CHAPTER VII
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR
Having secured Kitty's forgotten fan, Mallory absent-mindedly descendedthe long stone flight of steps instead of taking the lift and,regaining the street, hailed a passing taxi and drove towards GreenStreet, whither the Seymours' car had already proceeded.
As the driver threaded his way through the traffic, Peter's thoughtsrevolved round the scene which his unexpected return to the flat hadinterrupted. There was only one deduction to be drawn from it, whichwas that Nan, after all, still cared for Maryon Rooke. The old lovestill held her.
The realisation was bitter. Even though the woman who was his wifemust always stand betwixt himself and Nan, yet loving her as he did, ithad meant a good deal to Mallory to know that no other man had anyclaim upon her.
And earlier in the afternoon, just before the maid had intruded on themto deliver Rooke's telegram, it had seemed almost as though Nan, too,had cared. One moment more alone together and he would haveknown--been sure.
A vague vision of the future had even flashed through his mind--he andNan never any more to one another than good comrades, but each knowingthat underneath their friendship lay something stronger and deeper--theknowledge that, though unavowed, they belonged to each other. And evena love that can never be satisfied is better than life without love.It may bring its moments of unbearable agony, but it is still love--themost beautiful and glorious thing in the world. And the pain ofknowing that a great gulf is for ever set between two who love is apenalty that real love can face and triumph over.
But now the whole situation was altered. Unmistakably Maryon Rookestill meant a good deal to Nan, although Peter felt a certainconsciousness that if he were to pit himself against Rooke he couldprobably make the latter's position very insecure. But was it fair?Was it fair to take advantage of the quick responsiveness of Nan'semotions--that sensitiveness which gave reply as readily as a violin tothe bow?
She was not a woman to find happiness very easily, and he himself hadnothing to offer her except a love that must always be forbidden,unconsummated. In God's Name, then, if Maryon Rooke could give herhappiness, what right had he to stand in the way?
By the time the taxi had brought him to the door of Kitty's house, hisdecision was taken. He would clear out--see as little of Nan aspossible. It was the best thing he could do for her, and theconsideration of what it would cost him he relegated to a later period.
His steps lagged somewhat as he followed the manservant upstairs toKitty's own particular den, and the slight limp which the war had lefthim seemed rather more marked than usual. Any great physical ornervous strain, invariably produced this effect. But he mustered up asmile as he entered the room and held out the recovered fan.
The "little milliner" was nowhere to be seen, and Kitty herself wasensconced on the Chesterfield, enjoying an iced lemon-squash and acigarette, while Penelope and Barry were downstairs playing a desultorygame of billiards. The irregular click of the ivory balls came faintlyto Mallory's ears.
"Got my fan, Peter? Heaps of thanks. What will you have? Awhisky-and-soda? . . . Why--Peter--"
She broke on abruptly as she caught sight of his face. He was ratherpale and his eyes had a tired, beaten look in them.
"What's wrong, Peter?"
He smiled down at her as she lay tucked up amongst her cushions.
"Why should there be anything wrong?"
"Something is," replied Kitty decidedly. "Did I swish you away fromthe flat against your will?"
"I should be a very ungrateful person if I failed to appreciate mypresent privileges."
She shook her head disgustedly.
"You're a very annoying person!" she returned. "You invariably takerefuge in a compliment."
"Dear Madame Kitty"--Mallory leaned forward and looked down at her withhis steady grey-blue eyes--"dear Madame Kitty, I say to you _what Imean_. I do not compliment my friends"--his voice deepened--"my dear,trusted friends."
His foreign twist of phrase was unusually pronounced, as always inmoments of strong feeling.
"But that's just it!" she declared emphatically. "You're _not_trusting me--you're keeping me outside the door."
"Believe me, there's nothing you'd wish to see--the other side."
"Which means that in any case it's no use knocking at a door that won'tbe opened," said Kitty, apparently yielding the point. "So we'llswitch off that subject and get on to the next. We go down to MallowCourt at the end of this week. I can't stand town in July. What dateare you coming to us?"
Peter was silent a moment, his eyes bent on the ground. Then he raisedhis head suddenly as though he had just come to a decision.
"I'm afraid I shan't be able to come down," he said quietly.
"But you promised us!" objected Kitty. "Peter, you can't go back on apromise!"
He regarded her gravely. Then:
"Sometimes one has to do--even that."
Kitty, discerning in his refusal another facet of that "somethingwrong" she had suspected, clasped her hands round her knees and facedhim with deliberation.
"Look here, Peter, it isn't you to break a promise without some realgood reason. You say you can't come down to us at Mallow. Why not?"
He met her eyes steadily.
"I can't answer that," he replied.
Kitty remained obdurate.
"I want an answer, Peter. We've been pals for some time now,and"--with vigour--"I'm not going to be kept out of whatever it isthat's hurting you. So tell me."
He made no answer, and she slipped down from the Chesterfield and cameto his side.
"Is it anything to do with Nan?" she asked gently, her thoughts goingback to the talk she had had with Penelope before the bridge partybegan.
A rather weary smile curved his lips.
"It doesn't seem much use trying to keep you in the dark, does it?"
"I must know," she urged. Adding with feminine guile:
"Of course I should be frightfully hurt if I thought you weren't comingjust because you didn't want to. But still I'd rather know--even ifthat were the reason."
"Not want to?" he broke out, his control suddenly snapping. "I'd givemy soul to come!"
The bitterness in his voice--in the lazy, drawling tones she knew sowell--let in a flood of light upon the darkness in which she had beengroping.
"Peter--oh, Peter!" she cried tremulously. "You're not--you don't meanthat you care for Nan--seriously?"
"I don't think many men could be with her much without caring," heanswered simply.
"Oh, I'm sorry--I'm sorry! . . . I--I never thought of that when Iasked you to be a pal to her." Her voice shook uncontrollably.
He smiled again--the game half-weary, half-tenderly amused smile whichwas so characteristic.
"You needn't be sorry," he said, speaking with great gentleness. "Ishall never be sorry that I love her. It's only that just now shedoesn't need me. That's why I won't come down to Mallow."
"Not need you!"
"No. The man she needs has come back. I can't tell you _how_ Iknow--you'll have to trust me over that--but I do know that MaryonRooke has come back to her and that he is the man who means everythingto her."
Kitty's brows drew together as she pondered the question whether Peterwere right or wrong in his opinion.
"I don't think you're right," she said at last in tones of conviction."I don't believe she 'needs' him at all. I dare-say he stillfascinates her. He has"--she hesitated--"a curious sort of fascinationfor some women. And the sooner Nan is cured of it the better."
"I've done--all that I could," he answered briefly.
"Don't I know that?" Kitty slipped her arm into his. "You've beensplendid! That's just why I want you to come down to us in Cornwall."
"But if Rooke is there--"
"Maryon?" She paused, then went on with a chilly little note ofhaughtiness in her voice. "I certainly don't propose to invite MaryonRooke to Mallow."
"Still, you c
an't prevent him from taking a summer holiday at St.Wennys."
St. Wennys was a small fishing village on the Cornish coast, barely amile away from Mallow Court.
"He won't come--I'm sure!" asserted Kitty. "Sir Robert Burnham livesquite near there--he's Maryon's godfather--and they hate each otherlike poison."
"Why?"
"Oh, old Sir Robert was Maryon's guardian till he came of age, andthen, when Maryon decided to go in for painting, he presented him withthe small patrimony to which he was entitled and declined to haveanything further to do with him--either financially or otherwise.Simply chucked him. Maryon went through some very bad times, Ibelieve, in his early days," continued Kitty, striving to be just."That's the one thing I respect him for. He stuck to it and wonthrough to where he stands now."
"It shows he's got some grit, anyway," agreed Peter. "And do youthink"--smiling--"that that's the type of man who's going to give inover winning the woman he wants? . . . Should I, if things weredifferent--if I were free?"
Kitty laughed reluctantly.
"You? No. But you're not Maryon Rooke. He could never be the kind oflover you would be, my Peter. With him, his art counts first ofanything in the wide world. And that's why I don't think he'll come toSt. Wennys. He's in love with Nan--as far as his type can be inlove--but he's not going to tie himself up with her. So he'll keepaway."
She paused, then went on urgently:
"Peter dear, we shall all of us hate it so if you don't come down toCornwall with us this year. Look, if Rooke doesn't show up down there,so that we know he's only philandering with Nan and has no realintention of marrying her, will you come then?"
He still hesitated. And all at once Kitty saw the other side of thepicture--Peter's side. She wanted him at Mallow--they all wanted him.But she had not thought of the matter from his point of view. Now thatshe knew he cared for Nan she recognised that it would be a bitterlyhard thing for him to be under the same roof with the woman he loved,yet from whom he was barred by every law of God and man, and who, asfar as Kitty knew, regarded him solely in the light of a friend. Evenif Nan were growing to care for Peter--the bare possibility flashedthrough Kitty's mind only to be instantly dismissed--even so, it wouldserve only to complicate matters still further.
When she spoke again it was in a very subdued tone of voice and with anaccent of keen self-reproach.
"Peter, I'm a selfish pig! All this time I've never been thinking ofyou--only of ourselves. I believe it's your own fault"--with a ratherquavering laugh. "You've taught us all to expect so much from you--andto give so little."
Mallory made a quick gesture of dissent.
"Oh, yes, you have," she insisted. "You're always giving and wejust--take! I never thought how hard a thing I was asking when Ibegged you to come down to Mallow while Nan was with us. It was sheerbrutality to suggest it." Her voice trembled. "Please forgive me,Peter!"
"My dear, there's nothing to forgive. You know I love Nan, that she'llalways be the one woman for me. But you know, too, that there's Celia,and that Nan and I can never be more to each other than we arenow--just friends. I'm not going to forfeit that friendship--unless ithappens it would be best for Nan that we should forget we were evenfriends. And I won't say it doesn't hurt to be with her. But thereare some hurts that one would rather bear than lose what goes withthem."
The grave voice, with the undertone of pain running through it, ceased.Kitty's tears were flowing unchecked.
"Oh, Peter, Peter!" she cried sobbingly. "Why aren't you free? Youand Nan are just made for each other."
He winced a little, as though she had laid her finger on a raw spot.
"Hush, Kitten," he said quietly. "Don't cry so! These things happenand we've got to face them."
Kitty subsided into a chair and mopped her eyes.
"It's wicked--wicked that you should be tied up to a woman likeCelia--a woman who's got no more soul than this chair!"--banging thechair-arm viciously.
"And you mustn't say things like that, either," chided Peter, smilingat her very kindly.
As he spoke there came the sound of footsteps, and the voices of Barryand Penelope could be heard as they approached Kitty's den, by way ofthe corridor.
"I owe you a bob, then," Barry was saying in his easy, good-naturedtones. "You beat me fair and square that last game, Penny."
Kitty sprang up, suddenly conscious of her tear-stained face.
"Oh, I can't see them---not now! Peter, stop them from coming here!"
A moment later Mallory came out of the room and met the approachingcouple before they had reached the door.
"I was just coming to say good-bye to Kitty," began Penelope. "I'd noidea the time had flown so quickly."
"Charm of my society," murmured Barry.
Peter's face was rather white and set, but he managed to reply in avoice that sounded fairly normal.
"Kitty's very fagged and she's going to rest for a few minutes beforedressing for dinner. She asked me to say good-bye to you for her,Penelope."
"Then it falls to my lot to speed the parting guest," said Barrycheerily. "Peter, old son, can the car take you on anywhere afterdropping Penny at the Mansions?"
Peter was conscious of a sudden panic. He had just come from baringthe rawness of his wound to Kitty, and, gently as her fingers hadprobed, even the kind hands of a friend may sometimes hurtexcruciatingly. He felt that at the moment he could not endure thecompanionship of any living soul.
"No, thanks," he answered jerkily. "I'll walk."