CHAPTER X
INDECISION
Kitty and her husband were strolling together on the terrace when
Trenby's car purred up the drive to Mallow.
"You're back very early!" exclaimed Kitty gaily. "Did you get bored stiff with each other, or what?" Then, as Roger opened the car door and she caught sight of Nan's leg stretched out in front of her under the rugs and evidently resting upon something, she asked with a note of fear in her voice: "Is Nan hurt? You've not had an accident?"
Roger hastily explained what had occurred, winding up:
"She's had a wonderful escape."
He was looking rather drawn about the month, as though he, too, had passed through a big strain of some kind.
"I'm as right as rain really," called out Nan reassuringly. "If someone will only unpack the collection of rugs and coats I'm bundled up with, I can hop out of the car as well as anybody."
Barry was already at the car side and as he lifted off the last covering, revealing beneath a distended silk stocking the bandaged ankle, he exclaimed quickly:
"Hullo! This looks like some sort of damage. Is your ankle badly hurt, old thing?"
"Not a bit—nothing but a few scratches," she answered. "Only Mrs. Denman insisted on my driving back with my leg up, and it would have broken her heart if I hadn't accepted her ''assock' for the journey."
She stepped rather stiffly out of the car, for her joints still ached, and Barry, seeing her white face and the heavy shadows beneath her eyes, put a strong, friendly arm round her shoulders to steady her.
"You've had a good shaking up, my dear, anyway," he observed with concern in his voice. "Look, I'm going to help you into the hall and put you on the big divan straight away. Then we'll discuss what's to be done with you," he added, smiling down at her.
"You won't let them keep me in bed, Barry, will you?" urged Nan as he helped her up the steps and into the great hall, its ancient panelling of oak gleaming like polished ebony in the afternoon sunlight.
Barry pulled thoughtfully at his big fair moustache.
"If Kitty says 'bed,' you know it'll have to be bed," he answered, his eyes twinkling a little.
Nan subsided on to the wide, cushioned divan.
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed crossly, "You don't stay in bed because you've scratched your ankle."
"No. But you must remember you've had a bit of a shock."
By this time Kitty and Roger had joined them, overhearing the last part of the conversation.
"Of course you'll go to bed at once," asserted Kitty firmly. "Will you give her a hand upstairs, Barry?"
"You see?" said Barry, regarding the patient humorously. "Come along,
Nan! Shall I carry you or will you hobble?"
"I'll walk," returned Nan with emphasis.
"Bed's much the best place for you," put in Roger.
He followed her to the foot of the staircase and, as he shook hands, said quietly:
"Till Monday, then."
"Where's Penelope?" asked Nan, as Barry assisted her upstairs with a perfectly unnecessary hand under her arm, since—as she curtly informed him—she had "no intention of accomplishing two faints in one day."
"Penelope is out with Fenton—need you ask?" And Barry chuckled good-humouredly. "Kitty fully expects them to return an engaged couple."
"Oh, I do hope they will!" cried Nan, bubbling up with the instantaneous feminine excitement which generally obtains when a love-affair, after seeming to hang fire, at last culminates in a bonâ fide engagement. "Penny has kept him off so firmly all this time," she continued. "I can't think why, because it's perfectly patent to everybody that they're head over ears in love with each other."
Barry, who could have hazarded a very fair idea as to the reason why from odd scraps of information on the subject elicited from his wife, was silent a moment. Finally he said slowly:
"I shouldn't ask Penelope anything about it when she comes in, if I were you. If matters aren't quite settled between them yet, it might upset everything again."
Nan paused outside the door of her bedroom.
"But, my dear old Barry, what on earth is there to upset? There's no earthly obstacle to their marrying that I can see!"
As she spoke she felt a sudden little qualm of apprehension. It was purely selfish, as she told herself with a twinge of honest self-contempt. But what should she do without Penelope? It would create a big blank for her if her best friend left her for a home of her own. Somehow, the inevitable reaction of Penelope's marriage upon her own life had not occurred to her before. It hurt rather badly now that the thought had presented itself, but she determined to ignore that aspect of the matter firmly.
"Well, I hope they will come back engaged," she declared. "Anyway, I won't say a word till one or other of them announces the good news."
"Better not," agreed Barry. "I think part of the trouble is this big American tour Fenton's been offered. It seems to have complicated matters."
There came a light footstep on the staircase and Kitty swished round the bend. Barry and Nan started guiltily apart, smiling deprecatingly at her.
"Nan, you ought to be in bed by now!" protested Kitty severely. "You're not to be trusted one minute, Barry, keeping her standing about talking like this."
She shoo'd her big husband away with a single wave of her arm and marshalled Nan into the bedroom. In her hand she carried a tray on which was a glass of hot milk.
"There," she continued, addressing Nan. "You've got to drink that while you're undressing, and then you'll sleep well. And you're not to come down to-morrow except for dinner. I'll send your meals up—you shan't be starved! But you must have a thorough rest."
"Oh, Kitty!" Nan's exclamation was a positive wail of dismay.
Kitty cheerfully dismissed any possibility of discussion.
"It's quite settled, my dear. You'll be feeling it all far worse to-morrow than to-day. So get into bed now as quickly as possible."
"This milk's absolutely boiling," complained Nan irritably. "I can't drink it."
"Then undress first and drink it when you're in bed. I'll brush your hair for you."
It goes without saying that Kitty had her way—it was a very kind-hearted way—and before long Nan was sipping her glass of milk and gratefully realising the illimitable comfort which a soft bed brings to weary limbs.
"By the way, I've some news for you," announced Kitty, as she sat perched on the edge of the bed, smoking one of the tiny gold-tipped cigarettes she affected.
"News? What news?"
"Well, guess who's coming here?"
Nan named one or two mutual friends, only to be met by a triumphant negative. Finally Kitty divulged her secret.
"Why, Peter Mallory!"
The glass in Nan's hand jerked suddenly, spilling a few drops of the milk.
"Peter?" She strove to keep all expression out of her voice.
"Yes. He finds he can come after all. Isn't it jolly?"
"Very jolly."
Nan's tones were so non-committal that Kitty looked at her with some surprise.
"Aren't you pleased?" she asked blankly. She was relying tremendously on Peter's visit to restore Nan to normal, and to prevent her from making the big mistake of marrying Roger Trenby, so that the lukewarm reception accorded to her news gave her a qualm of apprehension lest his advent might not accomplish all she hoped.
"Of course I'm pleased!" Nan forced the obviously expected enthusiasm into her affirmative, then, swallowing the last mouthful of milk with an effort, she added: "It'll be topping."
Kitty took the glass from her and with an admonishing, "Now try and have a good sleep," she departed, blissfully unconscious of how effectually she herself had just destroyed any possibility of slumber.
Peter coming! The first thrill of pure joy at the thought of seeing him again was succeeded by a rush of apprehension. She felt herself caught up into a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. The idea of marriage with Roger Trenby seemed even more impossible than ever with the knowledge that in a few days Peter would be there, close beside her with that quiet, comprehending gaze of his, while every nerve in her body would be vibrating at the mere touch of his hand.
In the dusk of her room, against the shadowy background of the blind-drawn windows, she could visualise each line of his face—the level brows and the steady, grey-blue eyes under them—eyes that missed so little and understood so much; the sensitive mouth with those rather tired lines cleft each side of it that deepened when he smiled; the lean cheek-bones and squarish chin.
She remembered them all, and they kept blotting out the picture of Roger as she had so often seen him—big and bronzed by the sun—when he came striding over the cliffs to Mallow Court. The memory was like a hand holding her back from casting in her lot with him.
And then the pendulum swung back and she felt that to marry—someone, anyone—was the only thing left to her. She was frightened of her love for Peter. Marriage, she argued, would be—must be—a shield and buckler against the cry of her heart. If she were married she would be able to stifle her love, crush it out, behind those solid, unyielding bars of conventional wedlock.
The fact of Peter's own marriage seemed to her rather dream-like. There lay the danger. They had never met until after his wife had left him, so that her impression of him as a married man was necessarily a somewhat vague and shadowy one.
But there would be nothing vague or shadowy about marriage with Trenby! That Nan realised. And, utterly weary of the persistent struggle in her heart, she felt that it might cut the whole tangle of her life once and for all if she passed through the strait and narrow gate of matrimony into the carefully shepherded fold beyond it. After all, most women settled down to it in course of time, whether their husbands came up to standard or not. If they didn't, the majority of wives contrived to put up with the disappointment, and probably she herself would be so fully occupied with the putting up part of the business that she would not have much time in which to remember Peter.
But perhaps, had she known the inner thoughts of those women who have been driven into the "putting up" attitude towards their husbands, she would have realised that memories do not die so easily.