That letter--which had meant so much toher--could not be sent! She might have to wait weeks--months even,before it could go. And meanwhile, she would be compelled topretend--pretend to Roger, because he was so ill that the truth must behidden from him till he recovered. Then, swift as the thrust of aknife, another thought followed. . . . Suppose--suppose Roger _never_recovered? . . . What was it Sandy had said? An injury to the spine.Did people recover from spinal injury? Or did they linger on, wieldingthose terrible rights which weakness for ever holds over health andstrength?
Nan flung herself on the bed and lay there, face downwards, trying torealise the awful possibilities which the accident to Roger mightentail for her. Because if it left him crippled--a hopelessinvalid--the letter she had written could never be sent at all. Shecould not desert him, break off her engagement, if she herselfrepresented all that was left to him in life.
It seemed hours afterwards, though in reality barely half an hour hadelapsed, when she heard the sound of footsteps racing up the staircase,and a minute later, without even a preliminary knock, Kitty burst intothe room. Her face was alight with joyful excitement. In her hand sheheld an open telegram.
"Listen, Nan! Oh"--seeing the other's startled, apprehensiveface--"it's _good_ news this time!"
Good news! Nan stared at her with an expression of impassiveincredulity. There was no good news that could come to her.
"It seems horrible to feel glad over anyone's death, but I simply can'thelp it," went on Kitty. "Peter has just telegraphed me that Celiadied yesterday. . . . Oh, Nan, _dearest_! I'm so glad for you--soglad for you and Peter!"
Nan, who had risen at Kitty's entrance, swayed suddenly and caught atthe bed-post to steady herself.
"What did you say?" she asked huskily.
"That Peter's wife is dead. That he's free"--with greattenderness--"free to marry you." She checked herself and peered intoNan's white, expressionless face. "Nan, why don't you--look glad? You_are_ glad, surely?"
"Glad?" repeated Nan vaguely. "No, I can't be glad yet. Not yet."
"You're not worrying just because Peter was angry last time he sawyou?"--keenly.
"No. I wasn't thinking of that."
"Then, my dear, why not be glad--glad and thankful that nothing standsbetween you? I don't think you realise it! You're quite free now.And so is Peter. Your letter to Roger has gone--poorRoger!"--sorrowfully--"it's frightfully rough luck on him, particularlyjust now. But still, someone always has to go to the wall in atriangular mix-up. And though I like him well enough, I love you andPeter. So I'd rather it were Roger, since it must be someone."
Nan pointed to the bed. On the gay, flowered coverlet lay the crumpledletter.
"My letter to Roger has _not_ gone," she said, speaking verydistinctly. "I was on my way to post it when I found you all in thehall, discussing Roger's accident. And now--it can't go."
Kitty's face lengthened in dismay, then a look of relief passed over it.
"Give it to me," she exclaimed impulsively. "I'll post it at once. Itwill catch precisely the same post as it would have done if you'd putit in the post-box when you meant to."
"Kitty! How can you suggest such a thing!" cried Nan, in horrifiedtones. "If--if I'd posted it unknowingly and it had reached him afterthe accident it would have been bad enough! But to post it now,deliberately, _when I know_, would be absolutely wicked and brutal."
There was a momentary silence. Then:
"You're quite right," acknowledged Kitty in a muffled voice. Shelifted a penitent face. "I suppose it was cruel of me to suggest it.But oh! I do so want you and Peter to be happy--and quickly! You'vehad such a rotten time in the past."
Nan smiled faintly at her.
"I knew you couldn't mean it," she answered, "seeing that you're aboutthe most tender-hearted person I know."
"I suppose you will have to wait a little," conceded Kitty reluctantly."At least till Roger is mended up a bit. It may not be anything veryserious, after all. A man often gets a bad spill out of his car and isdriving again within a few weeks."
"We shall near soon," replied Nan levelly. "Sandy said he would let usknow the result of the doctor's examination."
"Well, come for a stroll in the rose-garden, then. It'shateful--waiting to hear," said Kitty rather shakily.
"Get Barry to go with you. I'd rather stay here, I think." Nan spokequickly. She felt she could not bear to go into the rose-garden whereshe had given that promise to Roger which bade fair to wreck thehappiness of two lives--her own and Peter's.
Kitty threw her a searching glance.
"Very well," she said. "Try to rest a little. I'll come up the momentwe hear any news."
She left the room and, as the door closed behind her, Nan gave vent toa queer, hysterical laugh. Rest! How could she rest, knowing that nowPeter was free--free to make her his wife--the great gates of fatemight yet swing to, shutting them both out of lovers garden for ever!
For she had realised, with a desperate clearness of vision, that ifRoger were incurably injured, she could not add to his burden byretracting her promise to be his wife. She must make the uttermostsacrifice--give up the happiness to which the death of Celia Malloryhad opened the way--and devote herself to mitigating Roger's lot in sofar as it could be mitigated. There was no choice possible to her.Duty, with stern, sad eyes, stood beside her, bidding her follow thehard path of sacrifice which winds upward, through a blurred mist oftears, to the great white Throne of God. The words of the little songwhich had always seemed a link betwixt Peter and herself came back toher like some dim echo from the past.
She sank on her knees, her arms flung out across the bed. She did notconsciously pray, but her attitude of thought and spirit was a wordlesscry that she might be given courage and strength to do this thing if itmust needs be.
It was late in the afternoon when Kitty, treading softly, came intoNan's room.
"Have you been to sleep?" she asked.
"No." Nan felt as though she had not slept for a year. Her eyes weredry and burning in their sockets.
"There's very bad news about Roger," said Kitty, in the low tones ofone who has hardly yet recovered from the shock of unexpectedly gravetidings. "His spine is so injured that he'll never be able to walkagain. He"--she choked over the telling of it--"his legs will alwaysbe paralysed."
Nan stared at her vacantly, as though she hardly grasped the meaning ofthe words. Then, without speaking, she covered her face with herhands. The room seemed to be full of silence--a heavy terriblesilence, charged with calamity. At last, unable to endure the burdenof the intense quiet any longer, Kitty stirred restlessly. The tinynoise of her movement sounded almost like a pistol-shot in thatprofound stillness. Nan's hands dropped from her face and she pickedup the letter which still lay on the bed and tore it into small pieces,very carefully, tossing them into the waste-paper basket.
Kitty watched her for a moment as though fascinated. Then suddenly shespoke.
"Why are you doing that? Why are you doing that?" she demandedirritably.
Nan looked across at her with steady eyes.
"Because--it's finished! That letter will never be needed now."
"It will! Of course it will!" insisted Kitty. "Not now--butlater--when Roger's got over the shock of the accident."
Nan smiled at her curiously.
"Roger will never get over the consequences of his accident," she said,accenting the word "consequences." "Can you imagine what it's going tomean to him to be tied down to a couch for the rest of his days? Anoutdoor man, like Roger, who has hunted and shot and fished all hislife?"
"Of course I can imagine! It's all too dreadful to think of! . . .But now Peter's free, you can't--you can't mean to give him up forRoger!"
"I must," answered Nan quietly. "I can't take the last t
hing he valuesfrom a man who's lost nearly everything."
Kitty grasped her by the arm.
"Do you mean," she said incredulously, "do you mean you're going tosacrifice Peter to Roger?"
"It won't hurt Peter--now--as it would have done before." Nan spokerather tonelessly. "He's already lost his faith and trust in me. Theworst wrench for him is over. I--I think"--a little unevenly--"thatI'm glad now he thought what he did--that he couldn't find it in hisheart to forgive me. It'll make it easier for him."
"Easier? Yes, if you actually do what you say you will. But--you'redeliberately taking away his happiness, robbing him of it, even thoughhe doesn't know he's being robbed. Good heavens, Nan!"--harshly--"Didyou ever love him?"
"I don't think you want an answer to that question," returned Nangently. "But, you see, I can't--divide myself--between Peter andRoger."
"Of course you can't! Only why sacrifice both yourself and Peter toRoger? It isn't reasonable!"
"Because I think he needs me most. Just picture it, Kitty. He's gotnothing left to look forward to till he dies! Nothing! . . . Oh, Ican't add to what he'll have to bear! He's so helpless!"
"You'll have plenty to bear yourself--tied to a helpless man of Roger'stemper," retorted "Kitty.
"Yes"--soberly--"I think--I'm prepared for that."
"Prepared?"
"Yes. It seems to me as though I've known all afternoon that this wascoming--that Roger might be crippled beyond curing. And I've looked atit from every angle, so as to be quite sure of myself." She paused."I'm quite sure, now."
The quiet resolution in her voice convinced Kitty that her mind wasmade up. Nevertheless, for nearly an hour she tried by every argumentin her power, by every entreaty, to shake her decision. But Nan heldher ground.
"I must do it," she said. "It's useless trying to dissuade me. It'sso clear to me that it's the one thing I must do. Don't any anythingmore about it, Kitten. You're only wearing yourself out"--appealingly."I wish--I wish you'd try to _help_ me to do it! It won't be theeasiest thing in the world"--with a brief smile that was infinitelymore sad than tears--"I know that."
"Help you?" cried Kitty passionately. "Help you to ruin your life, andPeter's with it? No, I won't help you. I tell you, Nan, you can't dothis thing! You _shall not_ marry Roger Trenby!"
Nan listened to her patiently. Then, still very quietly:
"I must marry him," she said. "It will be the one decent thing I'veever done in my life."