The Moon out of Reach

  CHAPTER VI

  A FORGOTTEN FAN

  Meanwhile, in the next room, Peter and Nan, having completed their schemeof decoration with "smilax and things," were resting from their laboursand smoking sociably together.

  Nan cast a reflective eye upon the table.

  "You don't think it looks too much like a shrubbery where you have tohunt for the cakes, do you?" she suggested.

  "Certainly I don't," replied Peter promptly. "If there is some slightconfusion occasioned by that trail of smilax round the pink sugar-icingcake it merely adds to its attractiveness. The charm of mystery, youknow!"

  "I believe if Maryon were here he would sweep it all on to the floor indisgust!" observed Nan suddenly. "He'd say we'd forfeited simplicity."

  "Maryon Rooke, the artist, you mean?"

  The warm colour rushed into Nan's face, and she glanced at Peter withstartled--almost frightened--eyes. She could not conceive why the suddenrecollection of Rooke should have sprung into her mind at this particularmoment. With difficulty her lips framed the monosyllable "Yes."

  Peter bent forward. They were sitting together on the wide window-seat,the sound of the traffic from below coming murmuringly to their ears likesome muted diapason.

  "Nan"--Peter spoke very quietly--"Nan--was he the man?"

  She nodded voicelessly. Peter made a quick gesture as though to lay hishand over hers, then checked it abruptly.

  "My dear," he said, "do you still care?"

  "No, I don't think so," she answered uncertainly. "I--I'm not sure. Oh,Peter, how difficult life is!"

  He assented briefly. He knew very well how difficult.

  "I can't imagine why I thought of Maryon just now," went on Nan, apuzzled frown wrinkling her brows. "I never do, as a rule, when I'm withyou."

  She smiled rather wistfully and with a restless movement he sprang to hisfeet and began pacing the room. A little cry of dismay broke from herand she came quickly to his side, lifting a questioning face to his.

  "Why, Peter--Peter--What have I said? You're not angry, are you?"

  "_Angry_!" His voice roughened a bit. "If I could only tell you thetruth!"

  "Tell it me," she said simply.

  For a moment he was silent. Then:

  "Don't ask me, Nan. There are some things that can't be told."

  As he spoke, his eyes, dark and passionate with some forcibly restrainedemotion, met hers, and in an instant it seemed as though the thing hemust not speak were spoken.

  Nan flushed scarlet from brow to throat, her eyes widened, and the breathfluttered unevenly between her parted lips. She knew--_she knew_ whatMallory had left unsaid.

  "Peter----"

  She held out her hands to him with a sudden childish gesture ofsurrender, and involuntarily he gathered them into his own. At the samemoment the door opened to admit the maid and he drew back quickly, whileNan's outstretched hands fell limply to her side.

  "This wire's just come for you, miss," said the maid, and from her mannerit was quite impossible to guess whether she had observed anythingunusual or not. "I took it to Miss Craig by mistake."

  Mechanically Nan extracted the thin sheet from its torn envelope. As hereyes absorbed the few lines of writing, her face whitened and she drewher breath in sharply.

  The next instant, however, she recovered her poise, and crumpling thetelegram into a ball she addressed the maid composedly.

  "There's no answer," she said. Adding: "Has anyone arrived yet?"

  "Mrs. Seymour is here, miss. And"--listening--"I think Lord St. Johnmust have arrived."

  Nan turned to Mallory.

  "Then we'd better go, Peter. Come along."

  Mallory, as he followed her into the sitting-room, realised that she hadall at once retreated a thousand miles away from him. He wondered whatthe contents of the telegram could have been. The oblong red envelopeseemed to have descended suddenly between them like a shutter.

  Lord St. John, having only just arrived, was still standing as theyentered the room, and Nan rushed into apologies as she shook hands withhim and kissed Mrs. Seymour.

  "Heaps of apologies for not being here when you arrived. I reallyhaven't any excuse to offer except"--with a small _gamin_ smile--"that Iwas otherwise occupied!"

  "If the occupation was a matter of toilette, we'll excuse you," observedSt. John, surveying her with the usual masculine approbation of a whitefrock defined with touches of black. "The time wasn't wasted."

  Nan slipped her arm affectionately into his.

  "Oh, _why_ aren't you forty years younger and someone else's uncle?You'd be such a charming young man!" she exclaimed.

  St. John smiled.

  "I was, my dear--forty years ago." And he sighed.

  During the next half hour the remainder of the guests came dropping in bytwos and threes, and after a little desultory conversation everyonesettled down to the serious business of bridge. Now and then those whowere not playing ventured a subdued murmur of talk amongst themselves,but for the most part the silence of the room was only broken by voicesdeclaring trumps in a rapidly ascending scale of values, and then, aftera hectic interval, by the same voices calling out the score in varyingdegrees of satisfaction or otherwise.

  Nan, as a rule, played a good game, but to-day her play was nervous anderratic, and Mallory, her partner of the moment, instinctively connectedthis with the agitation she had shown on receiving the wire. Ignorant ofits contents, he awaited developments.

  He had not very long to wait. Shortly afterwards the trill of thedoor-bell pealed through the flat, followed by a sound of footsteps inthe hall, and, a minute later, Maryon Rooke came into the room. A briefstir succeeded his entrance, as Penelope and one or two other non-playersexchanged greetings with him. Then he crossed over to where Nan wasplaying. She was acutely conscious of his tall, loose-limbed figure ashe threaded his way carefully between the tables.

  "Gambling as usual?" he queried, when he had shaken hands. "Andwinning--also as usual--I suppose?"

  "On the contrary," she retorted. "I've just thrown away a perfectly goodtrick. Your arrival distracted my attention."

  Oddly enough, she had complete control of her voice, although her playand the slight trembling of her fingers as she held her cards fan-wisewere sufficient indication to Mallory of the deep waters that had beenstirred beneath the surface.

  "I'm sorry my return has proved so--inopportune," returned Rooke. As hespoke his eyes rested for a reflective moment upon Peter Mallory, thenreturned challengingly to Nan's face. The betraying colour flew up underher skin. She understood what he intended to convey as well as though hehad clothed his thought in words.

  "Having none, partner?"

  Mallory's kindly, drawling voice recalled her to the game, and she madean effort to focus her attention on the cards. But it was quite useless.Her play grew wilder and more erratic with each hand that was dealt,until at last a good no-trump call, completely thrown away by herdisastrous tactics, brought the rubber to an end.

  "You're not in your usual form this afternoon, Nan," remarked one of heropponents as they all rose from the table. Other tables, too, werebreaking up and some of the guests preparing to leave.

  "No. I've played abominably," she acquiesced. "I'm sorry,partner"--turning to Peter. "It must be the weather. This heat'sintolerable."

  He put her apology aside with a quick gesture.

  "There's thunder in the air, I think. You shouldn't have troubled toplay if you didn't feel inclined."

  Nan threw him a glance of gratitude--Peter never seemed to fail hereither in big or little things. Then, having settled accounts with heropponents, she moved away to join the chattering knot of departing guestscongregated round the doorway.

  Mallory's eyes followed her thoughtfully. He had already surmised thatMaryon Rooke was the sender of the telegram, and he could see howunmistakably his sudden reappearance had shaken her. He felt baffled.Did the man still hold her? Was all the striving of th
e last few monthsto prove useless? Those long hours of self-effacement when he had triedby every means in his power to restore Nan to a normal interest in life,to be the good comrade she needed at no matter what cost to himself,demanding nothing in return! For it had been a hard struggle to beconstantly with the woman he loved and yet keep himself in hand. ToMallory, Rooke's return seemed grotesquely inopportune.

  He was roused from his thoughts to the realisation that people wereleaving. Everyone appeared to be talking at once and the air was full ofthe murmur of wins and losses and of sharp-edged criticism of "mypartner's play." Maryon Rooke alone showed no signs of moving, butremained standing a little apart near the window, an unlit cigarette inhis hand.

  "Penelope, do come back to Green Street with me." Kitty's voice wasbeseeching. "My little milliner was to have had a couple of hats readyfor me this afternoon, which means she will arrive with a perfectavalanche of boxes, each containing a dinkier hat than the last, and Ishall fall a helpless victim."

  Her husband grinned unkindly.

  "Yes, do come along, Penny," he urged. "Then you can lay a restraininghand on Kitty when she's bought the first half dozen."

  "There'll just be time before dinner, and the car shall bring you backagain," entreated Kitty, and Penelope, knowing that the former would bebut clay in the practised hands of her "little milliner," smiledacquiescence.

  "Barry"--Kitty tapped her husband's arm--"go down and see if the car isthere. Peter, can I drop you anywhere?"

  In a couple of minutes the room was cleared, and Kitty, shepherding herflock before her, departed in a gale of good-byes, leaving Nan and MaryonRooke together.

  Each was silent. The girl's small head was thrown back, and in the poiseof her slim young body there was a mingling of challenge and appealingself-defence. She looked like some trapped wild thing at bay.

  Slowly Rooke crossed the room and came towards her, and as she met thoseodd, magnetic eyes of his--passionately expressive as only hazel eyes canbe--she felt the old fascination stealing over her once more. Her heartsank. She had dreaded this, fought against it, and in her inmost soulbelieved that she had conquered it. Yet now his mere presence sent theblood racing through, her veins with a hurrying, leaping speed thatfrightened her.

  "Nan!" As he spoke he bent and took her two hands gently into his.Then, as though the touch of her slight fingers roused some slumberingfire within him, his grasp tightened suddenly. He drew her nearer, hiseyes holding hers, and her slim body swayed towards him, yielding to theeager clasp of his arms.

  "Kiss me, Nan!" he said, the roughness of passion in his voice. "Younever kissed me--never in all those beautiful months we were together.And now--now when there's only parting ahead of us--"

  His eyes burned down on to her tilted face. She could hear his hurriedbreathing. His lips were almost touching hers.

  . . . Then the door opened quickly and Peter Mallory stood upon thethreshold.

  Swiftly though they started apart, it was impossible that he should nothave seen Rooke holding Nan close in his arms, his head bent above hers.Their attitude was unmistakable--it could have but one significance.

  Mallory paused abruptly in the doorway. Then, in a voice entirely devoidof expression, he said quietly:

  "Mrs. Seymour left her fan behind--I came back to fetch it." With aslight bow he picked up the forgotten fan and turned to go. "Good-byeonce more."

  The door closed behind him, and Nan stood very still, her arms hangingdown at her sides. But Maryon could read the stricken expression in hereyes--the desperate appeal of them. They betrayed her.

  "What's that man to you?" he demanded.

  "Nothing."

  He caught her roughly by the shoulders.

  "I don't believe it!" he exclaimed hotly. "He's the man you love. Thevery expression of your face gave it away."

  "I've told you," she answered unemotionally. "Peter Mallory is nothingto me, never can be anything, except"--her voice quivered a littledespite herself--"just a friend."

  Maryon's eyes searched her face.

  "Then kiss me!" He repeated his earlier demand, imperiously.

  She drew back.

  "Why should I kiss you?"

  The quietly uttered question seemed to set him very far apart from her.In an instant he knew how much he had forfeited by his absence.

  "Nan," he said, in his voice a curious charm of appeal, "do you know it'snearly a year since I saw you? And now--now I've only half an hour!"

  "Only half an hour?" she repeated vaguely.

  "Yes, I go back to Devonshire to-night. But I craved a glimpse of the'Beloved' before I went."

  The words brought Nan sharply back to herself. He was still the sameincomprehensible, unsatisfactory lover as of old, and with therealisation a cold fury of scorn and resentment swept over her, blottingout what she had always counted as her love for him. It was as though astring, too tightly stretched, had suddenly snapped.

  She answered him indifferently.

  "To cheer you on your way, I suppose?"

  "No. I shouldn't"--significantly--"call it cheering. I've been back inEngland a month, alone in the damned desolation of Dartmoor,fighting--fighting to keep away from you."

  She looked at him with steady, scrutinising eyes.

  "Why need you have kept away?" she asked incisively.

  "At the bidding of the great god Circumstance. Oh, my dear, mydear"--speaking with passionate vehemence--"don't you know . . . don'tyou understand that if only I weren't a poor devil of a painter with myway to make in a world that can only be bought with gold--nothing shouldpart us ever again? . . . But as it is--"

  Nan listened to the outburst with down-bent head. She understoodnow--oh, yes, she understood perfectly. He loved her well enough in hisown way--but Maryon's way meant that the love and happiness of the womanwho married him would always be a matter of secondary importance. Thebitterness of her resentment deepened within her, flooding her wholebeing.

  "'If only!'" repeated Rooke. "It's the old story, Nan--the desire of themoth for the flame."

  "The moth is a very blundering creature," said Nan quietly. "He makesmistakes sometimes--perhaps imagining a flame where there is none."

  "No!" exclaimed Rooke violently. "I made no mistake! You loved me asmuch as I loved you. I know it! By God, do you think a man can't tellwhen the woman he loves, loves him?"

  "Well, you must accept the only alternative then," she answered coolly."Sometimes a flame flickers out--and dies."

  It was as though she had cut him across the face with a whip. In asudden madness he caught her in his arms, crushing her slender bodyagainst his, and kissed her savagely.

  "There!" he cried, a note of fierce triumph ringing in his voice."Whether your love is dead or no, I'll not go out of your life withnothing to call my own, and I've made your lips--mine."

  Loosening his hold of her he stumbled from the room.

  Nan remained just where he had left her. She stood quite motionless forseveral minutes, almost as though she were waiting for something. Thenwith a leap of her breath, half-sigh, half-exultation, the knowledge ofwhat had happened to her crystallised into clear significance.

  In one swift, overwhelming moment of illumination she realised that thefrail blossom of love which had been tentatively budding in the garden ofher heart was dead--withered, starved out of existence ere it had quitebelieved in its own reality.

  Maryon Rooke no longer meant anything to her. She felt completelyindifferent as to whether she ever saw him again or not. She was free!While he had been with her she had felt unsure, uncertain of herself.The interview had shaken her. Yet actually, after those first dazzledmoments, the emotion she felt partook more of the dim, sad ache that thememory-haunted scent of a flower may bring than of any more vitalsentiment. But now that he had gone, it came upon her with a shock ofjoyful surprise that she was free--beautifully, gloriously free!

  The ecstasy only lasted for a moment. Then with a s
udden childishmovement she put her hand resentfully to her face where the roughness ofhis beard had grazed it. She wished he had not kissed her--it would be adisagreeable memory.

  "I shall never forget now," she muttered. "I shall never be able toforget."

  There was an odd note of fear in her voice.