The Moon out of Reach Part 28

Kitty cheerfully dismissed any possibility of discussion.

"It's quite settled, my dear. You'll be feeling it all far worse to-morrow than to-day. So get into bed now as quickly as possible."

"This milk's absolutely boiling," complained Nan irritably. "I can't drink it."

"Then undress first and drink it when you're in bed. I'll brush your hair for you."

It goes without saying that Kitty had her way--it was a very kind-hearted way--and before long Nan was sipping her gla.s.s of milk and gratefully realising the illimitable comfort which a soft bed brings to weary limbs.

"By the way, I've some news for you," announced Kitty, as she sat perched on the edge of the bed, smoking one of the tiny gold-tipped cigarettes she affected.

"News? What news?"

"Well, guess who's coming here?"

Nan named one or two mutual friends, only to be met by a triumphant negative. Finally Kitty divulged her secret.

"Why, Peter Mallory!"

The gla.s.s in Nan's hand jerked suddenly, spilling a few drops of the milk.

"Peter?" She strove to keep all expression out of her voice.

"Yes. He finds he can come after all. Isn't it jolly?"

"Very jolly."

Nan's tones were so non-committal that Kitty looked at her with some surprise.

"Aren't you pleased?" she asked blankly. She was relying tremendously on Peter's visit to restore Nan to normal, and to prevent her from making the big mistake of marrying Roger Trenby, so that the lukewarm reception accorded to her news gave her a qualm of apprehension lest his advent might not accomplish all she hoped.

"Of course I'm pleased!" Nan forced the obviously expected enthusiasm into her affirmative, then, swallowing the last mouthful of milk with an effort, she added: "It'll be topping."

Kitty took the gla.s.s from her and with an admonis.h.i.+ng, "Now try and have a good sleep," she departed, blissfully unconscious of how effectually she herself had just destroyed any possibility of slumber.

Peter coming! The first thrill of pure joy at the thought of seeing him again was succeeded by a rush of apprehension. She felt herself caught up into a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. The idea of marriage with Roger Trenby seemed even more impossible than ever with the knowledge that in a few days Peter would be there, close beside her with that quiet, comprehending gaze of his, while every nerve in her body would be vibrating at the mere touch of his hand.

In the dusk of her room, against the shadowy background of the blind-drawn windows, she could visualise each line of his face--the level brows and the steady, grey-blue eyes under them--eyes that missed so little and understood so much; the sensitive mouth with those rather tired lines cleft each side of it that deepened when he smiled; the lean cheek-bones and squarish chin.

She remembered them all, and they kept blotting out the picture of Roger as she had so often seen him--big and bronzed by the sun--when he came striding over the cliffs to Mallow Court. The memory was like a hand holding her back from casting in her lot with him.

And then the pendulum swung back and she felt that to marry--someone, anyone--was the only thing left to her. She was frightened of her love for Peter. Marriage, she argued, would be--_must_ be--a s.h.i.+eld and buckler against the cry of her heart. If she were married she would be able to stifle her love, crush it out, behind those solid, unyielding bars of conventional wedlock.

The fact of Peter's own marriage seemed to her rather dream-like.

There lay the danger. They had never met until after his wife had left him, so that her impression of him as a married man was necessarily a somewhat vague and shadowy one.

But there would be nothing vague or shadowy about marriage with Trenby!

That Nan realised. And, utterly weary of the persistent struggle in her heart, she felt that it might cut the whole tangle of her life once and for all if she pa.s.sed through the strait and narrow gate of matrimony into the carefully shepherded fold beyond it. After all, most women settled down to it in course of time, whether their husbands came up to standard or not. If they didn't, the majority of wives contrived to put up with the disappointment, and probably she herself would be so fully occupied with the putting up part of the business that she would not have much time in which to remember Peter.

But perhaps, had she known the inner thoughts of those women who have been driven into the "putting up" att.i.tude towards their husbands, she would have realised that memories do not die so easily.

CHAPTER XI

GOING WITH THE TIDE

As Nan, who had reluctantly complied with Kitty's stern decree that she must rest in bed during the greater part of the following day, at last descended from her room, she discovered, much to her satisfaction, that her ankle had ceased to pain her. But she still felt somewhat stiff and sore after the knocking about of the previous day.

At dinner she was astonished to find that the house-party had decreased by one. Ralph Fenton was absent.

"He left for town this morning, by the early train from St. Wennys Halt," explained Kitty. "He was--was called away very suddenly," she added blandly, in answer to Nan's surprised enquiries.

A somewhat awkward pause ensued, then everybody rushed into conversation at once, so that Nan could only guess that some contretemps must have occurred between Penelope and the singer of which she was in ignorance. As soon as dinner was at an end she manoeuvred Kitty into a corner and demanded an explanation.

"Why has Ralph gone away?" she asked. "And why did you look so uncomfortable when I asked about him? And why did Penelope blush?"

"Could I have them one at a time?" suggested Kitty mildly.

"You can have them combined into one. Tell me, what's been happening to-day?"

"Well, I gather that Ralph has been offering his hand and heart to Penelope."

"It seems to be epidemic," murmured Nan _sotto voce_.

"What did you say?"

"Only that it seems an odd proceeding for a newly-engaged young man to go careering off to London immediately."

"But he isn't engaged--that's just it. Penelope refused him."

"Refused him? But--but why?" asked Nan in amazement.

"You'd better ask her yourself. Perhaps you can get some sense out of her--since you appear to be the chief stumbling-block."

"I?"

"Yes. I saw Ralph before he went away. He seemed very down on his luck, poor dear! He's been trying to persuade Penelope to say yes and to fix an early date for their wedding, as he's got the offer of a very good short tour in America--really thumping fees--and he won't accept it unless she'll marry him first and go with him."

"Well, I don't see how that's my fault."

"In a way it is. The only reason Penelope gave him as to why she wouldn't consent was that she will never marry as long as you need her."

Nan digested this information in silence. Then she said quietly:

"If that's all, you can take off your sackcloth and ashes and phone Ralph at his hotel to come back here to-morrow. I'll--I'll talk to Penelope to-night."