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.