CHAPTER V
"PREUX CHEVALIER"
In due course Mallory paid his call upon the occupants of the flat, andentertained both girls immensely by the utter lack ofself-consciousness with which he assisted in the preparations fortea--toasting scones and coaxing the kettle to boil as naturally asthey themselves would have done.
He had none of the average Englishman's _mauvaise honte_--though be itthankfully acknowledged that, in the case of the younger generation,the experiences of the war have largely contributed towards rubbing itoff. Mallory appeared serenely unconscious of any incongruity in thefact of a man whose clothes breathed Savile Row and whose linen wasimmaculate as only that of the Londoner--determinedly emergent from thegrime of the city--ever is, pottering about in the tiny kitchen, andbrooding over the blackly obstinate kettle.
This first visit was soon followed by others, and then by a foursomedinner at the Carlton, Ralph Fenton being invited to complete theparty. Before long Peter was on a pleasant footing of intimacy withthe two girls at the flat, though beyond this he did not seek toprogress.
The explanation was simple enough. Primarily he was always aware ofthe cord which shackled him to a restless, butterfly woman who playedat life out in India, and secondly, although he was undoubtedlyattracted by Nan, he was not the type of man to fall headlong in love.He was too fastidious, too critical, altogether too much master ofhimself. Few women caused him a single quickened heart-beat. But itis to such men as this that when at last love grips them, binding themslowly and secretly with its clinging tendrils, it comes as anirresistible force to be reckoned with throughout the remainder oftheir lives.
So it came about that as the weeks grew into months, Malloryperceived--dimly and with a quaint resignation to the inevitable--thatNan and Love were coming to him hand in hand.
His first thought had been to seek safety in flight; then that gentlyhumorous philosophy with which he habitually looked life in the faceasserted itself, and with a shrug and a muttered "Kismet," he remained.
Nan appealed to him as no other woman had ever done. The ineffaceablequality of race about her pleased his fastidious taste; the Frenchblood in her called to his; nor could he escape the heritage of charmbequeathed her by the fair and frail Angele de Varincourt. Above all,he understood her. Her temperament--idealistic and highly-strung,responsive as a violin to every shade of atmosphere--invoked his own,with its sensitiveness and keen, perceptive faculty.
But this very comprehension of her temperament blinded him to thepossibility that there was any danger of her growing to care for himother than as a friend. He appreciated the fact that she had justreceived a buffeting from fate, that her confidence was shaken and herpride hurt to breaking-point, and the thought never entered his headthat a woman so recently bruised by the hands of love--or more truly,love's simulacrum--could be tempted to risk her heart again so soon.
Feeling very safe, therefore, in the fact of his marriage, which wasyet no marriage, and sure that there was no chance of his hurting Nan,he let himself love her, keeping his love tenderly in one of thosesecret empty rooms of the heart--empty rooms of which only thethrice-blessed in this world have no knowledge.
Outwardly, all that Peter permitted himself was to give her anunfailing friendship, to surround her with an atmosphere of homage andprotection and adapt himself responsively to her varying moods. Thishe did untiringly, demanding nothing in return--and he alone knew thebitter effort it cost him.
Gradually Nan began to lean upon him, finding in the restfulness ofsuch a friendship the healing of which she stood in need. She workedat her music with suddenly renewed enthusiasm, secure in the knowledgethat Peter was always at hand to help and criticise with kindly,unerring judgment. She ceased to rail at fate and almost learned tobring a little philosophy--the happy philosophy of laughter--to bearupon the ills of life.
Consciously she thought of him only as Peter--Peter, her good pal--andso long as the pleasant, even course of their friendship remaineduninterrupted she was never likely to realise that something bigger andmore enduring than mere comradeship lay at the back of it all. She,too, like Mallory, reassured herself with the fact of hismarriage--though the wife she had never seen and of whom Peter neverspoke had inevitably receded in her mind into a somewhat vague andnebulous personality.
"Well?" demanded Kitty triumphantly one day. "And what is your opinionof Peter Mallory now?"
As she spoke, she caressed with light finger-tips a bowl of sun-goldnarcissus--Mallory habitually kept the Edenhall flat supplied withflowers.
"We're frankly grateful to you for introducing him," replied Penelope."He's been an absolute godsend all through this hateful long winter."
"What's so perfect about him," added Nan, "is that he never jars onone. He's never Philistine."
"In fact," interpolated Penelope somewhat ruefully, "he's so far frombeing Philistine that he has a dreadful faculty for making me feeldeplorably commonplace."
Kitty gurgled.
"What rubbish! I'm sure nothing in the world would make Peter moreunhappy than to think he affected anyone like that. He's the leastassuming and most tender-hearted soul I know. You may be common-sense,Penny dear, but you're not in the least commonplace. They're two quitedifferent things."
Nan lit a cigarette with deliberation.
"I'll tell you what is remarkable about Peter Mallory," she said."He's _sahib_--right through. Very few men are."
Kitty, always tolerant and charitable, patted her arm deprecatingly.
"Oh, come, Nan, that's rather sweeping. There are heaps of nice men inthe world."
"Heaps," assented Nan agreeably. "Heaps--bless 'em! But very few_preux chevaliers_. I only know two--one is my lamb of an uncle andthe other is Peter."
"And where does my poor Barry come in?"
Nan smiled across at her indulgently.
"Barry? Pooh! He's just a delightful overgrown schoolboy--and youknow it!"
* * * * * *
July in London, hot, dusty, and oppressive. Even the breezy altitudeof the top-floor flat could not save its occupants from the intenseheat which seemed to be wafted up from the baking streets below. Theflat was "at home" to-day, the festive occasion indicated by thequantities of flowers which adorned it--big bowls of golden-heartedroses, tall vases of sweet peas--the creamy-yellow ones which mergeinto oyster pink, while the gorgeous royal scarlet of "King Edward"glowed in dusky corners.
Penelope trailed somewhat lethargically hither and thither, adding lasttouches to the small green tables, arranged in readiness for bridge,and sighing at the oppressive heat of the afternoon. First she openedthe windows to let in the air, then closed them to shut out the heat,only to fling them open once again, exclaiming impatiently:
"Phew! I really don't know which is the cooler!"
"Neither!" responded a gay voice from the doorway. "The bottomless pitwould probably be refreshingly draughty in comparison with town justnow."
Penelope whirled round to find Kitty, immaculate in white from head tofoot and looking perfectly cool and composed, standing on the threshold.
"How do you manage it?" she said admiringly. "Even in this swelteringheat, when the rest of us look as though we had run in the wash, yougive the impression that you've just stepped out of a refrigeratedbandbox."
"Appearances are as deceitful as usual, then," replied Kitty, sinkingdown into an arm-chair and unfurling a small fan. "I'm simply melted!Am I the first arrival?" she continued. "Where's Nan?"
"She and Peter are decorating the tea-table--smiles and things, youknow"--Penelope waved an explanatory hand.
Kitty nodded.
"I think my plan was a good one, don't you? Peter's been an excellentantidote to Maryon Rooke," she observed complacently.
"I'm not so sure," returned Penelope with characteristic caution. "Ithink a married man--especially such an _un_married married man asPete--is rather a dangerous antidote."
"Nonsense!
They both _know_ he's married! And they've both got normalcommon-sense."
"But," objected Penelope, suddenly and unexpectedly, "love has nothingwhatever to do with common-sense."
Kitty gazed at her in frank amazement.
"Penelope! What's come to you? We've always regarded you as theseverely practical member of the community, and here you are talkingrank heresy!"
Penelope laughed a little, and a faint flush stole up into her cheeks.
"I'm not unobservant, remember," she returned, lightly, her eyesavoiding Kitty's. "And my observations have led me to the conclusionthat love and common-sense are distinctly antipathic."
"Well, Nan seems quite happy and cheerful again, anyway," retortedKitty. "And if she'd fallen in love with Peter, knowing that there wasa very much alive Mrs. Peter in the background, she would hardly befeeling particularly cheery."
"Oh, I don't think Nan's fallen in love--yet. And as to her presentjoyful mood, that's easily accounted for by the doubled income Lord St.John is allowing her--I never knew anyone extract quite so muchsatisfaction as Nan from the actual spending of money. Besides,although she doesn't realise it, Peter has made himself ratherindispensable to her."
Kitty spoke with nervous sharpness:
"But you don't think she cares for him?"
The other reflected a moment before replying. Finally she said:
"If she does, it is quite unconsciously. Consciously, I feel almostsure that Maryon Rooke still occupies her thoughts."
"I wonder where she finds the great attraction in him?" queried Kittythoughtfully.
"Simply this: That he was the first and, go far, the only man who hasever appealed to her at all. And as he has treated her rather badly,he's succeeded in fixing himself in her mind."
"Well, I've never understood the affair at all. Rooke was in love ifever a man was."
"Yes," agreed Penelope slowly. "But I think Maryon Rooke is what Ishould describe as--a born bachelor."
"Then he's no business philandering round with women who aren't bornspinsters," retorted Kitty promptly.
Penelope's brown eyes twinkled.
"You're rather limiting his horizon," she observed.
Kitty laughed.
"Possibly. But I'm furious with him for hashing up Nan's life. . . .As he has done," she added.
"Not necessarily," suggested Penelope. "I think Nan's rather like alittle hard, unopened bud. He's bruised the bud, perhaps, but I don'tthink he's injured the flower."
"Good gracious, Penny, you're not trying to find excuses for the man!"
"Not a bit of it. But I believe that Nan has such a tremendousfascination for him that he simply can't resist her. In fact, I thinkif the question of finance didn't enter into the matter he'd be readyto shoulder the matrimonial yoke. . . But I don't see Maryon Rookesettling down to matrimony on a limited income! And of course Nan'sown income ceases if she marries."
"It was very queer of Lord St. John to make that stipulation,"commented Kitty.
"I don't think so at all. He wants to make quite sure that the man whomarries Nan does so for love--and nothing else. And also to give her afree hand. How many women, if they had money of their own, as Nan has,would marry, do you suppose?" Penelope spoke heatedly. She was amodern of the moderns in her ideas. "Subconsciously it's the feelingof economical dependence, the dread of ultimate poverty, which hasdriven half the untrained women one knows into unhappy marriages. AndLord St. John recognises it. He's progressed with the times, blesshim!"
"But Rooke will be making big money before very long," protested Kitty,keeping firmly to the point and declining to be led aside into one ofPenelope's argumentative byeways. "He'll be able to settle a decentincome on his wife in a few years."
"Very possibly. He'll be one of the most fashionable portrait paintersof the day. But until that day comes, Maryon isn't going to tiehimself up with a woman whose income ceases when she marries.Besides"--drily--"an unattached bachelor is considerably more in demandas a painter of society women's portraits than a Benedict."
"So Nan is to be sacrificed?" threw out Kitty.
"It seems like it. And as long as Maryon Rooke occupies the foregroundin her mind, no other man will occur to her as anything but a friend."
"Then I wish somebody--or something--would sweep him out of her mind!"
"Well, he's away now, at any rate," said Penelope soothingly. "Solet's be thankful for small mercies."
As she spoke, the maid--an improvement on their original"Adagio"--entered with a telegram on a salver which she offered toPenelope. The latter slit open the envelope without glancing at theaddress and uttered a sharp exclamation of dismay as she read the briefcommunication it contained.
Kitty leaned forward.
"What is it, Penny? Not bad news?"
"It's for Nan," returned Penelope shortly. "You can read it."
Kitty perused it in silence.
"_Am in town. Shall call this afternoon on chance of finding youin_.--ROOKE."
"The very last person we wanted to blow in here just now," commentedKitty as she returned the wire.
Penelope slipped it back into its envelope and replaced it on thesalver.
"Take it to Miss Davenant," she told the maid quietly. "And explainthat you brought it to me by mistake."
The Moon out of Reach Page 5