Margaret Pedler - The Moon out of Reach

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At last from somewhere below came the sound of running water, and Nan
bent her steps hopefully in its direction. A few minutes' further
walking brought her to the head of a deep-bosomed coombe, and the mere
sight of it was almost reward enough for the difficulties of the
journey. A verdant cleft, it slanted down between the hills, the trees
on either side giving slow, reluctant place to big boulders,
moss-bestrewn and grey, while athwart the tall brown trunks which
crowned it, golden spears, sped by the westering sun, tremulously
pierced the summer dusts.

Nan made her way down the coombe's steep side with feet that slipped
and slid on the wet, shelving banks of mossy grass. But at length she
reached the level of the water and here her progress became more sure.
Further on, she knew, must be the footbridge which Barry had
described--probably beyond the sharp curve which lay just ahead of her.
She rounded the bend, then stopped abruptly, startled at seeing the
figure of a man standing by the bank of the river. He had his back
towards her and seemed engrossed in his thoughts. Almost instantly,
however, as though subconsciously aware of her approach, he turned.

Nan stood quite still as he came towards her, limping a little. She
felt that if she moved she must surely stumble and fall. The beating
of her heart thundered in her ears and for a moment the river, and the
steep sides of the coombe, and the figure of Peter Mallory himself all
seemed to grow dim and vague as though seen through a thick mist.

"Nan!"

The dear, familiar voice, with an ineffable tenderness in its slow
drawl, reached her even through the thrumming beat of her heart.

"Peter--oh, Peter--"

Her voice failed her, and the next moment they were shaking hands
conventionally just as though they were two quite ordinary people with
whom love had nothing to do.

"I didn't know you were coming to-day," she said, making a fierce
effort to regain composure.

"I wired Kitty on the train. Hasn't she had the telegram?"

"Yes, I expect so. Only I've been out all afternoon, so knew nothing
about it. And now I've lost my way!"

"Lost your way?"

"Yes. I expected to find a footbridge round the corner."

"It's round the next one. I sent the car on with my kit, and thought
I'd walk up from the station. So we're both making for the same
bridge. It's only about two minutes' walk from here."

They strolled on side by side, Peter rather silent, and each of them
vibrantly conscious of the other's nearness. Suddenly Mallory pulled
up and a quick exclamation broke from him as he pointed ahead.

"We're done! The bridge is gone!"

Nan's eyes followed the direction of his hand. Here the river ran more
swiftly, and swollen by last nights storm of wind and rain, it had
swept away the frail old footbridge which spanned it. Only a few
decayed sticks and rotten wooden stumps remained of what had once been
known as the Lovers' Bridge--the trysting place of who shall say how
many lovers in the days of its wooden prime?

Somehow a tinge of melancholy seemed to hang about the few scraps of
wreckage. How many times the little bridge must have tempted men and
maidens to linger of a summer evening, dreaming the big dreams of
youth--visions which the spreading wings of Time bear away into the
Land of Lost Desires. Perhaps some kind hand garners them--those
tender, wonderful, courageous dreams of our wise youth and keeps them
safely for us against the Day of Reckoning, so that they may weight the
scales a little in our favour.

Peter stood looking down at the scattered fragments of the bridge with
an odd kind of gravity in his eyes. It seemed a piece of trenchant
symbolism that the Lovers' Bridge should break when he and Nan essayed
to cross it. There was a slight, whimsical smile, which held something
of pain, on his lips when he turned to her again.

"I shall have to carry you across," he said.

She shook her head.

"No, thanks. You might drop me. I can wade over."

"It's too deep for you to do that. I won't let you drop."

But Nan still hesitated. She was caught by sudden panic. She felt
that she couldn't let Peter--Peter, of all men in the world--carry her
in his arms!

"It isn't so deep higher up, is it?" she suggested. "I could wade
there."

"No, it's not so deep, but the river bed is very stony. You'd cut your
feet to pieces."

"Then I suppose you'll have to carry me," she agreed at last, with
obvious reluctance.

"I promise I won't drop you," he assured her quietly.

He gathered her up into his arms, and as he lifted her the rough tweed
of his coat brushed her cheek. Then, holding her very carefully, he
stepped down from the bank into the stream and began to make his way
across.

Nan had no fear that he might let her fall. The arms that held her
felt pliant and strong as steel, and their clasp about her filled her
with a strange, new ecstasy that thrilled her from head to foot. It
frightened her.

"Am I awfully heavy?" she asked, nervously anxious to introduce some
element of commonplace.

And Peter, looking down at the delicately angled face which lay against
his shoulder, drew his breath hard.

"No," he answered briefly. "You're not heavy."

There was that in his gaze which brought the warm colour into her face.
Her lids fell swiftly, veiling her eyes, and she turned her face
quickly towards his shoulder. All that remained visible was the edge
of the little turban hat she wore and, below this, a dusky sweep of
hair against her white skin.

He went on in silence, conscious in every fibre of his being of the
supple body gathered so close against his own, of the young, sweet,
clean-cut curve of her cheek, and of the warmth of her hair against his
shoulder. He jerked his head aside, his mouth set grimly, and crossed
quickly to the other bank of the river.

As he let her slip to the ground, steadying her with his arms about
her, he bent swiftly and for an instant his lips just brushed her hair.
Nan scarcely felt the touch of his kiss, it fell so lightly, but she
sensed it through every nerve of her. Standing in the twilight, shaken
and clutching wildly after her self-control, she knew that if he
touched her again or took her in his arms, she would yield
helplessly--gladly!

Peter knew it, too, knew that the merest thread of courage and
self-respect kept them apart. His arms strained at his sides. Forcing
his voice to an impersonal, level tone, he said practically:

"It's getting late. Come on, little pal, we must make up time, or
they'll be sending out a search party for us from Mallow."

It was late in the evening before Nan and Peter found themselves alone
together again. Everyone was standing about in the big hall exchanging
good nights and last snippets of talk before taking their several ways
to bed. Peter drew Nan a little to one side.

"Nan, is it true that you're engaged to Trenby?" he asked.

"Quite true." She had to force the answer to her lips. Mallory's face
was rather stern.

"Why didn't you tell me this afternoon?"

"I--I couldn't, Peter," she said, under her breath. "I couldn't."

His face still wore that white, unsmiling look. But he drew Nan's
shaking hands between his own and held them very gently as he put his
next question.

"You don't care for him." It was more an assertion, than a question,
though it demanded a reply.

"No."

His grasp of her hands tightened.

"Then, for God's sake, don't make the same hash of your life as I made
of mine. Believe me, Nan"--his voice roughened--"it's far worse to be
married to someone you don't love than to remain unmarried all your
days."

CHAPTER XIV

RELATIONS-IN-LAW

"I am very glad to meet you, my dear."

The frosty voice entirely failed to confirm the sense of the words as
Lady Gertrude Trenby bent forward and imprinted a somewhat chilly kiss
on Nan's cheek.

She was a tall woman, thin and aristocratic-looking, with a repressive
manner that inspired her domestic staff with awe and her acquaintances
with a nervous anxiety to placate her.

Nan shrank sensitively, and glanced upward to see if there were
anything in her future mother-in-law's face which might serve to
contradict the coldness of her greeting. But there was nothing. It
was a stern, aquiline type of face, with a thin-lipped mouth and hard,
obstinate chin, and the iron-grey hair, dressed in a high, stiff
fashion, which suggested that no single hair would ever be allowed to
stray from its lawful place, seemed to emphasise its severity.

The chilly welcome, then, was intentional--not the result of shyness or
a natural awkwardness with strangers. Lady Gertrude was perfectly
composed, and Nan felt an inward conviction that the news of Roger's
engagement had not met with her approval. Perhaps she resented the
idea of relinquishing the reins of government at Trenby Hall in favour
of a daughter-in-law. It was quite possible, few mothers of sons who
have retained their bachelorhood as long as Roger enjoy being relegated
to the position of dowager. They have reigned too long to relish
abdication.

As Nan replied conventionally to Lady Gertrude's greeting, some such
thoughts as these flashed fugitively through her mind, and with them
came a rather tender, girlish determination, to make the transition as
easy as possible to the elder woman when the time came for it. The
situation made a quick appeal to her eager sympathies. She could
imagine so exactly how she herself would detest it if she were in the
other woman's position. Somewhat absorbed in this line of thought, she
followed her hostess into a stiff and formal-looking drawing-room which
conveyed the same sense of frigidity as Lady Gertrude's welcome.

There are some rooms you seem to know and love almost the moment you
enter them, while with others you feel that you will never get on terms
of friendliness. Nan suddenly longed for the dear, comfortable
intimacy of the panelled hall at Mallow, with its masses of freshly-cut
flowers making a riot of colour against the dark oak background, its
Persian rugs dimmed to a mellow richness by the passage of time, and
the sweet, "homey" atmosphere of it all.

Behind her back she made a desperate little gesture to Roger that he
should follow her, but he shook his head laughingly and went off in
another direction, thinking in his unsubtle mind that this was just the
occasion for his mother and his future wife to get well acquainted.

He felt sure that Nan's charm would soon overcome the various
objections which Lady Gertrude had raised to the engagement when he had
first confided his news to her. She had not minced matters.

"But, my dear Roger, from all I've heard, Nan Davenant is a most
unsuitable woman to be your wife. For one thing, she is, I believe, a
professional pianist." The thin lips seemed to grow still thinner as
they propounded the indictment.

Most people, nowadays, would have laughed outright, but Roger, being
altogether out of touch with the modern attitude towards such matters,
regarded his mother's objection as quite a normal and reasonable one.
It must be overcome in this particular instance, that was all.

"But, of course, Nan will give up everything of that kind when she's my
wife," he asserted confidently. And quite believed it, since he had a
touching faith in the idea that a woman can be "moulded" by her husband.

"Roger has rather taken me by surprise with the news of his
engagement," said Lady Gertrude, after she and Nan had exchanged a few
laboured platitudes. "Do you think you will be happy with him? We
live a very simple country existence here, you know."

To Nan, the use of the word "we" sounded rather as though she were
proposing to marry the family.

"Oh, I like country life very much," she replied. "After all, you can
always vary the monotony by running up to town or going abroad, can't
you?"

"I don't think Roger cares much for travelling about. He is extremely
attached to his home. We have always made everything so easy and
comfortable for him here, you see," responded Lady Gertrude, with a
certain significance.

Nan surmised she was intended to gather that it would be her duty to
make everything "so easy and comfortable" for him in the future! She
almost smiled. Most of the married men she knew were kept busy seeing
that everything was made easy and comfortable for their wives.

"Still," continued Lady Gertrude, "there could be no objection to your
making an occasional trip to London."

She had a dry, decisive method of speech which gave one the impression
she was well accustomed to laying down the law--and that her laws were
expected to remain unbroken. The "occasional trip to London" sounded
bleakly in Nan's ears. Still, she argued, Lady Gertrude would only be
her mother-in-law--and she was sure she could "manage" Roger. There is
a somewhat pathetic element in the way in which so many people
light-heartedly enter into marriage, the man confident in his ability
to "mould" his wife, the woman never doubting her power to "manage"
him. It all seems quite simple during the adaptable period of
engagement, when romance spreads a veil of glamour over the two people
concerned, effectually concealing for the time being the wide gulf of
temperament that lies between them. It is only after the knot has been
tied that the unlooked-for difficulties of managing and moulding
present themselves.

Nan found it increasingly difficult to sustain her side of the
conversation with Lady Gertrude. The latter's old-fashioned views
clashed violently with her own modern ones, and there seemed to be no
mutual ground upon which they could meet. Like her son, Lady Gertrude
clung blindly to the narrow outlook of a bygone period, and her ideas
of matrimony were based strictly upon the English Marriage Service.

She had not realised that the Great War had created a different world
from the one she had always known, and that women had earned their
freedom as individuals by sharing the burden of the war side by side
with men. Nor had Roger infused any fresh ideas into her mind on his
return from serving in the Army. He had volunteered immediately war
broke out, his sense of duty and loyalty to his country being as sturdy
as his affection for every foot of her good brown earth he had
inherited. But he was not an impressionable man, and when peace
finally permitted him to return to his ancestral acres, he settled down
again quite happily into the old routine at Trenby Hall.

So it was hardly surprising that Lady Gertrude had remained unchanged,
expecting and requiring that the world should still run smoothly
on--without even a side-slip!--in the same familiar groove as that to
which she had always been accustomed. This being so, it was quite
clear to her that Nan would require a considerable amount of tutelage
before she was fit to be Roger's wife. And she was equally prepared to
give it.

In some inexplicable manner her attitude of mind conveyed itself to
Nan, and the latter was rebelliously conscious of the older woman's
efforts to dominate her. It came as an inexpressible relief when at
last their tete-a-tete was interrupted.

Through the closed door Nan could hear Roger's voice. He was evidently
engaged in cheerful conversation with someone in the hall outside--a
woman, from the light trill of laughter which came in response to some
remark of his--and a moment later the door opened and Nan could see his
head and shoulders towering above those of the woman who preceded him
into the room.

"Isobel, my dear!"

For the first time since the beginning of their interview Nan heard
Lady Gertrude's voice soften to a more human note. Turning to Nan she
continued, still in the same affectionate tone of voice:

"This is my niece, Isobel Carson--though she is really more like a
daughter to me."

"So it looks as though we shall be sisters!" put in the newcomer
lightly. "Really"--with a quick, bird-like glance, that included
everyone in the room--"our relationships will get rather mixed up,
won't they?"

She held out a rather claw-like little hand for Nan to shake, and the
unexpectedly tense and energetic grip of it was somewhat surprising.
She was a small, dark creature with bright, restless brown eyes set in
a somewhat sallow face--its sallowness the result of several
husband-hunting years spent in India, where her father had held a post
in the Indian Civil Service.

It was one of those rather incomprehensible happenings of life that she
had been left still blooming on her virgin stem. It would have been
difficult to guess her exact age. She owned to thirty-four, and a
decade ago, when she had first joined her father in India, she must
have possessed a certain elfish prettiness of her own. Now, thanks to
those years spent under a tropical sun, she was a trifle faded and
passee-looking.

Following upon the advent of Roger and his cousin the conversation
became general for a few minutes, then Lady Gertrude drew her son
towards a French window opening on to the garden--a garden immaculately
laid out, with flower-beds breaking the expanse of lawn at just the
correct intervals--and eventually she and Roger passed out of the room
to discuss with immense seriousness the shortcomings of the gardener as
exemplified in the shape of one of the geranium beds.

"_You_ won't like it here!" observed Isobel Carson rather bluntly, when
the two girls were left alone.

"Why shouldn't I?" Nan smiled.

"Because you won't fit in at all. You'll be like a rocket battering
about in the middle of a set piece."

Isobel lacked neither brains nor observation, though she had been wise
enough to conceal both these facts from Lady Gertrude.

"Don't you like it here, then?"

Isobel regarded her thoughtfully, as though speculating how far she
dared be frank.

"Of course I like it. But it's Hobson's choice with me," she replied
rather grimly. "When my father died I was left with very little money
and no special training. Result--I spent a hateful year as nursery
governess to a couple of detestable brats. Then Aunt Gertrude invited
me here on a visit--and that visit has prolonged itself up till the
present moment. She finds me very useful, you know," she added
cynically.

"Yes, I suppose she does," answered Nan, with some embarrassment. She
felt no particular desire to hear a resume of Miss Carson's past life.
There was something in the girl which repelled her.

As though she sensed the other's distaste to the trend the conversation
had taken, Miss Carson switched briskly off to something else, and by
the time Lady Gertrude returned with Roger, suggesting that they should
go in to lunch, Nan had forgotten that odd feeling of repulsion which
Isobel had first aroused in her, and had come to regard her as "quite a
nice little thing who had had rather a rotten time."

This was the impression Lady Gertrude's niece contrived to make on most
people. It suited her very well and secured her many gifts and
pleasures which would not otherwise have come her way. She had
accepted her aunt's invitation to stay at Trenby Hall rather guardedly
in the first instance, but when, as the visit drew towards its end,
Lady Gertrude had proposed that she should make her home there
altogether, she had jumped at the offer.

She speedily discovered that she and Trenby had many tastes in common,
and with the sharp instinct of a woman who has tried hard to achieve a
successful marriage and failed, there appeared to her no reason why in
this instance "something should not come of it"--to use the
time-honoured phrase which so delicately conveys so much. And but for
the fact that Nan Davenant was staying at Mallow, something might have
come of it! Since community of tastes is responsible for many a happy
and contented marriage.

Throughout the time she had lived at Trenby Hall, Isobel had contrived
to make herself almost indispensable to Roger. If a "damned button"
flew off his coat, she was always at hand with needle and thread, and a
quaint carved ivory thimble crowning one small finger, to sew it on
again. Or should his dress tie decline to adorn his collar in
precisely the proper manner, those nimble, claw-like little fingers
could always produce a well-tied bow in next to no time. It was Isobel
who found all the things which, manlike, he so constantly mislaid, who
tramped over the fields with him, interesting herself in all the
outdoor side of his life, and she was almost as good at landing a trout
as he himself.

There seemed small likelihood of Roger's going far afield in search of
a wife, so that Isobel had not apprehended much danger to her
hopes--more especially as she had a shrewd idea that Lady Gertrude
would look upon the marriage with the selfish approval of a woman who
gains a daughter without losing the services of a niece who is "used to
her ways."

Such a union need not even upset existing arrangements. Isobel had
learned by long experience how to "get on" amicably with her autocratic
relative, and the latter could remain--as her niece knew very well she
would wish to remain at Trenby Hall, still nominally its chatelaine.

Lady Gertrude and Isobel had never been frequent visitors at Mallow,
and it had so happened that neither they, nor Roger on the rare
occasions when he was home on leave from the Front, had chanced to meet
Nan Davenant during her former visits to Mallow Court.

Now that she had seen her, Isobel's ideas were altogether bouleversee.
Never for a single instant would she have imagined that a woman of
Nan's type--artistic, emotional, elusive--could attract a man like
Roger Trenby. The fact remained, however, that Nan had succeeded where
hitherto she herself had failed, and Isobel's dreams of a secure future
had come tumbling about her ears. She realised bitterly that love is
like quicksilver, running this way or that at its own sweet will--and
rarely into the channel we have ordained for it.

CHAPTER XV

KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE

The first person whom Nan encountered on her return from Trenby Hall
was Mrs. Seymour. The latter's eyebrows lifted quizzically.

"Well?" she asked. "How did it go?"

"It didn't 'go' at all!" answered Nan. "I was enveloped in an
atmosphere of severe disapproval. In fact, I think Lady Gertrude
considers I require quite a long course of training before I'm fitted
to be Roger's wife."

"Nonsense!" Kitty smiled broadly.

"Seriously"--nodding. "Apparently the kind of wife she really wants
for him is a combination of the doormat and fetch-and-carry person who
always stays at home, and performs her wifely and domestic duties in a
spirit of due subservience."

"She'll live and learn, then, my dear, when she has you for a
daughter-in-law," commented Kitty drily.

"I think I'm a bit fed up with 'in-laws,'" returned Nan a trifle
wearily. "I'll go out and walk it off. Or, better still, lend me your
bike, Kitty, and I'll just do a spin to Tintagel. By the time I've
climbed up to King Arthur's Castle, I'll feel different. It always
makes me feel good to get to the top of anywhere."

"But, my dear, it's five o'clock already! You won't have time to go
there before dinner."

"Yes, I shall," persisted Nan. "Half an hour to get there--easily! An
hour for the castle, half an hour for coming back, and then just time
enough to skip into a dinner-frock. . . . I must go, really, Kitten,"
she went on with a note of urgency in her voice. "That appalling
drawing-room at Trenby and almost equally appalling dining-room have
got into my system, and I want to blow the germs away." She
gesticulated expressively.

"All right, you ridiculous person, take my bicycle then," replied Kitty
good-humouredly. "But what will you do when you have to _live_ in
those rooms?"

"Why, I shall alter them completely, of course. I foresee myself
making the Hall 'livable in' throughout the first decade of my married
existence!"--with a small grimace of disgust.

A few minutes later Nan was speeding along the road to Tintagel, the
cool air, salt with brine from the incoming tide, tingling against her
face.

In less than the stipulated half-hour she had reached the village--that
bleak, depressing-looking village, with its miscellany of dull little
houses, through which one must pass, as through some dreary gateway, to
reach the wild, sea-girt beauty of the coast itself. Leaving her cycle
in charge at a cottage, Nan set out briskly on foot down the steep hill
that led to the shore. She was conscious of an imperative need for
movement. She must either cycle, or walk, or climb, in order to keep
at bay the nervous dread with which her visit to Trenby had inspired
her. It had given her a picture of Roger's home and surroundings--a
brief, enlightening glimpse as to the kind of life she might look
forward to when she had married him.

It was all very different from what she had anticipated. Even Roger
himself seemed different in the environment of his home--less
spontaneous, less the adoring lover. Lady Gertrude's influence
appeared to dominate the whole house and everyone in it. But, as Nan
realised, she had given her promise to Roger, and too much hung on that
promise for her to break it now--Penelope's happiness, and her own
craving to shut herself away in safety, to bind herself so that she
could never again break free.

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