The Moon out of Reach

by Margaret Pedler

  CHAPTER XXI

  LADY GERTRUDE'S POINT OF VIEW

  It was a cheerless morning. Gusts of fine, sprinkling rain drove hitherand thither on a blustering wind, while overhead hung a leaden sky withpatches of black cloud scudding raggedly across it.

  Nan, coming slowly downstairs to breakfast, regarded the state of theweather as merely in keeping with everything else. The constant frictionof her visit to Trenby had been taking its daily toll of her naturalbuoyancy, and last night's interview with Roger had tried her frayednerves to the uttermost. This morning, after an almost sleepless night,she felt that to remain there any longer would be more than she couldendure. She must get away--secure at least a few days' respite from thedreadful atmosphere of disapprobation and dislike which Lady Gertrudemanaged to convey.

  The consciousness of it was never absent from her. Pride had upheld herso far, but underneath the pride lay a very sore heart. To anyone assensitive as Nan, whose own lovableness had always hitherto evoked bothlove and friendship as naturally as flowers open to the sun, it was a newand bewildering experience to be disliked. She did not know how to meetit. It hurt inexpressibly, and she was tired of being hurt.

  She hesitated nervously outside the morning-room door, whence issued thesoft clink of china and a murmur of voices. The clock in the hall hadstruck the hour five minutes ago. She was late, and she knew that theinstant she entered the room she would feel that unfriendly atmosphererushing to meet her like a great black wave. Finally, with an effort,she turned the door-handle and went in.

  For once Lady Gertrude refrained from comment upon her lack ofpunctuality. She seemed preoccupied and, to judge from the pinchedclosing of her lips, her thoughts were anything but pleasing, while Rogerwas in the sullen, rather impenetrable mood which Nan had learned torecognise as a sign of storm. He hardly spoke at all, and then only tofling out one or two curt remarks in connection with estate matters.Immediately breakfast was at an end he rose from the table, remarkingthat he should not be in for lunch, and left the room.

  Lady Gertrude looked up from her morning's letters.

  "I suppose he's riding over to Berry Farm--the tenant wants some repairsdone. He ought to take a few sandwiches with him if he won't be here forlunch."

  Isobel jumped up from her seat.

  "I'll see that he does," she said quickly, and went out of the room insearch of him. Any need of Roger's must be instantly supplied.

  Lady Gertrude waited until the servants had cleared away the breakfast,then she turned to Nan with a very definite air of having something tosay.

  "Have you and Roger quarrelled?" she asked abruptly.

  The girl started nervously. She had not expected this as a consequenceof Roger's taciturnity.

  "No," she said, stumbling a little. "No, we haven't--quarrelled."

  Lady Gertrude scrutinised her with keen, light-grey eyes that had thesame penetrating glance as Roger's own, and Nan felt herself colouringunder it.

  "You've displeased him in some way or other," insisted Lady Gertrude, andwaited for a reply.

  Nan flared up at the older woman's arbitrary manner.

  "That's rather a funny way to put it, isn't it?" she said quickly."I'm--I'm not a child, you know."

  "You behave very much like one at times," retorted Lady Gertrude. "I'vedone my utmost since you came here to fit you to be Roger's wife, andwithout any appreciable result. You seem to be exactly as irresponsibleand thoughtless as when you arrived."

  The cold, contemptuous criticism flicked the girl's raw nerves like thepoint of a lash. She sprang to her feet, her eyes very bright, as thoughtears were not far distant, her young breast rising and falling unevenlywith her hurrying breath.

  "Is that what you think of me?" she said unsteadily. "Because then I'dbetter go away. It's what I want--to go away! I--I can't bear it hereany longer." Her fingers gripped the edge of the table tensely. She wasstruggling to keep down the rising sobs which threatened to choke herspeech. "I know you don't want me to be Roger's wife--you don't thinkI'm fit for it! You've just said so! And--and you've let me see it everyday. I'll go--I'll go!"

  Lady Gertrude's face remained quite unchanged. Only the steely gleam inher eyes hardened.

  "When this hysterical outburst is quite over," she said scathingly, "Ishall be better able to talk to you."

  Nan made no answer. It was all she could do to prevent herself frombursting into tears.

  "Sit down again." Lady Gertrude pointed to a chair, and Nan, who felther legs trembling under her, sat down obediently. "You're quitemistaken in thinking I don't wish you to be Roger's wife," continued LadyGertrude quietly. "I do wish it."

  Nan glanced across at her in astonishment. This was the last thing shehad expected her to say--irreconcilable with her whole attitudethroughout the last two months. Lady Gertrude returned the glance withone of faint amusement. She could make a good guess at what the girl wasthinking.

  "I wish it," she pursued, "because Roger wishes it. I should like my sonto have everything he wants. To be perfectly frank, I don't consider hehas made a very suitable choice, but since he wants you--why, he musthave you. No, don't interrupt me, please"--for Nan, quivering withindignation, was about to protest. "When--if ever you are a mother youwill understand my point of view. Roger has made his choice--and ofcourse he hasn't the least idea how unsuitable a one it is. Men rarelyget beyond a pretty face. So it devolves upon me to make you betterfitted to be his wife than you are at present."

  The cold, dispassionate speech roused Nan to a fury of exasperation andrevolt. Evidently, in Lady Gertrude's mind, Roger was the only personwho mattered. She herself was of the utmost unimportance except for thefact that he wanted her for his wife! She felt as though she were aslave who had been bartered away to a new owner.

  "You understand, now?"

  Lady Gertrude's clear, unmoved accents dropped like ice into the midst ofher burning resentment.

  "Yes, I do understand!" she exclaimed, in a voice that she hardlyrecognised as her own. "And I think everything you've said is horrible!If I thought Roger looked at things like that, I'd break our engagementto-morrow! But he doesn't--I know he doesn't. It's only you who thinksuch hateful things. And--and I won't stay here! I--I _can't_!"

  "It's foolish to talk of breaking off your engagement," returned LadyGertrude composedly. "Roger is not a man to be picked up and put down atany woman's whim--as you would find out if you tried to do it."

  Inwardly Nan felt bitterly conscious that this was true. She didn'tbelieve for a moment that Roger would release her, however much she mightimplore him to. And unless he himself released her, her pledge to himmust stand.

  "As to going away"--Lady Gertrude was speaking again. "Where would yougo?"

  "To the flat, of course."

  "Do you mean to the flat you used to share with Mrs. Fenton?"--on aglacial note of incredulity.

  "Yes."

  "Who is living there?"

  Nan looked puzzled. What did it matter to Lady Gertrude who lived there?

  "No one, just now. The Fentons are going to stay there, when they comeback, while they look for a house."

  "But they are not there now?" persisted Lady Gertrude.

  Nan shook her head, wondering what was the drift of so much questioning.She was soon to know.

  "Then, my dear child," said Lady Gertrude decidedly, "of course it wouldbe quite impossible for you to go there."

  "Why impossible?"

  Lady Gertrude's brows lifted, superciliously.

  "I should have thought it was obvious," she replied curtly. "Hasn't itoccurred to you that it would be hardly the thing for a young unmarriedgirl to be staying alone in a flat in London?"

  "No, it hasn't," returned Nan bluntly. "Penelope and I have each stayedthere alone--heaps of times--when the other was away."

  "Very possibly." There was an edge to Lady Gertrude's voice which it wasimpossible to misinterpret. "Professional musicians are very
lax--Isuppose _you_ would call it Bohemian--in their ideas. That I can quitebelieve. But you have someone else to consider now. Roger would hardlywish his future wife to be stopping alone at a flat in London."

  Nan was silent. Ridiculous as it seemed, she had to admit that LadyGertrude was speaking no more than the bare truth concerning Roger'spoint of view. She felt perfectly sure that he would object--verystrenuously!

  Lady Gertrude rose.

  "I think there is no more to be said. You can put any idea of rushingoff to London out of your head. Even if Roger were agreeable, I shouldnot allow it while you are in my charge. Neither is it exactlycomplimentary to us that you should even suggest such a thing."

  With this parting comment she quitted the room, leaving Nan staringstonily out of the window.

  She felt helpless--helpless to withstand the thin, steel-eyed woman whowas Roger's mother. Nominally free, she was to all intents and purposesa prisoner at Trenby Hall till Kitty or Penelope came home. Of courseshe could write to Lord St. John if she chose. But even if she did, hemost certainly could not ask her to stay with him at his chambers inLondon. Besides, she didn't want to appeal to him. She knew he wouldthink she was running away--playing the coward, and that it would be abitter disappointment to him to find her falling short of the highstandard which he had always set before her.

  "_No Davenant was ever a coward in the face of difficulties_," he hadtold her. And she loved him far too much to hurt him as grievously asshe knew it would hurt him if she ran away from them.

  She stood there for a long time, staring dumbly out at the falling rainand dripping trees. She was thinking along the lines which St. John hadlaid down for her. "_Don't make Roger pay for your own blunder_." Wasshe doing that? Remembering all that had passed between them last nightshe began to realise that this was just what she had been doing.

  She had no love to give him, but she had been keeping him out ofeverything else as well. She had not even tried to make a comrade ofhim, to let him into her interests and to try and share his own.Instead, she had shut herself away in the West Parlour with her music andher memories, and in his own blundering fashion Roger had realised it.Probably he had even guessed that that other man who had loved her hadbeen able to go with her into the temple of music, comprehending it alland loving it even as she did.

  She understood Roger's strange and sudden jealousy now. Although she wasto be his wife, he was jealous of those invisible bonds of mutualunderstanding which had linked her to Peter Mallory--bonds which, hadthey two been free to marry, would have made of their marriage a perfectthing--the beautiful mating of spirit, soul, and body.

  The doors of her soul--that innermost sanctuary of all--would never beopened for any other to enter in. But surely there was something morethat she might give Roger than she had yet done. She could stretch out afriendly hand and try to link their interests together, however slightthe link must be.

  All at once, a plan to accomplish this formulated itself in her mind. Hehad wanted to "smash the piano." Well, he should never want that again.She would show him that her music was not going to stand betweenthem--that she was willing to share it with him. She would talk to himabout it, get him to understand something of what it meant to her, andwhen the concerto was quite finished, she would invite him into the WestParlour to listen to it. It was nearing completion--another week's workand what Sandy laughingly termed her "magnum opus" would be finished. Ofcourse Roger wouldn't be able to give her a musician's understanding ofit, but he would certainly appreciate the fact that she had played it tohim first of anyone.

  It would go far to heal that resentful jealousy if she "shared" theconcerto with him. He would never again feel that she was keeping himoutside the real interests of her life. Probably, later on, when it wasperformed by a big London orchestra, under the auspices of one of thebest-known conductors of the day--who happened to be a particular friendof Nan's and a staunch believer in her capacity to do good work--Rogerwould even begin to take a quaint kind of pride in her musicalachievements.

  What she purposed would involve a good deal of pluck and sacrifice. Forit takes both of these to reveal yourself, as any true musician must, toan audience of one with whom you are not utterly in sympathy. But if bythis road she and Roger took one step towards a better understanding,towards that comradeship which was all that she could ever give him, thenit would have been worth the sacrifice.

  Gradually the stony look of despair lifted from her face, and a newspirit of resolution took possession of her. She was not the only personin the world who had to suffer. There were others, Peter amongst them,who were debarred by circumstances from finding happiness, and who wenton doing their duty unflinchingly. It was only she who hadfailed--letting Roger bear the cost of her mistake. She had promised tomarry him when it seemed the only way out of the difficulties which besether, and now she was not honouring that promise. While Peter Mallory wasstill waiting quietly for the wife he no longer loved to come back tohim--keeping the door of his house open to her whenever she should chooseto claim fulfilment of the pledges he had given the day he married her.

  Nan leaned her head against the window-pane, realising that, whateverRoger's faults might he, she, too, had fallen short.

  "Our troth, Nan. Hang on to it--_hard_, when life seems a bit moreuphill than usual."

  She could hear Peter's voice, steady and clear and reassuring, almost asshe had heard it that night on the headland at Tintagel. She felt herthroat contract and a burning mist of tears blurred her vision. For amoment she fought desperately against her weakness. Then, with a littlestrangled cry, she buried her face against her arm and broke into apassion of tears.