CHAPTER XXX
SEEKING TO FORGET
"And this is my holiday!" exclaimed Maryon, standing back from hiseasel the better to view the effect of his work. "Nan, you've a lot toanswer for."
Another fortnight had gone by, and the long hours passed is themusic-room, which had been temporarily converted into a studio, werebeginning to show fruit in the shape of a nearly completed portrait.
Nan slipped down from the makeshift "throne."
"May I come and look?"
Rooke moved aside.
"Yes, if you like. I've been working at the face to-day."
She regarded the picture for some time in silence, Rooke watching herintently the while.
"Well?" he said at last, interrogatively.
"Maryon"--she spoke slowly--"do I really look like--that?"
He nodded.
"Yes," he replied quietly. "When you let yourself go--when you takeoff the meaningless mask I complained of."
With that uncanny discernment of his--that faculty for paintingpeople's souls, as Nan described it--he had sensed the passionate,wistful, unhappy spirit which looked out from her eyes, and the face onthe canvas gave back a dumb appeal that was almost painfully arresting.
Nan frowned.
"You'd no right to do it," she exclaimed a little breathlessly.
"I painted what I saw."
She was silent, tremulously disturbed. He could see the quick rise andfall of her breast beneath the filmy white of her gown.
"Nan," he went on in low, tense tones. "Did you think I could be withyou, day after day like this, and not--find out? Could I have paintedyour face, loving each line of it, and not learned the truth?" Shestretched out her hand as though to check him, but he paid no heed."The truth that Roger is nothing to you--never will be!"
"He's the man I'm going to marry," she said unevenly.
"And I'm only the man who loves you! . . . But because I failed once,putting love second, must I be punished eternally? I'm ready to put itfirst now--to lay all I have and all I've done on its altar."
"What--what do you mean?" she stammered.
He put his hands lightly on her shoulders and drew her nearer to him.
"Is it hard to guess, Nan? . . . I want you to leave this life youhate and come with me. Let me take you away--right away from itall--and, somewhere we'll find happiness together."
She stared at him with wide, horrified eyes.
"Oh, you're mad--you're mad!"
With a struggle she freed herself from his grasp and stood away fromhim.
"Listen," she said. "Listen to me and then you'll understand whatyou're asking. I'm not happy--that's true. But it's my own fault, notRoger's. I ought never to have given him my promise. There wassomeone else--"
"Mallory!" broke in Rooke.
"Yes--Peter. It's quite simple. We met too late. But I learned thenwhat love means. Once I asked him--I _begged_ him--to take me awaywith him. And he wouldn't. I'd have gone to the ends of the earthwith him. I'd go to-morrow if he'd take me! But he won't. And henever will." She paused, panting a little. "And now," she went on,with a hard laugh, "I don't think you'll ask me again to go away withyou!"
"Yes, I shall. Mallory may be able to live at such high altitudes thathe can throw over his life's happiness--and yours, too--for a scruple.I can't--and I don't want to. I love you, and I'm selfish enough to beready to take you any minute that you'll come."
Throwing one arm about her shoulders, he turned her face up to his.
"Don't you understand?" he went on hoarsely. "I'm flesh and blood man,and you're the woman I love."
The hazel eyes blazed with a curious light, like flame, and sheshivered a little, fighting the man's personality--battling againstthat strange kinship of temperament by which he always drew her.
"I can wait," he said, quietly releasing her. "You can't go on long asyou're living now; the tension's too high. And when you're throughwith it--come to me, Nan! I'd at least make you happier than Trenbyever will."
Without reply she moved towards the door and he stood aside, allowingher to pass out of the room in silence.
In the hall she encountered Roger, who had ridden over, accompanied bya trio of dogs, and the sight of his big, tweed-clad figure, so solidlysuggestive of normal, everyday things, filled her with an unexpectedsense of relief. He might not be the man she loved, but he was, at anyrate, a sheet-anchor in the midst of the emotional storms that wereblowing up around her.
To-day, however, his face wore a clouded, sullen expression when hegreeted her.
"What have you been doing with yourself?" he asked, his eyes fasteningsuspiciously on her flushed cheeks.
She answered him with a poor attempt at her usual nonchalance.
"Oh, Maryon came over this morning, so I've been sitting to him."
"All day? I don't like it too well." The look of displeasure deepenedon his face. "People will talk. You know what country folks are like."
Nan's eyes flashed.
"Let them talk! I'm not going to regulate my conduct according to thevillagers' standard of propriety," she replied indignantly.
"It isn't merely the villagers," pursued Roger. "Isobel said, onlyyesterday, she thought it was rather indiscreet."
"Isobel!" interrupted Nan scornfully. "It would be better if she kepther thoughts for home consumption. The neighbourhood might conceivablycomment on the number of times you and she go 'farming' together."
Roger looked quickly at her, a half-smile on his lips.
"Why, Nan!" he said, a note of surprise, almost of satisfaction, in hisvoice. "I believe you're growing jealous?"
She laughed contemptuously. She was intensely angry that he shouldhave quoted Isobel's opinion to her, and she struck back as hard as shecould.
"My dear Roger, surely by this time it must be clear to you that I'mnot very likely to be afflicted by--jealousy!"
The shaft went home, and in an instant the dawning smile on his facewas replaced by an expression of bitter resentment.
"No, I suppose not," he returned sullenly.
He stared down at her, and something in the indifferent pose of herslim figure made him realise afresh for how little--how pitifullylittle--he counted in this woman's life.
He gripped her shoulder in sudden anger.
"But _I_ am jealous!"--vehemently. "Do you hear, Nan? Jealous of yourreputation and your time--the time you give to Rooke."
She shrank away from him, and the movement seemed to rouse him to awhite heat of fury. Instead of releasing her, he pulled her closer tohim.
"Don't shrink like that!" he exclaimed savagely. "By God! Do youthink I'll stand being treated as though I were a leper? You avoid meall you can--detest the sight of me, I suppose! But remember onething--you're going to be my wife. Nothing can alter that, and youbelong--to--me"--emphasising each word separately. "You mayn't give meyour smiles--but I'm damned if you shall give them to any other man."
He thrust his face, distorted with anger, close to hers.
"_Now_ do you understand?"
She struggled in his grasp like a frightened bird, her eyes dilatingwith terror. She knew, only too well, what this big primitive-souledman could be like when the devil in him was roused, and his white,furious face and blazing eyes filled her with panic.
"Roger! Let me go!" she cried, her voice quick with fear. "Let me go!You're hurting me!"
"Hurting you?" With an effort he mastered himself, slackening hisgrasp a little, but still holding her. "Hurting you? I wonder if yourealise what a woman like you can do to a man? When I first met you Iwas just an ordinary decent man, and I loved and trusted youimplicitly. But now, sometimes, I almost feel that I could killyou--to make sure of you!"
"But why should you distrust me? It's Isobel--Isobel Carson who's putthese ideas into your head."
"Perhaps she's opened my eyes," he said grimly. "They've been shut toolong."
"You've no right to distrust me--
"
"Haven't I, Nan, haven't I?" He held her a little away from him andsearched her face. "Answer me! Have I no right to doubt you?"
His big chest heaved under the soft fabric of his shirt as he stoodlooking down at her, waiting for her answer.
She would have given the world to be able to answer him with a simple"No." But her lips refused to shape the word. There was so much thatlay between them, so much that was complicated and difficult tointerpret.
Slowly her eyes fell before his.
"I utterly decline to answer such a question," she replied at last."It's an insult."
His hands fell from her shoulders.
"I think I'm answered," he said curtly, and, turning on his heel, hestrode away, leaving Nan shaken and dismayed.
As far as Maryon was concerned, he refrained from making any allusionto what had taken place that day in the music-room, and gradually thesense of shocked dismay with which his proposal had filled Nan at thetime, grew blurred and faded, skilfully obliterated by his unfailingtact. But the remembrance of it lingered, tucked away in a corner ofher mind, offering a terrible solution of her difficulties.
He still demanded from her a large part of each day, on the plea thatmuch yet remained to be done to the portrait, while Roger, into whoseears Isobel continued to drop small poisoned hints, becamecorrespondingly more difficult and moody. The tension of the situationwas only relieved by the comings and goings of Sandy McBain and theenforced cheerfulness assumed by the members of the Mallow household.
Neither Penelope nor Kitty sensed the imminence of any real danger.But Sandy, in whose memory the recollection of the winter's happeningswas still alive and vivid, felt disturbed and not a little anxious.Nan's moods were an open book to him, and just now they were not verypleasant reading.
"What about the concerto?" he asked her one day. "Aren't you going todo anything with it?"
"Do anything with it?" she repeated vaguely.
"Yes, of course. Get it published--push it! You didn't write it justfor fun, I suppose?"
A faintly mocking smile upturned the corners of her mouth.
"I think Roger considers I wrote it expressly to annoy him," shesubmitted.
"Rot!" he replied succinctly. "Just because he's not a trainedmusician you appear to imagine he's devoid of ordinary appreciation."
"He is," she returned. "He hates my music. Yes, he does"--as Sandyseemed about to protest. "He hates it!"
"Look here, Nan"--he became suddenly serious--"you're not playing fairwith Trenby. He's quite a good sort, but because he isn't ascatter-brained artist like yourself, you're giving him a rotten time."
From the days when they had first known each other Sandy had taken itupon himself at appropriate seasons to lecture Nan upon the error ofher ways, and it never occurred to her, even now, to resent it.Instead, she answered him with unwonted meekness.
"I can't help it. Roger and I never see things in the same light,and--and oh, Sandy, you might try to understand!" she ended appealingly.
"I think I do," he returned. "But it isn't cricket, Nan. You can kickme out of the house if you like for saying it, but I don't think youought to have Maryon Rooke around so much."
She flushed hotly.
"He's painting my portrait," she protested.
"Taking a jolly long time over it, too--and making love to you in theintervals, I suppose."
"Sandy!"
"Well, isn't he?" Sandy's green eyes met hers unflinchingly.
"Anyway, _I'm_ not in love with _him_."
"I should hope not," he observed drily, "seeing that you're going to beMrs. Trenby."
She gave an odd little laugh.
"That wouldn't make an insuperable barrier, would it? I don'tsuppose--love--notices whether we're married or single when it comesalong."
Something in the quality of her voice filled him with a sudden sense offear. Hitherto he had attributed the trouble between Nan and Rogerentirely to the difference in their temperaments. Now, for the firsttime, a new light was flashed upon the matter. Her tone was so sharplybitter, like that of one chafing against some actual happening, thathis mind leaped to the possibility that there might be some moretangible force arrayed against Roger's happiness. And if this were thecase, if Nan's love were really given elsewhere, then, knowing her ashe did, Sandy foresaw the likelihood of some rash and headlong endingto it all.
He was silent, pondering this aspect of the matter. She watched himcuriously for a few moments, then, driven, by one of those strangeimpulses which sometimes fling down all the barriers of reserve, shebroke into rapid speech.
"You needn't grudge me Maryon's friendship! I've lost everything inthe world worth having--everything real, I mean. Sometimes I feel asthough I can't bear it any longer! And Maryon interests me . . . he'sa sort of mental relation. . . . When I'm with him I can forget evenPeter for a little. . . ."
She broke off, pacing restlessly backwards and forwards, her handsinterlocked, her face set in a white mask of tragedy. All at once shecame to a standstill in front of Sandy and remained staring at him withan odd kind of surprise in her eyes.
"What on earth have I been talking about?" she exclaimed, passing herhand across her forehead and peering at him questioningly. "Sandy,have you been listening? You shouldn't listen to what other people arethinking. It's rude, you know." She laughed a little hysterically."You must just forget it all, Sandy boy."
Sandy had been listening with a species of horror to the suddenoutpouring. He felt as though he had overheard the crying of a soulwhich has reached the furthest limit of its endurance. In Nan'sdisjointed, broken sentences had been revealed the whole piteous truth,and in those two short words, "_Even Peter_!" lay the key to all he hadfound so difficult to understand. It was Peter Mallory she loved--notRoger, nor Maryon Rooke!
He had once met Mallory and had admired the man enormously. Themeeting had occurred during the summer preceding that which hadwitnessed Nan's engagement to Roger. Peter had been paying a flyingweek-end visit to the Seymours, and Sandy had taken a boy's instinctiveliking to the brilliant writer who never "swanked," as the lad put it,but who understood so well the bitter disappointment of which DuncanMcBain's uncompromising attitude towards music had been the cause. Andthis was the man Nan loved and who loved her!
With instinctive tact, Sandy refrained from any comment on Nan'soutburst. Instead, he pushed her gently into a chair, talking thewhile, so that she might have time to recover herself a little.
"I tell you what it is, Nan," he said with rough kindness. "You'veoverdone it a bit working at that concerto, and instead of givingyourself a holiday, you've been tiring yourself still more by sittingfor your portrait. You may find Rooke mentally refreshing if you like,but posing for him hour after hour is a confounded strain, physically.Now, you take your good Uncle Sandy's advice and let the portrait slidefor a bit. You might occupy yourself by making arrangements for theproduction of the concerto."
"I don't feel any interest in it," she said slowly. "It's funny, isn'tit, Sandy? I was so keen about it when I was writing it. And now Ithink it's rotten."
"It isn't," said Sandy. "It's good stuff, Nan. Anyone would tell youso."
"Do you think so?" she replied, without enthusiasm.
He regarded her with an expression of anxiety.
"Oh, you mustn't drop the concerto," he protested. "That's always beenyour trick, Nan, to go so far and no further."
"It's a very good rule to follow--in some things," she repliedenigmatically.
"Well, look here, will you hand the manuscript over to me and let meshow it to someone?"
"No, I won't," she said with decision. "I hate the concerto now. Ithas--it has unpleasant associations. Let it rest in oblivion."
He shrugged his shoulders in despair.
"You're the most aggravating woman I know," he remarked irritably.
In an instant Nan was her own engaging self once more. It wasinstinctive with her to try and c
harm away an atmosphere of disapproval.
"Don't say that, Sandy," she replied, making a beseeching little_moue_. "You know it would be awfully boring if I always did justexactly what you were expecting me to do. It's better to beaggravating than--dull!"
Sandy smiled. Nan was always quite able to make her peace with himwhen she chose to.
"Well, no one can complain that you're dull," he acknowledged.
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