CHAPTER XI
GOING WITH THE TIDE
As Nan, who had reluctantly complied with Kitty's stern decree that she must rest in bed during the greater part of the following day, at last descended from her room, she discovered, much to her satisfaction, that her ankle had ceased to pain her. But she still felt somewhat stiff and sore after the knocking about of the previous day.
At dinner she was astonished to find that the house-party had decreased by one. Ralph Fenton was absent.
"He left for town this morning, by the early train from St. Wennys Halt," explained Kitty. "He was—was called away very suddenly," she added blandly, in answer to Nan's surprised enquiries.
A somewhat awkward pause ensued, then everybody rushed into conversation at once, so that Nan could only guess that some contretemps must have occurred between Penelope and the singer of which she was in ignorance. As soon as dinner was at an end she manoeuvred Kitty into a corner and demanded an explanation.
"Why has Ralph gone away?" she asked. "And why did you look so uncomfortable when I asked about him? And why did Penelope blush?"
"Could I have them one at a time?" suggested Kitty mildly.
"You can have them combined into one. Tell me, what's been happening to-day?"
"Well, I gather that Ralph has been offering his hand and heart to
Penelope."
"It seems to be epidemic," murmured Nan sotto voce.
"What did you say?"
"Only that it seems an odd proceeding for a newly-engaged young man to go careering off to London immediately."
"But he isn't engaged—that's just it. Penelope refused him."
"Refused him? But—but why?" asked Nan in amazement.
"You'd better ask her yourself. Perhaps you can get some sense out of her—since you appear to be the chief stumbling-block."
"I?"
"Yes. I saw Ralph before he went away. He seemed very down on his luck, poor dear! He's been trying to persuade Penelope to say yes and to fix an early date for their wedding, as he's got the offer of a very good short tour in America—really thumping fees—and he won't accept it unless she'll marry him first and go with him."
"Well, I don't see how that's my fault."
"In a way it is. The only reason Penelope gave him as to why she wouldn't consent was that she will never marry as long as you need her."
Nan digested this information in silence. Then she said quietly:
"If that's all, you can take off your sackcloth and ashes and phone
Ralph at his hotel to come back here to-morrow. I'll—I'll talk to
Penelope to-night."
Kitty stared at her in surprise.
"You seem very sure of the effect of your persuasions," she answered dubiously.
"I am. Quite sure. It won't take me five minutes to convince Penelope that there is no need for her to remain in a state of single blessedness on my account. And now, I'm going out of doors to have a smoke all by myself. You were quite right"—smiling briefly—"when you said I should feel everything more to-day than yesterday. Do keep people away from me, there's a good soul."
Kitty gave her a searching glance. But for two spots of feverishly vivid colour in her cheeks, the girl's face was very pale, and her eyes over-bright, with heavy shadows underlying them.
"Very well," she said kindly. "Tuck yourself up in one of the lounge chairs and I'll see that no one bothers you."
But Nan was in no mood for a lounge chair. Lighting a cigarette, she paced restlessly up and down the flagged path of the quadrangular court, absorbed in her thoughts.
It seemed to her as though Fate had suddenly given her a gentle push in the direction of marriage with Roger. She knew now that Penny had refused Ralph solely on her account—so that she might not be left alone. If she could go to her and tell her that she herself was about to marry Trenby, then the only obstacle which stood in the way of Penelope's happiness would be removed. Last night her thoughts had swung from side to side in a ceaseless ding-dong struggle of indecision, but this new factor in the matter weighted the scales heavily in favour of her marrying Trenby.
At last she made up her mind. There were two chances, two avenues which might lead away from him. Should both of these be closed against her, she would yield to the current of affairs which now seemed set to sweep her into his arms.
She would use her utmost persuasions to induce Penelope to marry Ralph Fenton, irrespective of whether she herself proposed to enter the matrimonial state or not. That was the first of her two chances. For if she succeeded in prevailing upon Penelope to retract her refusal of Ralph, she would feel that she had dealt at least one blow against the fate which seemed to be driving her onward. The urgency of that last push towards Roger would be removed! Then if Penelope remained obdurate, to-morrow she would tell Trenby frankly that she had no love, but only liking, to give him, and she would insist upon his facing the fact that there had been someone else in her life who had first claim upon her heart. That would be her other chance. And should Roger—as well he might—refuse to take second best, then willy-nilly she would be once more thrust forth into the troublous sea of longing and desire. But if he still wanted her—why, then she would have been quite honest with him and it would seem to be her destiny to be his wife. She would leave it at that—leave it for chance, or fate, or whatever it is that shapes our ends, to settle a matter that, swayed as she was by opposing forces, she was unable to decide for herself.
She heaved a sigh of relief. After those wretched, interminable hours of irresolution, when love, and fear of that same love, had tortured her almost beyond bearing, it was an odd kind of comfort to feel that she had given herself two chances, and, if both failed, to know that she must abide by the result.
The turmoil of her mind drove her at last almost insensibly towards the low, wide wall facing the unquiet sea. Here she sat down, still absorbed in her thoughts, her gaze resting absently on the incoming tide below. She was conscious of a strange feeling of communion with the shifting, changeful waters.
As far as eye could see the great billows of the Atlantic, silver-crested in the brilliant moonlight, came tumbling shoreward, breaking at last against the inviolate cliffs with a dull, booming noise like the sound of distant guns. Then came the suction of retreat, as the beaten waves were hurled backwards from the fierce headlands in a grey tumult of surging waters, while the big stones and pebbles over which they swirled clashed and ground together, roaring under the pull of the outgoing current—that "drag" of which any Cornish seaman will warn a stranger in the grave tones of one who knows its peril.
To right and left, at the foot of savage cliffs black against the silver moonlight, Nan could see the long combers roll in and break into a cloud of upflung spray, girdling the wild coast with a zone of misty, moonlit spray that must surely have been fashioned in some dim world of faëry.
She sat very still, watching the eternal battle between sea and shore, and the sheer splendour of it laid hold of her, so that for a little while everything that troubled her was swept away. For the moment she felt absolutely happy.
Always the vision, of anything overwhelmingly beautiful seemed to fill her soul, drawing with it the memories of all that had been beautiful in life. And watching this glory of moon and sea and shore, Nan felt strangely comforted. Maryon Rooke had no part in it, nor Roger Trenby. But her love for Peter and his for her seemed one and indivisible with it. That, and music—the two most beautiful things which had entered into her life.
. . . A bank of cloud, slowly spreading upward from the horizon, suddenly clothed the moon in darkness, wiping out the whole landscape. Only the ominous boom of the waves and the roar of the struggling beach still beat against Nan's ears.
The vision had fled, and the grim realities of life closed round her once again.
Late that evening she slipped into a loose wrapper—a very characteristic little garment of lace and ribbons and clinging silk—and marched down the corridor to Penelope's room. The latter was diligently brushing her hair, but at Nan's abrupt entrance she laid down the brush resignedly. She had small doubt as to the primary cause of this late visit.
"Well?" she said, a faintly humorous twinkle gleaming in the depths of her brown eyes, although there were tired shadows underneath them. "Well?"
"Yes, you dear silly woman, of course you know what I've come about," responded Nan, ensconcing herself on the cushioned window seat.
"I'd know better if you were to explain."
"Then—in his words—why have you refused Ralph Fenton?"
"Oh, is that it?"—indifferently. "Because I don't want to marry—at present." And Penelope picked up her brush and resumed the brushing of her hair as though the matter were at an end.
"So that's why you told him—as your reason for refusing him—that you wouldn't marry him as long as I needed you?"
The hair-brush clattered to the floor.
"The idiot!—I suppose he told Kitty?" exclaimed Penelope, making a dive after her brush.
"Yes, he did. And Kitty told me. And now I've come to tell you that I entirely decline to be a reason for your refusing to marry a nice young man like Ralph."
Penelope was silent, and Nan, coming over to her side, slipped an arm about her shoulders.
"Dear old Penny! It was just like you, but if you think I'm going to let you make a burnt-offering of yourself in that way, you're mistaken. Do you suppose"—indignantly—"that I can't look after myself?"
"I'm quite sure of it."
"Rubbish! Why, I've got Kitty and Uncle David and oh! dozens of people to look after me!"
Penelope's mouth set itself in an obstinate line.
"I shall never marry till you do, Nan . . . because not one of the 'dozens' understand your—your general craziness as well as I do."
Nan laughed.
"That's rude—though a fairly accurate statement. But still, Penny dear, just to please me, will you marry Ralph?"
"No"—with promptitude—"I certainly won't. If I married him at all, it would be to please myself."
"Well," wheedled Nan, "wouldn't it please you—really?"
"We can't always do as we please in this world."
Nan grimaced.
"Hoots, lassie! Now you're talking like Aunt Eliza."
Penelope continued brushing her hair serenely and vouchsafed no answer.
Nan renewed the attack.
"It amounts to this, then—that I've got to get married in order to let
Ralph marry you!"
"Of course it doesn't!"
"Well, answer me this: If I were going to be married, would you give
Ralph a different answer?"
"I might"—non-committally.
"Then you may as well go and do it. As I am going to be married—to
Roger Trenby."
"To Roger! Nan, you don't mean it? It isn't true?"
"It is—perfectly true. Have you anything to say against it?"—defiantly.
"Everything. He's the last man in the world to make you happy."
"Time will decide that. In any case he's coming on Monday for my answer. And that will be 'yes.' So you and Ralph can have your banns put up with a clear conscience—as the only just cause and impediment is now removed."
Penelope was silent.
"You ought to be rather pleased with me than otherwise," insisted Nan.
When at length Penelope replied, it was with a certain gravity.
"My dear, matrimony is one of the affairs of life in which it is fatal to accept second best. You can do it in hats and frocks—it's merely a matter of appearances—although you'll never get quite the same satisfaction out of them. But you can't do it in boots and shoes. You have to walk in those—and the second best wear out at once. Matrimony is the boots and shoes of life."
"Well, at least it's better to have the second quality—than to go barefoot."
"I don't think so. Nan, do wait a little. Don't, in a fit of angry pique over Maryon Rooke, go and bind yourself irrevocably to someone else."
"Penny, the bluntness of your methods is deplorable. Instead of insinuating that I am accepting Roger as a pis-aller, it would be more seemly if you would congratulate me and—wish me luck."
"I do—oh, I do, Nan. But, my dear—"
"No buts, please. Surely I know my own business best? I assure you,
Roger and I will be a model couple—an example, probably, to you and
Ralph! You'll—you'll say 'yes' to him to-morrow when he comes back
again, won't you, Penny?"
"He isn't coming back to-morrow."
"I think he is." Nan smiled. "You'll say 'yes' then?"
Penelope looked at her very straightly.
"Would you marry Roger in any case—whether I accepted Ralph or not?" she asked.
Nan lied courageously.
"I should marry Roger in any case," she answered quietly.
A long silence ensued. Presently Nan broke it, her voice a little sharpened by the tension of the moment.
"So when Ralph comes back you'll be—kind to him, Penny? You'll give him the answer he wants?"
Penelope's face was hidden by a curtain of dark hair. After a moment an affirmative came softly from behind the curtain.
With a sudden impulse Nan threw her arms round her and kissed her.
"Oh, Penny! Penny! I do hope you'll be very happy!" she exclaimed in a stifled voice. Then slipped from the room like a shadow—very noiselessly and swiftly—to lie on her bed hour after hour staring up into the blackness with wide, tearless eyes until sheer bodily exhaustion conquered the tortured spirit which could find neither rest nor comfort, and at last she slept.