The Moon out of Reach Part 80

Roger interrupted with a snarl. His arms waved convulsively.

"Lift me up," he commanded. "I can't do it myself. Prop me up a bit against the pillows. . . . Oh, get on with it, man!" he cried, as Barry hesitated. "Nothing you do can either help or hurt me. Lift me up!"

Obediently Barry stooped and with a touch as strong as a man's and as tender as a woman's, lifted Roger into the desired position.

"Thanks." Roger blurted out the word ungraciously. "Well, what about Nan?" he went on, scowling. "I suppose you've come to ask me to let her off? That's the natural thing! Is that it?" he asked sharply.

"Yes," answered Barry simply. "That's it."

Rogers face went white with anger.

"Then you may tell her," he said, pounding the bed with his fist to emphasise his words, "tell her from me that I haven't the least intention of releasing her. She's a contemptible little coward even to suggest it. But that's a woman all over!"

"It's nothing of the sort," returned Barry, roused to indignation by Roger's brutal answer. He spoke with a quiet forcefulness there was no mistaking. "Nan knows nothing whatever about my visit here, nor the purpose of it. On the contrary, had she known, I'm quite sure she would have tried to prevent my coming, seeing that she has made up her mind to marry you as soon as you wish."

"Oh, she has, has she?" Roger paused grimly. A moment later he broke out: "Then--then--what the devil right have you to interfere?"

"None," said Barry gravely. "Except the right of one man to remind another of his manhood--if he sees him in danger of losing it."

The thrust, so quietly delivered, went home. Roger bit his under lip and was silent, his eyes glowering.

"So that's what you think of me, is it?" he said at last, sullenly.

The look in Barry's eyes softened the stern sincerity of his reply.

"What else can I think? In your place a man's first thought should surely be to release the woman he loves from the infernal bondage which marriage with him must inevitably mean."

"On the principle that from him who hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath, I suppose?" gibed the bitter voice from the bed.

"No," answered Barry, with simplicity. "But just because if you love a woman you can't possibly want to hurt her."

"And if she loved you, a woman couldn't possibly want to turn you down because you've had the d.a.m.nedest bad luck any man could have."

"But does she love you?" asked Barry. "I know--and you know--that she does _not_. She cares for someone else."

Roger made a sudden, violent movement.

"Who is it? She has never told me who it was. I suppose it's that confounded cad who painted her portrait--Maryon Rooke?"

Barry smile a little.

"No," he answered. "The man she loves is Peter Mallory."

"Mallory!"--in blank astonishment. Then, swiftly and with a gleam of triumph in his eyes: "But he's married!"

"His wife has just died--out in India."

There was a long pause. Then:

"So _that's_ why you came?" sneered Roger. "Well, you can tell Nan that she won't marry Peter Mallory with my consent. I'll never set her free to be another man's wife"--his dangerous temper rising again.

"There's only one thing left to me in the world, and that's Nan. And I'll have her!"

"Is that your final decision?" asked Barry. He was beginning to recognise the hopelessness of any effort to turn or influence the man.

"Yes"--with a snarl. "Tell Nan"--derisively--"that I shall expect my truly devoted fiancee here this afternoon."

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

THE GREAT HEALER

It was late in the afternoon when the Mallow car once more purred up to the door of Trenby Hall and Nan descended from it. She was looking very pale, her face like a delicate white cameo beneath the shadow of her hat, while the clinging black of her gown accentuated the slender lines--too slender, now--of her figure. She had not yet discarded her mourning for Lord St. John, but in any case she would have felt that gay colours could have no part in to-day.

Kitty had told her of Barry's interview with Trenby and of its utter futility, and, although Nan had been prepared to sacrifice her whole existence to the man who had suffered so terrible an injury, she was bitterly disappointed that he proposed exacting it from her as a right rather than accepting it as a free gift.

If for once he could have shown himself generous and offered to give her back her freedom--an offer she would have refused to accept--how much the fact that each of them had been willing to make a sacrifice might have helped to sweeten their married life! Instead, Roger had forced upon her the realisation that he was unchanged--still the same arrogant "man with the club" that he had always been, insisting on his own way, either by brute force or by the despotism of a moral obligation which was equally compelling.

But these thoughts fled--driven away by a rush of overwhelming sympathy--when her eyes fell on the great, impotent hulk of a man who lay propped up against his pillows. A nurse slipped past her in the doorway and paused to whisper, as she went:

"Don't stay too long. He's run down a lot since this morning. I begged him not to see any more visitors to-day, but he insisted upon seeing you."

The nurse recalled very vividly the picture of her patient when she had endeavoured to dissuade him from this second interview--his white, rather drawn face and the eyes which blazed feverishly at her beneath their penthouse brows.

"You've got to let me see my best girl to-day, nurse," he had said, forcing a smile. "After that you shall have your own way and work your wicked will on me."

And the nurse, thinking that perhaps a visit from his "best girl" might help to allay the new restlessness she found in him, had yielded, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

"Oh, Roger!" With a low cry of dismay Nan ran to the bed and slipped down on her knees beside it.

"It's a rotten bit of luck, isn't it?" he returned briefly.

She expected the fierce clasp of his arms about her and had steeled herself to submit to his kisses without flinching. But he did not offer to kiss her. Instead, pointing to a chair, he said quietly:

"Pull up that chair--I'm sorry I can't offer to do it for you!--and sit down."

She obeyed, while he watched her in silence. The silence lasted so long that at last, finding it almost unbearable, she broke it.

"Roger, I'm so--so grieved to see you--like this." She leaned forward in her chair, her hands clasped tightly together. "But don't give up hope yet," she went on earnestly. "You've only had one specialist's opinion. He might easily be wrong. After a time, you may be walking about again as well as any other man. I've heard of such cases."

"And I suppose you're banking on the hope that mine's one of them, so that you'll not be tied to a helpless log for a husband. Is that it?"

She shrank back, hurt to the core of her. If he were to be always like this--prey to a kind of ferocious suspicion of every word and act of hers, then the outlook for the future was dark indeed. The burden of it would be more than she could bear.

Roger, seeing her wince, gestured apologetically.

"I didn't mean quite all that," he said quickly. "I'm rather like a newly-caged wild beast--savage even with its keeper. Still, any woman might be forgiven for preferring to marry a sound man rather than a cripple. You're ready to go on with the deal, Nan?"