The Moon out of Reach

  CHAPTER IV

  THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD

  "Nan, may I introduce Mr. Mallory?"

  It was the evening of Kitty's little dinner--a cosy gathering ofsympathetic souls, the majority of whom were more or less intimatelyknown to each other.

  "As you both have French blood in your veins, you can chant theMarseillaise in unison." And with a nod and smile Kitty passed on towhere her husband was chatting with Ralph Fenton, the well-knownbaritone, and a couple of members of Parliament. Each of them had cuta niche of his own in the world, for Kitty was discriminating in hertaste, and the receptions at her house in Green Street were always dulyseasoned with the spice of brains and talent.

  As Nan looked up into the face of the man whose acquaintance she hadalready made in such curious fashion, the thought flashed through hermind that here, in his partly French blood was the explanation of hisunusual colouring--black brows and lashes contrasting so oddly with thekinky fair hair which, despite the barber's periodical shearing and thefervent use of a stiff-bristled hair-brush, still insisted on springinginto crisp waves over his head and refused to lie flat.

  "What luck!" he exclaimed boyishly. "I must be in the Fates' goodbooks to-night. What virtuous deed can I have done to deserve it?"

  "Playing the part of Good Samaritan might have counted," suggested Nan,smiling. "Unless you can recall any particularly good action whichyou've performed in the interval."

  "I don't think I've been guilty of a solitary one," he repliedseriously. "May I?" He offered his arm as the guests began troopingin to dinner--Penelope appropriately paired off with Fenton, whom shehad come to know fairly well in the course of her professional work.Although, as she was wont to remark, "Ralph Fenton's a big fish and I'monly a little one." They were chattering happily together of songs andsingers.

  "So France has a partial claim, on you, too?" remarked Mallory,unfolding his napkin.

  "Yes--a great-grandmother. I let her take the burden of all my sins."

  "Not a very heavy one, I imagine," he returned, smiling.

  "I don't know. Sometimes"--Nan's eyes grew suddenlypensive--"sometimes I feel that one day I shall do something which willmake the burden too heavy to be shunted on to great-grandmamma! ThenI'll have to bear it myself, I suppose."

  "There'll be a pal or two around, to give you a hand with it, Iexpect," answered Mallory.

  "I don't know if there will even be that," she answered dreamily. "Doyou know, I've always had the idea that sometime or other I shall getmyself into an awful hole and that there won't be a single soul in theworld to get me out of it."

  She spoke with an odd note of prescience in her voice. It was sopronounced that the sense of foreboding communicated itself to Mallory.

  "Don't talk like that. If you think it, you'll be carried forward tojust such disaster on the current of the thought. Be sure--quite,quite sure--that there will be someone at hand, even if it's onlyme"--quaintly.

  "The Good Samaritan again? But you mightn't know I was in adifficulty," she protested.

  "I think I should always know if you were in trouble," he said quietly.

  There was a new quality in the familiar lazy drawl--something that wasvery strong and steady. Although he had laid no stress on the word"you," yet Nan was conscious in every nerve of her that there was anemphatic individual significance in the brief words he had justuttered. She shied away from it like a frightened colt.

  "Still you mightn't come to the rescue, even if I were struggling inthe quicksands," she answered.

  "I should come," he said deliberately, "whether you wanted me to comeor not."

  Followed a brief pause, charged with a curious emotional tensity. ThenMallory remarked lightly:

  "I enjoyed the Charity Concert at Exeter."

  "Were you there?" exclaimed Nan in surprise.

  "Certainly I was there. When I was as near as Abbencombe, you don'tsuppose I was going to miss the chance of hearing you play, do you?"

  "I never thought of your being there," she answered.

  "And now that I know you've French blood in your veins, I canunderstand what always puzzled me in your playing."

  "What was that?"

  "The un-English element in it."

  Nan smiled.

  "Am I too unreserved then?" she shot at him.

  His grey-blue eyes smiled back at her.

  "One doesn't ask reserve of a musician. He must give himself--as youdo."

  She flushed a little. The man's perception was unerring.

  "As no Englishwoman could," he pursued. "We English aren'tdramatic--it's bad form, you know."

  "'We' English?" repeated Nan. "That hardly applies to you, does it?"

  "My mother is French. But I'm very English in most ways," he returnedquickly. Adding, with a good-humoured laugh: "I'm a disappointment tomy mother."

  Nan laughed with him out of sheer friendly enjoyment.

  "Oh, surely not?" she dissented.

  "But yes!" A foreign turn of phrase occasionally betrayed hishalf-French nationality. "But yes--I'm too English to please her.It's an example of the charming inconsistency of women. My motherloves the English; she chooses an Englishman for her husband. But shedesires her son to be a good Frenchman! . . . She is delightful, mymother."

  Dinner proceeded leisurely. Nan noticed that her companion drank verylittle and exhibited a most unmasculine lack of interest in theinspirations of the chef. Yet she knew intuitively that he was alertlyconscious of the quiet perfection of it all. She dropped into a briefreverie of which the man beside her was the subject and from which hisvoice presently recalled her.

  "I hope you're going to play to us this evening?"

  "I expect so--if Kitty wishes it."

  "That's sufficient command for most of those to whom she gives theprivilege of friendship, isn't it?"

  There was a quiet ring of sincerity in his voice as he spoke of Kitty,and Nan's heart warmed towards him.

  "Yes," she assented eagerly. "One can't say 'no' to her. But I don'tcare for it--playing in a drawing-room after dinner."

  "No." Again that quick comprehension of his. "The chosen few and thechosen moment are what you like."

  "How do you know?" she asked impulsively.

  "Because I think the 'how' and the 'where' of things influence youenormously."

  "Don't they influence you, too?" she demanded.

  "Oh, they count--decidedly. But I'm not a woman, nor an artiste, soI'm not so much at the mercy of my temperament."

  The man's insight was extraordinarily keen, but touched with a littleinsouciant tenderness that preserved it from being critical in anyhostile sense. Nan heaved a small sigh of contentment at findingherself in such an atmosphere.

  "How well you understand women," she commented with a smile.

  "It's very nice of you to say so, though I haven't got the temerity toagree with you."

  Then, looking down at her intently, he added:

  "I'm not likely, however, to forget that you've said it. . . . PerhapsI may remind you of it some day."

  The abrupt intensity of his manner startled her. For the second timethat evening the vivid personal note had been struck, suddenly andunforgettably.

  The presidential uprising of the women at the end of dinner saved herfrom the necessity of a reply. Mallory drew her chair aside and, as hehanded her the cambric web of a handkerchief she had let fall, shefound him regarding her with a gently humorous expression in his eyes.

  "This quaint English custom!" he said lightly. "All you women go intoanother room to gossip and we men are condemned to the society of oneanother! I'm afraid even I'm not British enough to appreciate such adroll arrangement. Especially this evening."

  Nan passed out in the wake of the other women to while away indesultory small talk that awkward after-dinner interval which splitsthe evening into halves and involves a picking up of the threads--notalways successfully accomplished--when the men at last rejoin thefeminin
e portion of the party. And what is it, after all, but abarbarous relic of those times when a man must needs drink so much wineas to render himself unfit for the company of his womenkind?

  "Well," demanded Kitty, "how do you like my lion?"

  "Mr. Mallory? I didn't know he was a lion," responded Nan.

  "Of course you didn't. You musicians never realise that the human Zooboasts any other lions but yourselves."

  Nan laughed.

  "He didn't roar," she said apologetically, "so how could I know? Younever told me about him."

  "Well, he's just written what everyone says will be the book of theyear--_Lindley's Wife_. It's made a tremendous hit."

  "I thought that was by G. A. Petersen?"

  "But Peter is G. A. Petersen. Only his intimate friends know it,though, as he detests publicity. So go don't give the fact away."

  "I won't. You've read this new book, I suppose?"

  "Yes. And you must. It's the finest study of a woman's temperamentI've ever come across. . . . Goodness knows he's had opportunityenough to study the subject!"

  Nan froze a little.

  "Oh, is he a gay Lothario sort of person?" she asked coldly. "Hedidn't strike me in that light."

  "No. He's not in the least like that. He's an ideal husband wasted."

  Nan's eyes twinkled.

  "Don't poach on preserved ground, Kitty. Marriages are made in heaven."

  As she spoke the door opened to admit the men, and somebody claimingKitty's attention at the moment she turned away without reply. For afew minutes the conversation became more general until, after a briefhum and stir, congenial spirits sought and found each other and settleddown into little groups of twos and threes. Somewhat to Nan'ssurprise--and, although she would not have acknowledged it, to herannoyance--Peter Mallory ensconced himself next to Penelope, and RalphFenton, the singer, thus driven from the haven where he would be, cameto anchor beside Nan.

  "I've not seen you for a long time, Miss Davenant. How's the worldbeen treating you?"

  "Rather better than usual," she replied gaily. "More ha'pence thankicks for once in a way."

  "You're booking up pretty deep for the winter, then, I suppose?"

  Nan winced at the professional jargon. There was certain aspects of amusician's life which repelled her, more particularly the commercialside of it.

  She responded indifferently.

  "No. I haven't booked a single further engagement. The ha'pence aredue to an avuncular relative who has a quite inexplicable penchant foran idle niece."

  "My congratulations. Still, I hope this unexpected windfall isn'tgoing to keep you off the concert platform altogether?"

  "Not more than my own distaste for playing in public," she answered."I'd much rather write music than perform."

  "I can hardly believe you really dislike the publicity? Thefascination of it grows on most of us."

  "I know it does. I suppose that accounts for the endless farewellconcerts a declining singer generally treats us to."

  There was an unwonted touch of sharpness in her voice, and Fentonglanced at her in some surprise. It was unlike her to give vent tosuch an acid little speech. He could not know, of course, that Kitty'slight-hearted remark concerning Peter Mallory's facilities for studyingthe feminine temperament was still rankling somewhere at the back ofher mind.

  "There's a big element of pathos in those farewell concerts," hesubmitted gently. "You pianists have a great advantage over thesinger, whose instrument must inevitably deteriorate with the passingyears."

  Nan's quick sympathies responded instantly.

  "I think I must be getting soured in my old age," she answeredremorsefully. "What you say is dreadfully true. It's the saddest partof a singer's career. And I always clap my hardest at a farewellconcert. I do, really!"

  Fenton smiled down at her.

  "I shall count on you, then, when I give mine."

  Nan laughed.

  "It's a solemn pledge--provided I'm still cumbering the ground. Andnow, tell me, are you singing here this evening?"

  "I promised Mrs. Seymour. Would you be good enough to accompany?"

  "I should love it. What are you going to sing?"

  "Miss Craig and I proposed to give a duet."

  "And here comes Kitty--to claim your promise, I guess."

  A few minutes later the two singers' voices were blending delightfullytogether, while Nan's slight, musician's fingers threaded their waythrough intricacies of the involved accompaniment.

  She was a wonderful accompanist--rarest of gifts--and when, at the endof the song, the restrained, well-bred applause broke out, PeterMallory's share of it was offered as much to the accompanist as to thesingers themselves.

  "Stay where you are, Nan," cried Kitty, as the girl half rose from themusic-seat. "Stay where you are and play us something."

  Knowing Nan's odd liking for a dim light, she switched off most of theburners as she spoke, leaving only one or two heavily shaded lightsstill glowing. Mallory crossed the room so that, as he stood leaningwith one elbow on the chimney-piece, he faced the player, on whoseaureole of dusky hair one of the lights still burning cast a glimmer.While he waited for her to begin, he was aware of a little unaccustomedthrill of excitement, as though he were on the verge of some discovery.

  Hesitatingly Nan touched a chord or two. Then without further preambleshe broke into the strange, suggestive music which Penelope haddescribed as representing the murder of a soul. It opened joyously,the calm beginnings of a happy spirit; then came a note of warning, thefirst low muttering of impending woe. Gradually the simple melodybegan to lose itself in a chaos of calamity, bent and swayed by wailingminor cadences through whose torrent of hurrying sound it could beheard vainly and fitfully trying to assert itself again, only to be atlast weighed down, crushed out, by a cataclysm of despairing chords.Then, after a long, pregnant pause--the culminating silence ofdefeat--the original melody stole out once more, repeated in a minorkey, hollow and denuded.

  As the music ceased the lights sprang up again and Nan, looking acrossthe room, met Mallory's gaze intently bent upon her. In his expressionshe could discern that by a queer gift of intuition he had comprehendedthe whole inner meaning of what she had been playing. Most peoplewould have thought that it was a magnificent bit of composition,particularly for so young a musician, but Mallory went deeper and knewit to be a wonderful piece of self-revelation--the fruit of a spiritsorely buffeted.

  Almost instantaneously Nan realised that he had understood, and she wasconscious of a fierce resentment. She felt as though an unwarrantableintrusion had been made upon her privacy, and her annoyance showeditself in the quick compression of her mouth. She was about to slipaway under cover of the applause when Mallory laid a detaining handupon her arm.

  "Don't go," he said. "And forgive me for understanding!"

  Nan, sorely against her will, looked, up and met his eyes--eyes thatwere irresistibly kind and friendly. She hesitated, still anxious toescape.

  "Please," he begged. "Don't leave me"--his lips endeavouring not tosmile--"in high dudgeon. It's always seemed such an awful thing to beleft in--like boiling oil."

  Suddenly she yielded to the man's whimsical charm and sank down againinto her chair.

  "That's better." He smiled and seated himself beside her. "I couldn'thelp it, you know," he said quaintly. "It was you yourself who toldme."

  "Told you what?"

  "That the world hadn't been quite kind."

  Nan felt a sudden reckless instinct to tempt fate. There was already abreach in her privacy; for this one evening she did not care if thewall were wholly battered down.

  "Tell me," she queried with averted head, "how--how much did youunderstand?"

  Mallory scrutinised her reflectively.

  "You really wish it?"

  "Yes, really."

  He was silent a moment. Then he spoke slowly, as though choosing hiswords.

  "Fate has given you one of h
er back-handers, I think, and you want thething you can't have--want it rather badly. And just now--nothingseems quite worth while."

  "Go on," she said very low.

  He hesitated. Then, as if suddenly making up his mind to hit hard, asa surgeon might decide to use the knife, he spoke incisively:

  "The man wasn't worth it."

  Nan gave a faint, irrepressible start. Recovering herself quickly, shecontrived a short laugh.

  "You don't know him--" she began.

  "But I know you."

  "This is only our second meeting."

  "What of that? I know you well enough to be sure--quite sure--that youwouldn't give unasked. You're too proud, too analytical, and--atpresent--too little passionate."

  Nan's face whitened. It was true; she had not given unasked, foralthough Maryon Rooke had never actually asked her to marry him, hiswhole attitude had been that of the demanding lover.

  "You're rather an uncanny person," she said at last, slowly. "Youunderstand--too much."

  "_Tout comprendre--c'est tout pardonner_," quoted Mallory gently.

  Nan fenced.

  "And do I need pardon?" she asked.

  "Yes," he answered simply, "You're not the woman God meant you to be.You're too critical, too cold--without passion."

  "And I a musician?"--incredulously.

  "Oh, it's in your music right enough. The artist in you has it. Butthe woman--so far, no. You're too introspective to surrender blindly.Artiste, analyst, critic first--only _woman_ when those other three aresatisfied."

  Nan nodded.

  "Yes," she said slowly. "I believe that's true."

  "I think it is," he affirmed quietly. "And because men are what theyare, and you are you, it's quite probable you'll fail to achieve thetriumph of your womanhood." He paused, then added: "You're not one ofthose who would count the world well lost for love, you know--except onthe impulse of an imaginative moment."

  "No, I'm not," she answered reflectively. "I wonder why?"

  "Why? Oh, you're a product of the times--the primeval instincts almostcivilised out of you."

  Nan sprang to her feet with a laugh.

  "I won't stay here to be vivisected one moment longer!" she declared."People like you ought to be blindfolded."

  "Anything you like--so long as I'm forgiven."

  "I think you'll have to be forgiven--in remembrance of the day when youtook up a passenger in Hyde Park!"--smiling.

  Soon afterwards people began to take their departure, Nan and Penelopealone making no move to go, since Kitty had offered to send them homein her car "at any old time." Mallory paused as he was making hisfarewells to the two girls.

  "And am I permitted--may I have the privilege of calling?" he askedwith one of his odd lapses into a quaintly elaborate manner that waswholly un-English.

  "Yes, do. We shall be delighted."

  "My thanks." And with a slight bow he left them.

  Later on, when everyone else had gone, the Seymours, together withPenelope and Nan, drew round the fire for a final few minutes' yarn.

  "Well, how do you like Kitty's latest lion?" asked Barry, lighting acigarette.

  "I think he's a dear," declared Penelope warmly. "I liked himimmensely--what I saw of him."

  "He's such an extraordinary faculty for reading people," chimed inKitty, puffing luxuriously at a tiny gold-tipped cigarette.

  "Part of a writer's stock in trade, of course," replied Barry. "Buthe's a clever chap."

  "Too clever, I think," said Nan. "He fills one with a desire to haveone's soul carefully fitted up with frosted glass windows."

  Penelope laughed.

  "What nonsense! I think he's a delightful person."

  "Possibly. But, all the same, I think I'm frightened of people whomake me feel as if I'd no clothes on."

  "Nan!"

  "It's quite true. Your most dazzling get-up wouldn't make an atom ofdifference to his opinion of the real 'you' underneath it all. Why,one might just as well have no pretensions to good looks when talkingto a man like that! It's sheer waste of good material."

  "Well, he's rather likely to want to get at the real 'you' of anybodyhe meets," interpolated Barry. "He was badly taken in once. His wifewas one of the prettiest women I've ever struck--and she was anabsolute devil."

  "He's a widower, then!" exclaimed Penelope.

  Barry shook his head regretfully.

  "No such luck! That's the skeleton in poor old Peter's cupboard.Celia Mallory is very much alive and having as good a time as she cansqueeze out of India."

  "They live apart," explained Kitty. "She's one of those restless,excitable women, always craving to be right in the limelight, and shesimply couldn't stand Peter's literary work. She was franticallyjealous of it--wanted him to be dancing attendance on her all day long.And when his work interfered with the process, as of course it wasbound to do, she made endless rows. She has money of her own, andfinally informed Peter that she was going to India, where she hasrelatives. Her uncle's a judge, and she's several Army cousins marriedout there."

  "Do you mean she has never come back?" gasped Penelope.

  "No. And I don't think she intends to if she can help it. She's themost thoroughly selfish little beast of a woman I know, and cares fornothing on earth except enjoyment. She's spoiled Peter's life forhim"--Kitty's voice shook a little--"and through it all he's been aspatient as one of God's saints."

  "Still, they're better apart," commented Barry. "While she was livingwith him she made a bigger hash of his life than she can do when she'saway. She was spoiling his work as well as his life. And old Peter'swork means a lot to him. He's still got that left out of the wreckage."

  "Yes," agreed Kitty, "and of course he's writing better than ever now.Everyone says _Lindley's Wife_ is a masterpiece."

  Nan had been very silent during this revelation of Mallory'sunfortunate domestic affairs. The discovery that he was alreadymarried came upon her as a shock. She felt stunned. Above all, shewas conscious of a curious sense of loss, as though the Peter she hadjust began to know had suddenly receded a long way off from her andwould never again be able to draw nearer.

  When the Seymours' car at length bore the two girls back to EdenhallMansions, Penelope found Nan an unwontedly silent companion. Sheresponded to Penny's remarks in monosyllables and appeared to havenothing to say regarding the evening's happenings.

  Mingled with the even throb of the engine, she could hear a constantiteration of the words:

  "Married! Peter's married!"

  And she was quite unconscious that in her mind he was already thinkingof him as "Peter."