THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR
Having secured Kitty's forgotten fan, Mallory absent-mindedly descended
the long stone flight of steps instead of taking the lift and,
regaining the street, hailed a passing taxi and drove towards Green
Street, whither the Seymours' car had already proceeded.
As the driver threaded his way through the traffic, Peter's thoughts
revolved round the scene which his unexpected return to the flat had
interrupted. There was only one deduction to be drawn from it, which
was that Nan, after all, still cared for Maryon Rooke. The old love
still held her.
The realisation was bitter. Even though the woman who was his wife
must always stand betwixt himself and Nan, yet loving her as he did, it
had meant a good deal to Mallory to know that no other man had any
claim upon her.
And earlier in the afternoon, just before the maid had intruded on them
to deliver Rooke's telegram, it had seemed almost as though Nan, too,
had cared. One moment more alone together and he would have
known--been sure.
A vague vision of the future had even flashed through his mind--he and
Nan never any more to one another than good comrades, but each knowing
that underneath their friendship lay something stronger and deeper--the
knowledge that, though unavowed, they belonged to each other. And even
a love that can never be satisfied is better than life without love.
It may bring its moments of unbearable agony, but it is still love--the
most beautiful and glorious thing in the world. And the pain of
knowing that a great gulf is for ever set between two who love is a
penalty that real love can face and triumph over.
But now the whole situation was altered. Unmistakably Maryon Rooke
still meant a good deal to Nan, although Peter felt a certain
consciousness that if he were to pit himself against Rooke he could
probably make the latter's position very insecure. But was it fair?
Was it fair to take advantage of the quick responsiveness of Nan's
emotions--that sensitiveness which gave reply as readily as a violin to
the bow?
She was not a woman to find happiness very easily, and he himself had
nothing to offer her except a love that must always be forbidden,
unconsummated. In God's Name, then, if Maryon Rooke could give her
happiness, what right had he to stand in the way?
By the time the taxi had brought him to the door of Kitty's house, his
decision was taken. He would clear out--see as little of Nan as
possible. It was the best thing he could do for her, and the
consideration of what it would cost him he relegated to a later period.
His steps lagged somewhat as he followed the manservant upstairs to
Kitty's own particular den, and the slight limp which the war had left
him seemed rather more marked than usual. Any great physical or
nervous strain, invariably produced this effect. But he mustered up a
smile as he entered the room and held out the recovered fan.
The "little milliner" was nowhere to be seen, and Kitty herself was
ensconced on the Chesterfield, enjoying an iced lemon-squash and a
cigarette, while Penelope and Barry were downstairs playing a desultory
game of billiards. The irregular click of the ivory balls came faintly
to Mallory's ears.
"Got my fan, Peter? Heaps of thanks. What will you have? A
whisky-and-soda? . . . Why--Peter--"
She broke on abruptly as she caught sight of his face. He was rather
pale and his eyes had a tired, beaten look in them.
"What's wrong, Peter?"
He smiled down at her as she lay tucked up amongst her cushions.
"Why should there be anything wrong?"
"Something is," replied Kitty decidedly. "Did I swish you away from
the flat against your will?"
"I should be a very ungrateful person if I failed to appreciate my
present privileges."
She shook her head disgustedly.
"You're a very annoying person!" she returned. "You invariably take
refuge in a compliment."
"Dear Madame Kitty"--Mallory leaned forward and looked down at her with
his steady grey-blue eyes--"dear Madame Kitty, I say to you _what I
mean_. I do not compliment my friends"--his voice deepened--"my dear,
trusted friends."
His foreign twist of phrase was unusually pronounced, as always in
moments of strong feeling.
"But that's just it!" she declared emphatically. "You're _not_
trusting me--you're keeping me outside the door."
"Believe me, there's nothing you'd wish to see--the other side."
"Which means that in any case it's no use knocking at a door that won't
be opened," said Kitty, apparently yielding the point. "So we'll
switch off that subject and get on to the next. We go down to Mallow
Court at the end of this week. I can't stand town in July. What date
are you coming to us?"
Peter was silent a moment, his eyes bent on the ground. Then he raised
his head suddenly as though he had just come to a decision.
"I'm afraid I shan't be able to come down," he said quietly.
"But you promised us!" objected Kitty. "Peter, you can't go back on a
promise!"
He regarded her gravely. Then:
"Sometimes one has to do--even that."
Kitty, discerning in his refusal another facet of that "something
wrong" she had suspected, clasped her hands round her knees and faced
him with deliberation.
"Look here, Peter, it isn't you to break a promise without some real
good reason. You say you can't come down to us at Mallow. Why not?"
He met her eyes steadily.
"I can't answer that," he replied.
Kitty remained obdurate.
"I want an answer, Peter. We've been pals for some time now,
and"--with vigour--"I'm not going to be kept out of whatever it is
that's hurting you. So tell me."
He made no answer, and she slipped down from the Chesterfield and came
to his side.
"Is it anything to do with Nan?" she asked gently, her thoughts going
back to the talk she had had with Penelope before the bridge party
began.
A rather weary smile curved his lips.
"It doesn't seem much use trying to keep you in the dark, does it?"
"I must know," she urged. Adding with feminine guile:
"Of course I should be frightfully hurt if I thought you weren't coming
just because you didn't want to. But still I'd rather know--even if
that were the reason."
"Not want to?" he broke out, his control suddenly snapping. "I'd give
my soul to come!"
The bitterness in his voice--in the lazy, drawling tones she knew so
well--let in a flood of light upon the darkness in which she had been
groping.
"Peter--oh, Peter!" she cried tremulously. "You're not--you don't mean
that you care for Nan--seriously?"
"I don't think many men could be with her much without caring," he
answered simply.
"Oh, I'm sorry--I'm sorry! . . . I--I never thought of that when I
asked you to be a pal to her." Her voice shook uncontrollably.
He smiled again--the game half-weary, half-tenderly amused smile which
was so characteristic.
"You needn't be sorry," he said, speaking with great gentleness. "I
shall never be sorry that I love her. It's only that just now she
doesn't need me. That's why I won't come down to Mallow."
"Not need you!"
"No. The man she needs has come back. I can't tell you _how_ I
know--you'll have to trust me over that--but I do know that Maryon
Rooke has come back to her and that he is the man who means everything
to her."
Kitty's brows drew together as she pondered the question whether Peter
were right or wrong in his opinion.
"I don't think you're right," she said at last in tones of conviction.
"I don't believe she 'needs' him at all. I dare-say he still
fascinates her. He has"--she hesitated--"a curious sort of fascination
for some women. And the sooner Nan is cured of it the better."
"I've done--all that I could," he answered briefly.
"Don't I know that?" Kitty slipped her arm into his. "You've been
splendid! That's just why I want you to come down to us in Cornwall."
"But if Rooke is there--"
"Maryon?" She paused, then went on with a chilly little note of
haughtiness in her voice. "I certainly don't propose to invite Maryon
Rooke to Mallow."
"Still, you can't prevent him from taking a summer holiday at St.
Wennys."
St. Wennys was a small fishing village on the Cornish coast, barely a
mile away from Mallow Court.
"He won't come--I'm sure!" asserted Kitty. "Sir Robert Burnham lives
quite near there--he's Maryon's godfather--and they hate each other
like poison."
"Why?"
"Oh, old Sir Robert was Maryon's guardian till he came of age, and
then, when Maryon decided to go in for painting, he presented him with
the small patrimony to which he was entitled and declined to have
anything further to do with him--either financially or otherwise.
Simply chucked him. Maryon went through some very bad times, I
believe, in his early days," continued Kitty, striving to be just.
"That's the one thing I respect him for. He stuck to it and won
through to where he stands now."
"It shows he's got some grit, anyway," agreed Peter. "And do you
think"--smiling--"that that's the type of man who's going to give in
over winning the woman he wants? . . . Should I, if things were
different--if I were free?"
Kitty laughed reluctantly.
"You? No. But you're not Maryon Rooke. He could never be the kind of
lover you would be, my Peter. With him, his art counts first of
anything in the wide world. And that's why I don't think he'll come to
St. Wennys. He's in love with Nan--as far as his type can be in
love--but he's not going to tie himself up with her. So he'll keep
away."
She paused, then went on urgently:
"Peter dear, we shall all of us hate it so if you don't come down to
Cornwall with us this year. Look, if Rooke doesn't show up down there,
so that we know he's only philandering with Nan and has no real
intention of marrying her, will you come then?"
He still hesitated. And all at once Kitty saw the other side of the
picture--Peter's side. She wanted him at Mallow--they all wanted him.
But she had not thought of the matter from his point of view. Now that
she knew he cared for Nan she recognised that it would be a bitterly
hard thing for him to be under the same roof with the woman he loved,
yet from whom he was barred by every law of God and man, and who, as
far as Kitty knew, regarded him solely in the light of a friend. Even
if Nan were growing to care for Peter--the bare possibility flashed
through Kitty's mind only to be instantly dismissed--even so, it would
serve only to complicate matters still further.
When she spoke again it was in a very subdued tone of voice and with an
accent of keen self-reproach.
"Peter, I'm a selfish pig! All this time I've never been thinking of
you--only of ourselves. I believe it's your own fault"--with a rather
quavering laugh. "You've taught us all to expect so much from you--and
to give so little."
Mallory made a quick gesture of dissent.
"Oh, yes, you have," she insisted. "You're always giving and we
just--take! I never thought how hard a thing I was asking when I
begged you to come down to Mallow while Nan was with us. It was sheer
brutality to suggest it." Her voice trembled. "Please forgive me,
Peter!"
"My dear, there's nothing to forgive. You know I love Nan, that she'll
always be the one woman for me. But you know, too, that there's Celia,
and that Nan and I can never be more to each other than we are
now--just friends. I'm not going to forfeit that friendship--unless it
happens it would be best for Nan that we should forget we were even
friends. And I won't say it doesn't hurt to be with her. But there
are some hurts that one would rather bear than lose what goes with
them."
The grave voice, with the undertone of pain running through it, ceased.
Kitty's tears were flowing unchecked.
"Oh, Peter, Peter!" she cried sobbingly. "Why aren't you free? You
and Nan are just made for each other."
He winced a little, as though she had laid her finger on a raw spot.
"Hush, Kitten," he said quietly. "Don't cry so! These things happen
and we've got to face them."
Kitty subsided into a chair and mopped her eyes.
"It's wicked--wicked that you should be tied up to a woman like
Celia--a woman who's got no more soul than this chair!"--banging the
chair-arm viciously.
"And you mustn't say things like that, either," chided Peter, smiling
at her very kindly.
As he spoke there came the sound of footsteps, and the voices of Barry
and Penelope could be heard as they approached Kitty's den, by way of
the corridor.
"I owe you a bob, then," Barry was saying in his easy, good-natured
tones. "You beat me fair and square that last game, Penny."
Kitty sprang up, suddenly conscious of her tear-stained face.
"Oh, I can't see them---not now! Peter, stop them from coming here!"
A moment later Mallory came out of the room and met the approaching
couple before they had reached the door.
"I was just coming to say good-bye to Kitty," began Penelope. "I'd no
idea the time had flown so quickly."
"Charm of my society," murmured Barry.
Peter's face was rather white and set, but he managed to reply in a
voice that sounded fairly normal.
"Kitty's very fagged and she's going to rest for a few minutes before
dressing for dinner. She asked me to say good-bye to you for her,
Penelope."
"Then it falls to my lot to speed the parting guest," said Barry
cheerily. "Peter, old son, can the car take you on anywhere after
dropping Penny at the Mansions?"
Peter was conscious of a sudden panic. He had just come from baring
the rawness of his wound to Kitty, and, gently as her fingers had
probed, even the kind hands of a friend may sometimes hurt
excruciatingly. He felt that at the moment he could not endure the
companionship of any living soul.
"No, thanks," he answered jerkily. "I'll walk."