Margaret Pedler - The Moon out of Reach

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"Kitty! How can you suggest such a thing!" cried Nan, in horrified
tones. "If--if I'd posted it unknowingly and it had reached him after
the accident it would have been bad enough! But to post it now,
deliberately, _when I know_, would be absolutely wicked and brutal."

There was a momentary silence. Then:

"You're quite right," acknowledged Kitty in a muffled voice. She
lifted a penitent face. "I suppose it was cruel of me to suggest it.
But oh! I do so want you and Peter to be happy--and quickly! You've
had such a rotten time in the past."

Nan smiled faintly at her.

"I knew you couldn't mean it," she answered, "seeing that you're about
the most tender-hearted person I know."

"I suppose you will have to wait a little," conceded Kitty reluctantly.
"At least till Roger is mended up a bit. It may not be anything very
serious, after all. A man often gets a bad spill out of his car and is
driving again within a few weeks."

"We shall near soon," replied Nan levelly. "Sandy said he would let us
know the result of the doctor's examination."

"Well, come for a stroll in the rose-garden, then. It's
hateful--waiting to hear," said Kitty rather shakily.

"Get Barry to go with you. I'd rather stay here, I think." Nan spoke
quickly. She felt she could not bear to go into the rose-garden where
she had given that promise to Roger which bade fair to wreck the
happiness of two lives--her own and Peter's.

Kitty threw her a searching glance.

"Very well," she said. "Try to rest a little. I'll come up the moment
we hear any news."

She left the room and, as the door closed behind her, Nan gave vent to
a queer, hysterical laugh. Rest! How could she rest, knowing that now
Peter was free--free to make her his wife--the great gates of fate
might yet swing to, shutting them both out of lovers garden for ever!

For she had realised, with a desperate clearness of vision, that if
Roger were incurably injured, she could not add to his burden by
retracting her promise to be his wife. She must make the uttermost
sacrifice--give up the happiness to which the death of Celia Mallory
had opened the way--and devote herself to mitigating Roger's lot in so
far as it could be mitigated. There was no choice possible to her.
Duty, with stern, sad eyes, stood beside her, bidding her follow the
hard path of sacrifice which winds upward, through a blurred mist of
tears, to the great white Throne of God. The words of the little song
which had always seemed a link betwixt Peter and herself came back to
her like some dim echo from the past.

She sank on her knees, her arms flung out across the bed. She did not
consciously pray, but her attitude of thought and spirit was a wordless
cry that she might be given courage and strength to do this thing if it
must needs be.

It was late in the afternoon when Kitty, treading softly, came into
Nan's room.

"Have you been to sleep?" she asked.

"No." Nan felt as though she had not slept for a year. Her eyes were
dry and burning in their sockets.

"There's very bad news about Roger," said Kitty, in the low tones of
one who has hardly yet recovered from the shock of unexpectedly grave
tidings. "His spine is so injured that he'll never be able to walk
again. He"--she choked over the telling of it--"his legs will always
be paralysed."

Nan stared at her vacantly, as though she hardly grasped the meaning of
the words. Then, without speaking, she covered her face with her
hands. The room seemed to be full of silence--a heavy terrible
silence, charged with calamity. At last, unable to endure the burden
of the intense quiet any longer, Kitty stirred restlessly. The tiny
noise of her movement sounded almost like a pistol-shot in that
profound stillness. Nan's hands dropped from her face and she picked
up the letter which still lay on the bed and tore it into small pieces,
very carefully, tossing them into the waste-paper basket.

Kitty watched her for a moment as though fascinated. Then suddenly she
spoke.

"Why are you doing that? Why are you doing that?" she demanded
irritably.

Nan looked across at her with steady eyes.

"Because--it's finished! That letter will never be needed now."

"It will! Of course it will!" insisted Kitty. "Not now--but
later--when Roger's got over the shock of the accident."

Nan smiled at her curiously.

"Roger will never get over the consequences of his accident," she said,
accenting the word "consequences." "Can you imagine what it's going to
mean to him to be tied down to a couch for the rest of his days? An
outdoor man, like Roger, who has hunted and shot and fished all his
life?"

"Of course I can imagine! It's all too dreadful to think of! . . .
But now Peter's free, you can't--you can't mean to give him up for
Roger!"

"I must," answered Nan quietly. "I can't take the last thing he values
from a man who's lost nearly everything."

Kitty grasped her by the arm.

"Do you mean," she said incredulously, "do you mean you're going to
sacrifice Peter to Roger?"

"It won't hurt Peter--now--as it would have done before." Nan spoke
rather tonelessly. "He's already lost his faith and trust in me. The
worst wrench for him is over. I--I think"--a little unevenly--"that
I'm glad now he thought what he did--that he couldn't find it in his
heart to forgive me. It'll make it easier for him."

"Easier? Yes, if you actually do what you say you will. But--you're
deliberately taking away his happiness, robbing him of it, even though
he doesn't know he's being robbed. Good heavens, Nan!"--harshly--"Did
you ever love him?"

"I don't think you want an answer to that question," returned Nan
gently. "But, you see, I can't--divide myself--between Peter and
Roger."

"Of course you can't! Only why sacrifice both yourself and Peter to
Roger? It isn't reasonable!"

"Because I think he needs me most. Just picture it, Kitty. He's got
nothing left to look forward to till he dies! Nothing! . . . Oh, I
can't add to what he'll have to bear! He's so helpless!"

"You'll have plenty to bear yourself--tied to a helpless man of Roger's
temper," retorted "Kitty.

"Yes"--soberly--"I think--I'm prepared for that."

"Prepared?"

"Yes. It seems to me as though I've known all afternoon that this was
coming--that Roger might be crippled beyond curing. And I've looked at
it from every angle, so as to be quite sure of myself." She paused.
"I'm quite sure, now."

The quiet resolution in her voice convinced Kitty that her mind was
made up. Nevertheless, for nearly an hour she tried by every argument
in her power, by every entreaty, to shake her decision. But Nan held
her ground.

"I must do it," she said. "It's useless trying to dissuade me. It's
so clear to me that it's the one thing I must do. Don't any anything
more about it, Kitten. You're only wearing yourself out"--appealingly.
"I wish--I wish you'd try to _help_ me to do it! It won't be the
easiest thing in the world"--with a brief smile that was infinitely
more sad than tears--"I know that."

"Help you?" cried Kitty passionately. "Help you to ruin your life, and
Peter's with it? No, I won't help you. I tell you, Nan, you can't do
this thing! You _shall not_ marry Roger Trenby!"

Nan listened to her patiently. Then, still very quietly:

"I must marry him," she said. "It will be the one decent thing I've
ever done in my life."

CHAPTER XXXVI

ROGER'S REFUSAL

The next morning at breakfast only one letter lay beside Nan's plate.
As she recognised Maryon Rooke's small, squarish handwriting, with its
curious contrasts of heavy downstrokes and very light terminals, the
colour deepened in her cheeks. Her slight confusion passed unnoticed,
however, as everyone else was absorbed in his or her individual share
of the morning's mail.

For a moment Nan hesitated, conscious of an intense disinclination to
open the letter. It gave her a queer feeling of panic, recalling with
poignant vividness the day when she and Maryon had last been together.
At length, somewhat dreading what it might contain, she opened it and
began to read.

"I've had a blazing letter from young Sandy McBain, which has increased
my respect for him enormously," wrote Maryon. "I've come to the
conclusion that I deserve all the names he called me. Nan, how do you
manage to make everyone so amazingly devoted to you? I think it must
be that ridiculously short upper lip of yours, or your 'blue-violet'
eyes, or some other of your absurd and charming characteristics.

"I shall probably go abroad for a bit--to recover my self-respect. I'm
not feeling particularly proud of myself just now, and it always spoils
my enjoyment of things if I can't be genuinely pleased with my ego.
Don't cut me when next we meet, if fortune is ever kind enough to me to
let us meet again. Because, for once in my life, I'm really sorry for
my sins.

"I believe that somewhere in the ramshackle thing I call my soul, I'm
glad Sandy took you away from me. Though there are occasional moments
when I feel murderous towards him.

"Yours

"MARYON."

Nan laid down the closely-written sheet with a half-smile,
half-sigh--could one ever regard Maryon Rooke without a smile overtaken
by a sigh? The letter somewhat cheered her, washing away what remained
of bitterness in her thoughts towards him. It was very characteristic
of the man, with its intense egotism--almost every sentence beginning
with an "I"--and its lightly cynical note. Yet beneath the surface
flippancy Nan could read a genuine remorse and self-reproach. And in
some strange way it comforted her a little to know that Maryon was
sorry. After all, there is something good even in the worst of us.

"Had a nice letter, Nan?" asked Barry, looking up from his own
correspondence. "You're wearing a smile of sorts."

"Yes. It was--rather a nice letter. Good and bad mixed, I think," she
answered.

"Then you're lucky," observed Kitty. There was a rather frightened
look in her eyes. "We'll go into your study after breakfast, Barry. I
want to consult you about one of my letters. It's--it's undiluted bad,
I think."

Barry's blue eyes smiled reassuringly across at her. "All right, old
thing. Two heads are generally better than one if you're up against a
snag."

Half an hour later she beckoned him into the study.

"What's the trouble?" He slipped an arm round her shoulders. "Don't
look like that, Kitten. We're sure to be able to put things right
somehow."

She smiled at him rather ruefully.

"It's you who'll have to do the putting right, Barry--and it'll be a
hateful business, too," she replied.

"Thanks," murmured Barry. "Well, what's in the letter that's bothering
you?"

"It's from Peter," burst out Kitty. "He's going straight off to
Africa--to-morrow! Celia, of course, will be buried out in India--her
uncle has cabled him that he'll arrange everything. And Peter has had
the chance of a returned berth in a boat that sails to-morrow, so he
proposes to get his kit together and start at once."

"I should have thought he'd have started at once--in this direction,"
remarked Barry drily.

"He would have done, I expect, only he's so bitter over Nan's attempt
to run away with Maryon Rooke that he's determined to bury himself in
the wilds. If he only knew what she'd gone through before she did such
a thing, he'd understand and forgive her. But that's just like a man!
When the woman he cares for acts in a way that's entirely inconsistent
with all he knows of her, he never thinks of trying to work backwards
to find out the _cause_. The effect's enough for him! Oh!"--with a
sigh--"I do think Peter and Nan are most difficult people to manage.
If it were only that--just a lovers' squabble--one might fix things up.
But now, just when every obstacle in the world is removed and they
could be happily married, Nan must needs decide that it's her duty to
marry Roger!"

"Her duty?"

"Yes." And Kitty plunged forthwith into a detailed account of all that
had happened.

"Good old Nan! She's a well-plucked 'un," was Barry's comment when she
had finished.

"Of course it's splendid of her," said Kitty. "Nan was always an
idealist in her notions--but in practice it would just mean purgatory.
And I won't _let_ her smash up the whole of her own life, and Peter's
for an ideal!"

"How do you propose to prevent it, m'dear?"

"I propose that _you_ should prevent it."

"I? How?"

Kitty laid an urgent hand on his arm.

"You must go over to Trenby and see Roger."

"See Roger? My dear girl, he won't be able to see visitors for days
yet."

"Oh, yes, he will," replied Kitty. "Isobel Carson rang up just now to
ask if Nan would come over. It appears that, barring the injury to his
back, he escaped without a scratch. He didn't even _know_ he was hurt
till he found he couldn't use his legs. Of course, he'll be in bed.
Isobel says he seems almost his usual self, except that he won't let
anyone sympathise with him over his injury. He's just savage about it."

Barry made no answer. He reflected that it was quite in keeping with
all be knew of the man for him to bear in silence the shock of knowing
that henceforward he would be a helpless cripple. Just as a wild
animal, mortally hurt, seeks solitude in which to die, so Roger's
arrogant, primitive nature refused to tolerate the pity of his fellows.

"Well," queried Barry grudgingly. "If I do see him, what then?"

"You must tell him that Peter is free and make him release Nan from her
engagement. In fact, he must do more than that," she continued
emphatically. "In her present mood Nan would probably decline to
accept her release. He must absolutely _refuse_ to marry her."

"And supposing he doesn't see doing that?"

Kitty's lip curled.

"In the circumstances, I should think that any man who cared for a
woman and who wasn't a moral and physical coward, would see it was the
one and only thing he could do."

Her husband remained silent.

"You'll go, Barry?"

"I don't care for interfering in Trenby's personal affairs. Poor
devil! He's got enough to bear just now!"

Sudden tears filled Kitty's eyes. She pitied Roger from the bottom of
her heart, but she must still fight for the happiness of Nan and Peter.

"I know," she acquiesced unhappily. "But, don't you see, if he doesn't
bear just this, too, Nan will have to endure a twofold burden for the
rest of her life. Oh, Barry!"--choking back a sob--"Don't fail me!
It's a man's job--this. No woman could do it, without making Roger
feel it frightfully. A man so hates to discuss any physical
disablement with a woman. It hurts his pride. He'd rather ignore it."

"But where's the use?" protested Barry. "If Peter is off to-morrow to
the back of beyond, you're still no further on. You've only made
things doubly hard for that poor devil up at the Hall without
accomplishing anything else."

"Peter won't go to-morrow," asserted Kitty. "I've settled that. I
wired him to come down here--I sent the wire the minute after
breakfast. He'll be here to-night."

"Pooh! He'll take no notice of a telegram like that! A man doesn't
upset the whole of his plans to go abroad because a pal in the country
wires him 'to come down'!"

"Precisely. So I worded my wire in a way which will ensure his
coming," replied Kitty, with returning spirit.

Barry looked, at her doubtfully.

"What did you put on it?"

"I said: '_Bad accident here. Come at once_.' I know that will bring
him. . . . And it has the further merit of being the truth!" she added
with a rather shaky little laugh.

"That will certainly bring him," agreed Barry, a brief flash of
amusement in his eyes. It was so like Kitty to dare a wire of this
description and chance how her explanation of it might be received by
the person most concerned. "But suppose Trenby declines point-blank to
release Nan?" he pursued. "What will you do then--with Peter on your
hands?"

"Well, at least Peter will understand what Nan is doing and why she's
doing it. Given that he knew the whole truth, I think he'd probably
run away with her. I know _I_ should--if I were a man! Now, will you
go and see Roger, please?"

"I suppose I shall have to. But it's a beastly job." Barry's usually
merry eyes were clouded.

"Beastly," agreed Kitty sympathetically. "But it's got to be done."

Ten minutes later she watched her husband drive away in the direction
of Trenby Hall, and composed herself to wait patiently on the march of
events.

* * * * * *

Barry looked pitifully down at the big, helpless figure lying between
the sheets of the great four-poster bed. Except for an unwonted pallor
and the fact that no movement of the body below the waist was visible,
Roger looked very much as usual. He waved away the words of sympathy
which were hovering on Barry's lips.

"Nice of you to come so soon," he said curtly. "But, for God's sake,
don't condole with me. I don't want condolences and I won't have 'em."
There was a note in his voice which told of the effort which his savage
self-repression cost him.

Barry understood, and for a few minutes they discussed, things in
general, Roger briefly describing the accident.

"Funny how things happen," he observed. "I suppose I'm about as expert
a driver as you'd get. There was practically nothing I couldn't do
with a car--and along come a dog and a kiddy and flaw me utterly in two
minutes. I've had much nearer shaves a dozen times before and escaped
scot-free."

They talked on desultorily for a time. Then suddenly Roger asked:

"When's Nan coming to see me? I told Isobel to 'phone down to Mallow
this morning."

"You're hardly up to visitors," said Barry, searching for delay. "I
don't suppose I ought to have come, really."

Roger looked at him with eyes that burned fiercely underneath his
shaggy brows.

"I'm as right as you are--except for my confounded back," he answered.
"I've not got a scratch on me. Only something must have struck me as
the car overturned--and a bit of my spinal anatomy's gone phut."

"You mayn't be as badly injured as you think," ventured Barry. "Some
other doctor might give you a different report."

"Oh, he's quite a shining light--the man who came down here. Spine's
his job. And his examination was thorough enough. There's nothing can
be done. My legs are useless--and I'm a strong, healthy man who may
live to a ripe old age."

He turned his head on the pillow and Barry saw him drag the sheet
between his teeth and bite on it. He crossed to the window, giving the
man time to regain his self-command.

"Well, what about Nan?" Roger demanded at last harshly. "When's she
coming?"

Barry faced round to the bed again.

"I came to talk to you about Nan," he replied with reluctance. "But--"

"Talk away, then!"

"Well, it's very difficult to say what I have to tell you. You see,
Trenby, this ghastly accident of yours makes a difference in--"

Roger interrupted with a snarl. His arms waved convulsively.

"Lift me up," he commanded. "I can't do it myself. Prop me up a bit
against the pillows. . . . Oh, get on with it, man!" he cried, as
Barry hesitated. "Nothing you do can either help or hurt me. Lift me
up!"

Obediently Barry stooped and with a touch as strong as a man's and as
tender as a woman's, lifted Roger into the desired position.

"Thanks." Roger blurted out the word ungraciously. "Well, what about
Nan?" he went on, scowling. "I suppose you've come to ask me to let
her off? That's the natural thing! Is that it?" he asked sharply.

"Yes," answered Barry simply. "That's it."

Rogers face went white with anger.

"Then you may tell her," he said, pounding the bed with his fist to
emphasise his words, "tell her from me that I haven't the least
intention of releasing her. She's a contemptible little coward even to
suggest it. But that's a woman all over!"

"It's nothing of the sort," returned Barry, roused to indignation by
Roger's brutal answer. He spoke with a quiet forcefulness there was no
mistaking. "Nan knows nothing whatever about my visit here, nor the
purpose of it. On the contrary, had she known, I'm quite sure she
would have tried to prevent my coming, seeing that she has made up her
mind to marry you as soon as you wish."

"Oh, she has, has she?" Roger paused grimly. A moment later he broke
out: "Then--then--what the devil right have you to interfere?"

"None," said Barry gravely. "Except the right of one man to remind
another of his manhood--if he sees him in danger of losing it."

The thrust, so quietly delivered, went home. Roger bit his under lip
and was silent, his eyes glowering.

"So that's what you think of me, is it?" he said at last, sullenly.

The look in Barry's eyes softened the stern sincerity of his reply.

"What else can I think? In your place a man's first thought should
surely be to release the woman he loves from the infernal bondage which
marriage with him must inevitably mean."

"On the principle that from him who hath not shall be taken away even
that which he hath, I suppose?" gibed the bitter voice from the bed.

"No," answered Barry, with simplicity. "But just because if you love a
woman you can't possibly want to hurt her."

"And if she loved you, a woman couldn't possibly want to turn you down
because you've had the damnedest bad luck any man could have."

"But does she love you?" asked Barry. "I know--and you know--that she
does _not_. She cares for someone else."

Roger made a sudden, violent movement.

"Who is it? She has never told me who it was. I suppose it's that
confounded cad who painted her portrait--Maryon Rooke?"

Barry smile a little.

"No," he answered. "The man she loves is Peter Mallory."

"Mallory!"--in blank astonishment. Then, swiftly and with a gleam of
triumph in his eyes: "But he's married!"

"His wife has just died--out in India."

There was a long pause. Then:

"So _that's_ why you came?" sneered Roger. "Well, you can tell Nan
that she won't marry Peter Mallory with my consent. I'll never set her
free to be another man's wife"--his dangerous temper rising again.
"There's only one thing left to me in the world, and that's Nan. And
I'll have her!"

"Is that your final decision?" asked Barry. He was beginning to
recognise the hopelessness of any effort to turn or influence the man.

"Yes"--with a snarl. "Tell Nan"--derisively--"that I shall expect my
truly devoted fiancee here this afternoon."

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE GREAT HEALER

It was late in the afternoon when the Mallow car once more purred up to
the door of Trenby Hall and Nan descended from it. She was looking
very pale, her face like a delicate white cameo beneath the shadow of
her hat, while the clinging black of her gown accentuated the slender
lines--too slender, now--of her figure. She had not yet discarded her
mourning for Lord St. John, but in any case she would have felt that
gay colours could have no part in to-day.

Kitty had told her of Barry's interview with Trenby and of its utter
futility, and, although Nan had been prepared to sacrifice her whole
existence to the man who had suffered so terrible an injury, she was
bitterly disappointed that he proposed exacting it from her as a right
rather than accepting it as a free gift.

If for once he could have shown himself generous and offered to give
her back her freedom--an offer she would have refused to accept--how
much the fact that each of them had been willing to make a sacrifice
might have helped to sweeten their married life! Instead, Roger had
forced upon her the realisation that he was unchanged--still the same
arrogant "man with the club" that he had always been, insisting on his
own way, either by brute force or by the despotism of a moral
obligation which was equally compelling.

But these thoughts fled--driven away by a rush of overwhelming
sympathy--when her eyes fell on the great, impotent hulk of a man who
lay propped up against his pillows. A nurse slipped past her in the
doorway and paused to whisper, as she went:

"Don't stay too long. He's run down a lot since this morning. I
begged him not to see any more visitors to-day, but he insisted upon
seeing you."

The nurse recalled very vividly the picture of her patient when she had
endeavoured to dissuade him from this second interview--his white,
rather drawn face and the eyes which blazed feverishly at her beneath
their penthouse brows.

"You've got to let me see my best girl to-day, nurse," he had said,
forcing a smile. "After that you shall have your own way and work your
wicked will on me."

And the nurse, thinking that perhaps a visit from his "best girl" might
help to allay the new restlessness she found in him, had yielded,
albeit somewhat reluctantly.

"Oh, Roger!" With a low cry of dismay Nan ran to the bed and slipped
down on her knees beside it.

"It's a rotten bit of luck, isn't it?" he returned briefly.

She expected the fierce clasp of his arms about her and had steeled
herself to submit to his kisses without flinching. But he did not
offer to kiss her. Instead, pointing to a chair, he said quietly:

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