CHAPTER XXXV
THE GATES OF FATE
The fishing party returned to Mallow the following morning. They were in high spirits, full of stories and cracking jokes about each other's prowess or otherwise—especially the "otherwise," although, both men united in praising Penelope's exploits as a fisherwoman.
"Beginner's luck, of course!" chaffed Barry. "It was your first serious attempt at fishing, wasn't it, Penny?"
"Yes. But it's not going to be my last!" she retorted. "And I'll take a bet with you as to who catches the most trout next time."
The advent of three people who were in complete ignorance of the happenings of the last few days went far to restore the atmosphere to normal. Amid the bustle of their arrival and the gay chatter which accompanied it, it would have been impossible for Kitty, at least, not to throw aside for the moment the anxieties which beset her and join in the general fun and laughter.
But Nan, although she played up pluckily, so that no suspicions were aroused in the minds of the returned wanderers, was still burdened by the knowledge of what yet remained for her to do, and when the jolly clamour had abated a trifle she escaped upstairs to write her letter to Roger. It was a difficult letter to write because, though nothing he could say or do would alter her determination, she realised that in his own way he loved her and she wanted to hurt him as little as possible.
"I know you will think I am being both dishonourable and disloyal," she wrote, after she had first stated her decision quite clearly and simply. "But to me it seems I am doing the only thing possible in loyalty to the man I love. And in a way it is loyal to you, too, Roger, because—as you have known from the beginning—I could never give you all that a man has a right to expect from the women he marries. One can't 'share out' love in bits. I've learned, now, that love means all or nothing, and as I cannot give you all, it must be nothing. And of this you may be sure—perhaps it may make you feel that I have behaved less badly to you—I am not breaking off our engagement in order to marry someone else. I shall never marry anyone, now."
Nan read it through, then slipped it into an envelope and sealed it. When she had directed it to "Roger Trenby, Esq.," she leaned back in her chair, feeling curiously tired, but conscious of a sense of peace and tranquillity that had been absent from her since the day on which she had promised to marry Roger. . . . And the next day, by the shattered Lovers' Bridge, Peter had carried her in his arms across the stream and kissed her hair. She had known then, known very surely, that love had come to her—Peter loved her, and his slightest touch meant happiness so poignantly sweet as to be almost unbearable. Only the knowledge had come too late.
But now—now she was free! Though she would never know the supreme joy of mating with the man she loved, she had at least escaped the prison which the wrong man's love can make for a woman. Just as no other man than Peter would ever hold her heart, so henceforth no kiss but his would ever touch her lips. But for Peter the burden would be heavier. It would be different—harder. Could she not guess how infinitely harder? And there was nothing in the world which might avail to lighten that burden. Only, perhaps, later on, it might comfort him to know that, though in this world they could never come together, the woman he loved was his completely, that she had surrendered nothing of herself to any other man.
She picked up her letter to Roger and made her way downstairs, intending to drop it herself into the post-box at the gates of Mallow. Once it had left her hands for the close guardianship of that scarlet tablet streaked against the roadside wall she would feel more at ease.
As she turned the last bend of the stairs she came upon an agitated little group of people clustering round Sandy McBain, who had apparently only recently arrived. Her hand tightened on the banister. Why had everyone collected in the hall? Even one or two scared-looking servants were discernible in the background, and on every face sat a strange, unusual gravity. Nan felt as though someone had suddenly slipped a band round her heart and were drawing it tighter and tighter.
Nobody seemed to notice her as with reluctant, dragging footsteps she descended the remainder of the staircase. Then Ralph caught sight of her and exclaimed: "Here's Nan!" and her name ran through the group in a shocked murmur of repetition, followed by a quick, hushed silence.
"What is it?" she asked apprehensively.
Several voices answered, but only the words "Roger" and "accident" came to her clearly out of the blur of sound.
"What is it?" she repeated. "What has happened?"
"There's been an accident," began Barry awkwardly. "Lady Gertrude—"
"Is she killed?"—in shocked tones.
"No, no. But she had another attack this morning—heart, or temper—and as the doctor was out when they 'phoned for him, she sent Roger rushing off post-haste in the car to find him and bring him along. And"—he hesitated a little—"I'm afraid he's had rather a bad smash-up."
Nan's face went very white, and half-unconsciously her grip tautened round the letter she was holding, crushing it together.
"Do you mean—in the car?" she asked in a queer, stiff voice.
"Yes." It was Sandy who answered her, "He'd just swerved to avoid driving over a dog and the next minute a kiddy ran out from the other side of the road, right in his path, and he swerved again, so sharply that the car ran up the side of the hedge and overturned.
"And Roger?"
Sandy's face twisted and he looked away.
"He was—underneath the car," he said at last, reluctantly.
Nan took a step forward and laid a hand on his arm. She had read the meaning of that quick contraction of his face.
"You were there!" She spoke more as though stating a fact than asking a question. "You saw it!"
"Yes," he acknowledged. "We got him out from under the car and carried him home on a hurdle. Then I found the doctor, and he's with him now."
"I'd better go right across and see if I can help," said Nan impulsively.
"No need. Isobel will be back this afternoon—I've wired her. And they've already 'phoned for a couple of trained nurses. Besides, Lady Gertrude's malady vanished the minute she heard Roger was injured. I think"—with a brief smile—"her illness was mostly due to the fact that Isobel was away, so of course she wanted to keep Roger by her side all the time. Lady G. must always have a 'retinue' in attendance, you know!"
A general smile acknowledged the truth of Sandy's diagnosis, but it was quickly smothered. The suddenness and gravity of the accident which had befallen Roger had shocked them all.
"What does the doctor say?" asked Penelope.
"He hasn't said anything very definite yet," replied Sandy. "He's afraid there's some injury to the spine, so he's wired for a Plymouth consultant. When he comes, they'll make a thorough examination."
"Ah!" Nan drew in her breath sharply.
"I suppose we shall hear to-night?" said Kitty. "The Plymouth man will get here early this afternoon."
"I'll come over and let you know the report," answered Sandy. "I'm going back to Trenby now, to see if I can do any errands or odd jobs for them. A man's a useful thing to have about the place at a time like this."
Kitty nodded soberly.
"Quite right, Sandy. And if there's anything we can any of us do to help, 'phone down at once."
A minute later Sandy was speeding back to the Hall as fast as the "stink-pot" could take him.
"It's pretty ghastly," said Kitty, as she and Nan turned away together.
"Poor old Roger!"
"Yes," replied Nan mechanically. "Poor Roger."
A sudden thought had sprung into her mind, overwhelming her with its significance. The letter she had written to Roger—she couldn't send it now! Common humanity forbade that it should go. It would have to wait—wait till Roger had recovered. The disappointment, cutting across a deep and real sympathy with the injured man, was sharp and bitter.
Very slowly she made her way upstairs. The letter, which she still clasped rigidly, seemed to burn her palm like red-hot iron. She felt as though she could not unclench the hand which held it. But this phase only lasted for a few minutes. When she reached her room she opened her hand stiffly and the crumpled envelope fell on to the bed.
She stared at it blankly. That letter—which had meant so much to her—could not be sent! She might have to wait weeks—months even, before it could go. And meanwhile, she would be compelled to pretend—pretend to Roger, because he was so ill that the truth must be hidden from him till he recovered. Then, swift as the thrust of a knife, another thought followed. . . . Suppose—suppose Roger never recovered? . . . What was it Sandy had said? An injury to the spine. Did people recover from spinal injury? Or did they linger on, wielding those terrible rights which weakness for ever holds over health and strength?
Nan flung herself on the bed and lay there, face downwards, trying to realise the awful possibilities which the accident to Roger might entail for her. Because if it left him crippled—a hopeless invalid—the letter she had written could never be sent at all. She could not desert him, break off her engagement, if she herself represented all that was left to him in life.
It seemed hours afterwards, though in reality barely half an hour had elapsed, when she heard the sound of footsteps racing up the staircase, and a minute later, without even a preliminary knock, Kitty burst into the room. Her face was alight with joyful excitement. In her hand she held an open telegram.
"Listen, Nan! Oh"—seeing the other's startled, apprehensive face—"it's good news this time!"
Good news! Nan stared at her with an expression of impassive incredulity. There was no good news that could come to her.
"It seems horrible to feel glad over anyone's death, but I simply can't help it," went on Kitty. "Peter has just telegraphed me that Celia died yesterday. . . . Oh, Nan, dearest! I'm so glad for you—so glad for you and Peter!"
Nan, who had risen at Kitty's entrance, swayed suddenly and caught at the bed-post to steady herself.
"What did you say?" she asked huskily.
"That Peter's wife is dead. That he's free"—with great tenderness—"free to marry you." She checked herself and peered into Nan's white, expressionless face. "Nan, why don't you—look glad? You are glad, surely?"
"Glad?" repeated Nan vaguely. "No, I can't be glad yet. Not yet."
"You're not worrying just because Peter was angry last time he saw you?"—keenly.
"No. I wasn't thinking of that."
"Then, my dear, why not be glad—glad and thankful that nothing stands between you? I don't think you realise it! You're quite free now. And so is Peter. Your letter to Roger has gone—poor Roger!"—sorrowfully—"it's frightfully rough luck on him, particularly just now. But still, someone always has to go to the wall in a triangular mix-up. And though I like him well enough, I love you and Peter. So I'd rather it were Roger, since it must be someone."
Nan pointed to the bed. On the gay, flowered coverlet lay the crumpled letter.
"My letter to Roger has not gone," she said, speaking very distinctly. "I was on my way to post it when I found you all in the hall, discussing Roger's accident. And now—it can't go."
Kitty's face lengthened in dismay, then a look of relief passed over it.
"Give it to me," she exclaimed impulsively. "I'll post it at once. It will catch precisely the same post as it would have done if you'd put it in the post-box when you meant to."
"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."