The Moon out of Reach

by Margaret Pedler

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE OFFERING OF FIRST-FRUITS

  The concerto was finished! Finished, at least, as far as it waspossible without rehearsing the effect with orchestra, and as Nanturned over the sheets of manuscript, thickly dotted with their medleyof notes and rests and slurs, she was conscious of that glorious thrillof accomplishment which is the creative artist's recompense for longhours of work and sacrifice,--and for those black moments ofdiscouragement and self-distrust which no true artist can escape.

  She sat very quietly in the West Parlour, thinking of the concerto andof what she meant to do with it. She was longing to show it to SandyMcBain, who would have a musician's comprehension of every bar, and sheknew he would rejoice with her whole-heartedly over it. But that wouldhave to wait until after Roger had heard it. The first-fruits, as itwere, were to be offered to him.

  She had it all planned out in her mind. Roger was out hunting to-day,so that she had been able to add certain final touches to the concertouninterrupted, and after dinner she proposed to carry him off to theWest Parlour and play it to him. There would be only their two selves,alone together--for she had no intention of inviting Lady Gertrude andIsobel to attend this first performance.

  She was nervously excited at the prospect, and when she heard thedistant sound of a horseman trotting up the drive she jumped up and ranto the window, peering out into the dusk. It was Roger, and as horseand rider swung past the window she drew back suddenly into thefire-lit shadows of the room, letting the short window-curtains falltogether.

  Five minutes later she heard his footsteps as he came striding alongthe corridor on to which the West Parlour opened. Then the door-handlewas turned with imperious eagerness, someone switched on the light, andhe came in--splashed with mud, his face red from the lash of the wind,his hair beaded with moisture from the misty air. He looked just whathe was--a typical big sporting Englishman--as he tramped into the roomand made his way to the warmth of the blazing log fire.

  Nan looked up and threw him a little smile of greeting.

  "Hullo, darling, there you are!" He stooped and kissed her, and sheforced herself to sit quiet and unshrinking while his lips sought andfound her own.

  "Have you had a good day?" she asked.

  "Topping. Best run of the season. We found at once and went rightaway." And he launched out into an enthusiastic description of theday's sport.

  Nan listened patiently. She wasn't in the least interested, really,but she had been trying very hard latterly not to let Roger pay forwhat had been her own blunder--not to let him pay even in the smallthings of daily life. So she feigned an interest she was far fromfeeling and discussed the day's hunting with snatches of melody fromthe concerto running through her mind all the time.

  The man and woman offered a curious contrast as they talked; he, big,virile, muddied with his day in the saddle, an aroma of mingled dampand leather exuding from his clothes as they steamed in front of thefire--she, slim, silken-clad, delicately wrought by nature andover-finely strung by reason of the high-pitched artist's life she hadled.

  Roger himself seemed suddenly struck by the contrast.

  "By Jove!" he exclaimed, surveying her rather ruefully. "We're apretty fair example of beauty and the beast, aren't we?"

  Nan looked back at him composedly--at the strong, ugly face andfar-visioned eyes.

  "Not in the least," she replied judicially. "We're--different, that'sall. And"--smiling faintly--"you're rather grubby just at present."

  "I suppose I am." He glanced ruefully down at his mud-bespatteredcoat. "I oughtn't to have come in here like this," he added with anawkward attempt at apology. "Only I couldn't wait to see you."

  "Well, go and have your tub and a change," she said, with a small,indulgent laugh. "And by dinner time you'll have a better opinion ofyour outward man."

  It was not until after dinner that she mentioned the concerto to him,snatching an opportunity when they chanced to find themselves alone fora few minutes. Some distracted young married woman from the villagehad called to ask Lady Gertrude's advice as to how she should deal witha husband who seemed to find his chief entertainment in life in beatingher with a broomstick and in threatening to "do her in" altogether ifthe application of the broomstick proved barren of wifely improvement.Accordingly, Lady Gertrude, accompanied by her aide-de-camp, Isobel,were interviewing the poor, terrified creature with a view toameliorating her lot.

  "It's good, Roger," said Nan, when she had told him that the concertowas finished. "It's really good. And I want you to hear it first ofanyone."

  Roger smiled down at her. He was obviously pleased.

  "Of course I must hear it first," he answered. "I'm your lawful lordand master, remember."

  "Not yet?" she objected hastily.

  He threw his arm round her and pulled her into his embrace.

  "No. But very soon," he said.

  "You won't beat me, I suppose--like Mrs. Pike's husband?" she suggestedteasingly, with a gesture towards the room where Lady Gertrude andIsobel were closeted with the woman from the village.

  His arm tightened round her possessively.

  "I don't know," he said slowly. "I might--if I couldn't manage you anyother way."

  "Roger!"

  There was almost a note of fear in her quick, astonished exclamation.With his arm gripped round her she recognised how utterly powerless shewould be against his immense strength, and something flint-like andmerciless in the expression of those piercing eyes which were blazingdown at her made her feel, with a sudden catch at her heart, as thoughhe might actually do the thing he said.

  "I hope it won't come to beating you," he resumed in a lighter tone ofvoice. "But"--grimly--"not even you, when you're my wife, shall defyme with impunity."

  Nan drew herself out of his arms.

  "Well, I'm not your wife yet," she said, trying to laugh away thequeer, unexpected tensity of the moment. "Only a very hard-workingyoung woman, who has a concerto to play to you."

  He frowned a little.

  "There's no need for you to work hard. I'd rather you didn't. I wantyou just to enjoy life--have a good time--and keep your music as arelaxation."

  Her face clouded over.

  "Oh, Roger, you don't understand! I _must_ do it. I couldn't livewithout it. It fills my life."

  His expression softened. He reached out his arm again and drew herback to his side, but this time with a strange, unwonted tenderness.

  "I suppose it does," he conceded. "But some day, darling, after we'remarried, I hope there'll be something--someone--else to fill your life.And when that time comes,--why, the music will take second place."

  Nan flushed scarlet and wriggled irritably in his embrace.

  "Oh, Roger, do try to understand! As if . . . having a child . . .would make any difference. A baby's a baby, and music's music--the onecan't take the place of the other."

  Roger looked a trifle taken aback. He held old-fashioned views andrather thought that all women regarded motherhood as a duty andprivilege of existence. And, inside himself, he had never doubted thatif this great happiness were ever granted to Nan, she would lose allthose funny, unaccountable ways of hers--which alternately bewilderedand annoyed him--and turn into a nice, normal woman like ninety-nineper cent. of the other women of his somewhat limited acquaintance.

  Man has an odd trick of falling in love with the last kind of woman youwould expect him to, the very antithesis of the ideal he has previouslyformulated to himself, and then of expecting her, after matrimony,suddenly to change her whole individuality--the very individualitywhich attracted him in the first instance--and conform to hispreconceived notions of what a wife ought to he.

  It is illogical, of course, with that gloriously pig-headedillogicalness not infrequently to be found in the supposedly logicalsex, and it would be laughable were it not that it so often ends intragedy.

  So that Roger was quite genuinely dumbfounded at Nan's heterodoxpronouncement on th
e relative values of music and babies.

  A baby was not in the least an object of absorbing interest to her. Itcried out of tune and made ear-piercing noises that were not includedin even the most modern of compositions. Moreover, she was not bynature of the maternal type of woman, to whom marriage is but thebeautiful path which leads to motherhood. She was essentially one ofthe lovers of the world. Had she married her mate, she would havedemanded nothing more of life, though, if a child had been born of suchmating, it would have seemed to her so beautiful and sure a link, soblent with love itself, that her arms would have opened to receive it.

  But of all these intricacies of the feminine heart and mind Roger wassublimely ignorant. So he chided her, still with that same unwontedgentleness which the thought of fatherhood sometimes brings to men ofstrong and violent temper.

  "That's all nonsense, you know, sweetheart. And some day . . . whenthere's a small son to be thought about and planned for and loved,you'll find that what I say is true."

  "It might chance to be a small daughter," suggested Nan snubbily, andRoger's face fell a little. "So, meanwhile, as I haven't a baby and I_have_ a concerto, come along and listen to it."

  He nodded and followed her into the West Parlour. A cheerful fire wasblazing on the hearth, a big lounge chair drawn up invitingly besideit, while close at hand stood a small table with pipe, tobacco pouch,and matches lying on it in readiness.

  Roger smiled at the careful arrangement.

  "What a thoughtful child it's becoming!" he commented, taking up hispipe.

  "Well, you can listen to music much better if you're really comfy,"said Nan. "Sit down and light your pipe--there, I'll light it for youwhen you've finished squashing the 'baccy down into it."

  Roger dropped leisurely into the big chair, filled and lit his pipe,and when it was drawing well, stretched out his legs to the logs' warmglow with a sigh of contentment.

  "Now, fire away, sweetheart," he said. "I'm all attention."

  She looked across at him, feeling for the first time a little anxiousand uncertain of the success of her plan.

  "Of course, it'll sound very bald--just played on the piano," sheexplained carefully. "You'll have to try and imagine the differencethe orchestral part makes."

  Switching off the lights, so that nothing but the flickering glow ofthe fire illumined the room, she began to play.

  For half an hour she played on, lost to all thoughts of the worldaround her, wrapped in the melody and meaning of the music. Then, asthe _finale_ rushed in a torrent of golden chords to its climax and thelast note was struck, her hands fell away from the piano and she sankback on her seat with a little sigh of exhaustion and happiness.

  A pause followed. How well she remembered listening for that pausewhen she played, in public!--The brief, pulsating silence which fallswhile the thought of the audience steal back from the fairyland whitherthey have wandered and readjust themselves reluctantly to the things ofdaily life. And then, the outburst of applause.

  In silence she awaited Roger's approval, her lips just parted, her facestill alight with the joy of the creator who knows that his work isgood.

  But the words for which she was listening did not come. . . .Instead--utter silence! . . . Wondering, half apprehensive of she knewnot what, Nan twisted round on the music-seat and looked across towhere Roger was sitting. The sharp, quick intake of her breath brokethe silence as might a cry. Weary after his long day in the saddle,soothed by the warmth of the fire and the rhythm of the music, Rogerwas sleeping peacefully, his head thrown back against a cushion!

  Nan rose slowly and, coming forward into the circle of the firelight,stared down at him incredulously. It was unbelievable! She had beengiving him all the best that was in her--the work of her brain, theinterpretation of her hands--baring her very heart to him during thelast half-hour. And he had slept through it all!

  In any other circumstances, probably, the humorous side of the matterwould have struck her, and the sting and smart of it been washed awayin laughter.

  But just now it was impossible for her to feel anything but bitternessand hopeless disappointment. For weeks she had been working hard,without the fillip of congenial atmosphere, doggedly sticking to it inspite of depression and discouragement, and now that the results of herlabour were ready to be given to the world, she was strung up to a highpitch and ill-prepared to receive a sudden check.

  She had counted so intensely on winning Roger's sympathy andunderstanding--on putting an end to that blundering, terrible jealousyof his by playing the game to the limit of her ability. It had beenlike making a burnt-offering for her to share the thing she loved bestwith Roger--to let him into some of the secret places where dwelt herinmost dreams and emotions. And she had nerved herself to do it, madeher sacrifice--in vain! Roger was even unconscious that it was asacrifice!

  She looked down at him as he lay with the firelight flickering acrosshis strong-featured face, and a storm of fury and indignation sweptover her. She could have struck him!

  Presently he stirred uneasily. Perhaps he felt the cessation of themusic, the sense of someone moving in the room. A moment later heopened his eyes and saw her standing beside him.

  "You, darling?" he murmured drowsily. He stretched his arms. "Ithink . . . I've been to sleep." Then, recollection returning to him:"By Jove! And you were playing to me--"

  "Yes," she answered slowly. Her lips felt dry. "And I'll never playto you again as long as I live!"

  He smiled indulgently.

  "That's putting it rather strong, isn't it?" he said, making a long armand pulling her down on to his knee.

  She sprang up again instantly and stood a little away from him, herhands clenched, her breast heaving tumultuously.

  "Come back, small firebrand!" he commanded laughingly.

  A fresh gust of indignation, swept over her. Even now he didn'tcomprehend, didn't realise in the very least how he had wounded her.Her nails dug into the flesh of her palms as she took a fresh grip ofherself and answered him--very slowly and distinctly so that he mightnot miss her meaning.

  "It's not putting it one bit too strong. It's what I feel--that Ican't ever play to you again." She paused, then burst out impetuously:"You've always disliked my love of music! You were jealous of it. Andto-night I wanted to show you--to--to share it with you. You hated thepiano--you wanted to smash it, because you thought it came between us.And so I tried to make you understand!" Her words came rushing outheadlong now, bitter, sobbing words, holding all the agony of mindwhich she had been enduring for so long.

  "You've no idea what music means to me--and you've not tried to findout. Instead, you've laughed indulgently about it, been impatient overit, and behaved as though it were some child's toy of which you didn'tquite approve." Her voice shook. "And it isn't! It's _part_ ofme--part of the woman you want to marry . . ."

  She broke off, a little breathlessly.

  Roger was on his feet now and there was a deep, smouldering anger inhis eyes as he regarded her.

  "And is all this outburst because I fell asleep while you wereplaying?" he asked curtly.

  She was silent, battling with the emotion that was shaking her.

  "Because"--he went on with a tinge of contempt in his voice--"if so,it's a ridiculous storm in a tea-cup."

  "'Ridiculous'! . . . Yes, that's all it would be to you," she answeredbitterly. "But to me it's just like a light flashed on our future lifetogether. We're miles apart--miles! We haven't a thought, an idea, incommon. And when it comes to music--to the one big thing in mylife--you brush it aside as if it could be taken up or put down like achild's musical box!"

  Roger looked at her. Something of her passionate pain and resentmentwas becoming clear to him.

  "I didn't know it meant as much to you as that," he said slowly.

  "It's everything to me now!" she burst out wildly. "The only thing Ihave left--left of my world as I knew it."

  His face whitened, and a curious, stra
ined brilliance came into hiseyes. She had touched him an the raw, roused his mad jealousy of allthat had been in her life of which, he had had no share.

  "The only thing you have left?" he repeated, with a slow, dangerousinflection in his voice. "Do you mean that?"

  "Yes!"--smiting her hands together. "Can't you see it? There's . . ._nothing_ . . . here for me. Are we companions, you and I? We'reabsolute strangers! We don't think, or feel, or move in the sameworld."

  "No?"

  Just the brief monosyllable, spoken as coolly as though she hadremarked that she didn't like the colour of his tie. She looked up,bewildered, and met his gaze. His eyes frightened her. They wereablaze, remorseless as the eyes of a bird of prey. A sudden terror ofhim overwhelmed her.

  "Roger!" she cried. "We can't marry! Let me go--release me from mypromise! Oh!"--breaking down all at once--"I can't bear it! I can'tmarry you! Let me go--oh, please let me go!"

  There was a pause--a pause during which Nan could feel her heartleaping in her body like some terrified captive thing. Then, Rogermade a movement. Instinctively she knew it was towards her and flungout her arms to ward him off. But she might as well have opposed himwith two straws. He caught both wrists in one of his big hands andbent her arms downwards, drawing her close to him till she layunwillingly against his breast, held there in a grasp like iron.

  "Will I release you?" he said savagely. "No, I will _not_! Neithernow, nor at any future time. You're _mine_! Do you understand whatthat means? It means if you'd one day left to live, it would be _my_day--one night, _mine_! And I swear to you if any man takes you fromme I'll kill him first and you after. _Now_ do you understand?"

  She tried to speak, but her voice failed her. It was as though he hadpronounced sentence on her--a life sentence! She could never get awayfrom him--never, never! A shudder ran through her whole body. He feltit, and it stung him to fresh anger. Her head was pressed into hisshoulder as though for shelter.

  "Look up!" he demanded imperiously. "Don't hide your face. It's mine.And I want to see it!"

  Reluctantly, compelled by his voice, she lifted a white, tortured faceto his. Then, meeting his eyes, savagely alight with the fire ofconquest, she turned her head quickly aside. But it was useless. Shewas powerless in the vice-like grip of his arms, and the next moment hewas kissing her, eyes and mouth and pulsing throat, with terrible,burning kisses that seemed to sear their way through her whole body,branding her indelibly his.

  It was useless to struggle. She hung nervelessly in his strainingarms, mute and helpless to withstand him, while his passion swept overher like a tidal wave, submerging her utterly.

  When at last he set her free she swayed unsteadily, catching at thetable for support. Her knees seemed to be giving way under her. Shewas voiceless, breathless from his violence. The tide had receded,leaving her utterly spent and exhausted.

  He regarded her in silence for a moment.

  "I don't think you'll ask me to release you from your engagementagain," he said slowly.

  "No," she whispered tonelessly. "No."

  She tottered almost as though she were going to fall. With a sort ofrough kindliness he put out his hand to steady her, but she shrank fromhim like a beaten child.

  "Don't do that!" he exclaimed unevenly. Adding: "I've frightened you,I suppose?"

  She bent her head.

  "Well"--sulkily--"it was your own fault. You roused the wild beast inme." Then, with a queer, half-shamed laugh, he added: "There's Spanishblood in the Trenbys, you know--as there is in many of the Cornishfolk."

  Nan supposed this avowal was intended as an apology, or at least as anexplanation of sorts. It was rather appealing in its boyishclumsiness, but she felt too numb, too utterly weary, to respond to it.

  "You're tired," he said abruptly. "You'd better go to bed." He put ahand beneath her arm, but she shrank away from him with a fresh spasmof terror.

  "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to kiss you again." He spokereassuringly. "Come, let me help you. You can hardly stand."

  Once more he took her arm, and, too stunned to offer any resistance,she allowed him to lead her from the room.

  "Will you be all right, now?" he asked anxiously, as they paused at thefoot of the staircase.

  She gripped the banister.

  "Yes," she answered mechanically. "I shall be all right."

  He remained at the bottom of the stairs, watching until her slightfigure had disappeared round the bend of the stairway.