ON THIN ICE
May had slipped away into the ranks of the dead months, and June--a
June resplendent with sunshine and roses--had taken her place.
Nan, an open letter in her hand, sat perched on the low wall of the
quadrangular court at Mallow, delicately sniffing the delicious salt
tang which wafted up from the expanse of blue sea that stretched in
front of her. Physically she felt a different being from the girl who
had lain on a couch in London and grumbled fretfully at the houses
opposite. A month at Mallow had practically restored her health. The
good Cornish cream and butter had done much towards rounding the
sharpened contours of her face, and to all outward appearance she was
the same Nan who had stayed at Mallow almost a year ago.
But within herself she knew that a great gulf lay fixed between those
insouciant, long-ago days and this golden, scented morning. The world
had not altered. June was still vivid and sweet with the rapture of
summer. It was she herself who had changed.
Looking backward, she almost wondered how she had endured the agony of
love and suffering and sacrifice which had been compressed into a
single year. She wished sometimes that they had let her die when she
was so ill--let her slip easily out of the world while the delirium of
fever still closed the door on conscious knowledge of all that she had
lost. It seemed foolish to make so much effort to hold on to life when
everything which had made it lovely and pleasant and desirable had gone
out of it. Yet there were still moments, as to-day, when the sheer
beauty of the earth so thrilled her that for the time being life was a
thousand times worth living.
And behind it all--back of the tears and suffering which seemed so
cruelly incomprehensible--there lay always the inscrutable and splendid
purposes of God, and the Ultimate Light beyond. Lord St. John had
taught her that. It had been his own courageous, unshakable belief.
But now he had gone from her she found her faith faltering. It was too
difficult--well-nigh impossible--to hold fast to the big uplift of such
thought and faith as had been his.
Her marriage loomed ahead in the near future, and in spite of her
dogged intention to fulfil her bargain, she dreaded unspeakably the
actual day which would make her Roger's wife--compelling her to a
physical and spiritual bondage from which she shrank with loathing.
But there could be no escape. None. Throughout her illness, and since
then, while she had groped her way slowly back to health here at
Mallow, Roger had been thoughtful and considerate to an astonishing
degree. Never once, during all the hours they had passed together, had
he let that strong passion of his break loose, though once or twice she
thought she had heard it leap against the bars which prisoned it--the
hot, imperious desire to which one day she must submit unmurmuringly.
Drilled by Kitty, he had been very undemanding up till now. Often he
had left her with only a kindly pressure of the hand or a light kiss on
her forehead, and she had been grateful to him. Grateful, too, that
she had been spared a disagreeable scene with his mother. Lady
Gertrude had met her without censure, even with a certain limited
cordiality, and accordingly Nan, whose conscience was over-sensitive
just now, had reproached herself the more severely for her treatment of
her future mother-in-law.
Perhaps she would have felt rather less self-reproachful if she had
known the long hours of persuasion and argument by which Roger had at
last prevailed upon his mother to refrain from pouring out the vials of
her wrath on Nan's devoted head. Only fear lest she might alienate the
girl so completely that Roger would lose the wife he wanted had induced
her to yield. She had consented at last, but with a mental reservation
that when Nan was actually Roger's wife she would tell her precisely
what she thought of her whenever occasion offered. Nothing would
persuade her to overlook such flagrant faults in any daughter-in-law of
hers!
Latterly, however, she had been considerably mollified by the Seymours'
tactful agreement to her cherished scheme that Nan's marriage should
take place from Mallow Court. Actually, Kitty had consented because
she considered that the longer Nan could lead an untrammelled life at
Mallow, prior to her marriage, the better, and thanks to her skilful
management the date was now fixed for the latter end of July.
Roger had chafed at the delay, but Kitty had been extremely firm on the
point, assuring him that she required as long as possible to recuperate
from her recent illness. In her own mind she felt that, since Nan must
inevitably go through with the marriage, every day's grace she could
procure for her would help to restore her poise and strengthen nerves
which had already been tried to the uttermost.
Between them, Barry and Kitty and the two Fentons--who had joined the
Mallow party for a short holiday--did their utmost to make the time
that must still elapse before the wedding a little space of restfulness
and peace, shielding Nan from every possible worry and annoyance. Even
the question of trousseau was swept aside by Kitty of the high hand.
"Leave it to me. I'll see to it all," she proclaimed. "Good gracious,
there's a post in the country, isn't there? Patterns can be sent and
everything got under way, and finally Madame Véronique shall come down
here for the fittings. So that's that!"
But in spite of Kitty's good offices, Nan was beginning to find the
thorns in her path. Now that her health was more or less restored,
Roger no longer exercised the same self-control. The postponing of the
wedding-day to a date six weeks ahead roused him to an impatience he
made no effort to conceal.
"But for your uncle's death and Kitty's prolonging your convalescence
so absurdly, we should have been married by now," he told her one day
with a thwarted note in his voice.
Nan shivered a little.
"Yes," she said. "We should have been married."
"Well"--his keen, grey eyes swept her face--"there'll be no further
postponement. I shall marry you if the whole of your family chooses to
die at the same moment. Even if you yourself were dying you should be
my wife--_my wife_--first."
Roger's nature seemed to have undergone a curious change--an
intensifying of his natural instincts, as it were. Those long hours of
apprehension during which he had really believed that Nan had left him,
followed by her illness, when death so nearly snatched her from him,
had strengthened his desire for possession, rousing his love to fever
heat and setting loose within him a corresponding jealousy.
Nan could not understand his attitude towards her in the very least.
In the first instance he had yielded with a fairly good grace to
Kitty's advice regarding the date of the wedding, but within a few days
he had suddenly become restive and dissatisfied. Had Nan known it, an
apparently careless remark of Isobel Carson's had sown the seed.
"It's curious that your marriage with Nan still seems to hang on the
horizon, Roger," she had remarked reflectively. "It's always 'jam
to-morrow,' isn't it? You'd better take care she doesn't give you the
slip altogether!"--smilingly.
Very often, since then, he would sit watching Nan with a sullen,
brooding look in his eyes, and on occasion he seemed a prey to morose
suspicion, when he would question her dictatorially as to what she had
been doing since they had last met. At times he was roughly tender
with her, abruptly passionate and demanding, and she grew to dread
these moods even more than his outbreaks of temper.
It was now more than ever impossible for her to respond, and only
yesterday, when he had suddenly caught her in his arms, kissing her
fiercely yet feeling her lips lie stiff and unresponsive beneath his
own, he had almost flung her from him. Then, gripping her by the arm
until the delicate flesh showed red and bruised beneath the pressure,
he had said savagely:
"By God, Nan! I'll make you love me--or break you!"
Nan turned back her sleeve and looked at the red weals now darkening
into a bruise which his grasp had made on the white skin of her arm.
Then she re-read the letter in her hand. It bore yesterday's date and
was very brief.
"I'm hoping to get out of town very soon now, and I propose to come
down and inspect my new property with a view to re-decorating the
house. I could never live with dear godfather's Early Victorian chairs
and tables! So you may expect to see me almost any day now on the
doorstep of Mallow Court.
"Yours as always.
"MARYON."
Nan's first impulse was to beg him not to come. She had screwed up her
courage to fulfil her pledge to marry Roger, and she felt that the
presence in the neighbourhood of Maryon--Maryon with his familiar charm
and attraction, and his former love for her intensified by losing
her--might be a somewhat disturbing factor.
Looking out over the sea, she smiled to think how futile Maryon's charm
would be to touch her if she were going to marry Peter Mallory. She
would have no wish even to see him. But yesterday's scene with Roger
had increased her fear and dread of her coming marriage, and she was
conscious of a captive's longing for one more taste of freedom, for one
more meeting with the man who had played a big part in the old Bohemian
life she had loved so well.
For long she hesitated how to answer Maryon's letter, sitting there on
the seaward wall, her chin cupped in her hand. Should she write and
ask him to postpone his visit? Or reply just as though she were
expecting him? At last her decision was taken. She tore up his letter
and, strolling to the edge of the cliff, tossed the pieces into the
sea. She would send no answer at all, leaving it to the shuttle of
fate to weave the next strand in her life.
And a week later Maryon Rooke came down to take possession of his new
domain.
"I can take six clear weeks now," he told Nan. "That's better than my
first plan of week-ending down here. I have been working hard since
you blew into my studio one good day, and now for six weeks I toil not,
neither do I spin. Unless." he added suddenly, "I paint a portrait of
you while I'm here!"
Nan glanced at him delightedly.
"I should love it. Only you won't paint my soul, will you, Maryon, as
you did Mrs. T. Van Decken's?"
His eyes narrowed a little.
"I don't know, Nan. I think I should rather like to paint it. Your
soul would be an intricate piece of work."
"I'm sure it wouldn't make nearly as nice a picture as my face. I
think it's rather a plain soul."
"The answer to that is obvious," he replied lightly. "Well, I shall
talk to Trenby about the portrait. I suppose permission from
headquarters would be advisable?"
Nan made a small grimace.
"Of the first importance, my friend."
Rather to Nan's surprise, Roger quite readily gave permission for Rooke
to paint her portrait. In fact, he appeared openly delighted with the
idea that her charming face should be permanently transferred to
canvas. In his own mind he had promptly decided to buy the portrait
when completed and add it to the picture gallery at the Hall, where
many a lovely Trenby of bygone generations looked down, smiling or sad,
from the walls.
The sittings were begun out of doors in the tranquil seclusion of the
rose garden, Rooke motoring across to Mallow almost daily, and Nan
posed in a dozen different attitudes while he made sketches of her both
in line and colour, none of which, however, satisfied him in the least.
"My dear Nan," he exclaimed one day, as he tore up a rough charcoal
sketch in disgust, "you're the worst subject I've ever encountered---or
else my hand has lost its cunning! I can't get you--_you_--in the very
least!"
"Oh, Maryon"--breaking her pose to look across at him with a provoking
smile--"can't you find my soul, after all?"
"I don't believe you've got one. Anyway, it's too elusive to pin down
on canvas. Even your face seems out of my reach. You won't look as I
want you to. Any other time of the day I see just the expression on
your face want to catch--the expression"--his voice dropped a
shade--"which means Nan to me. But the moment you come out here and
pose, it's just a pretty, meaningless mask which isn't you at all."
He surveyed her frowningly.
"After all, it _is_ your soul I want!" he said vehemently.
He took a couple of quick strides across the grass to her side.
"Give it me, Nan--the heart and soul that looks out of your eyes
sometimes. This picture will never be sold. It's for me . . . me!
Surely"--with a little uneven laugh--"as I've lost the substance, you
won't grudge me the shadow?"
A faint colour ran up under her clear skin.
"Oh, I know it was my own fault," he went on. "There was a time, Nan,
when I had my chance, wasn't there?"
She hesitated. Then:
"Perhaps there was--once," she acknowledged slowly.
"And I lost it! Well, I've paid for it every day of my life," he said
shortly. "And twice a day since your engagement," he added, with one
of those odd touches of whimsicality which were liable to cross even
his moments of deep feeling, giving a sense of unreality to them--a
something insincere.
"To get back to the picture--" suggested Nan.
He laughed.
"We can't get _back_--seeing we've never got there at all yet.
These"--with a gesture to the various sketches littering the lawn--"are
merely preliminary. When I begin the portrait itself, we'll retire
indoors. I think the music-room here will answer the purpose of a
studio very well."
"Two whole weeks!" observed Nan meditatively. "I fancy Roger will be
somewhat surprised that progress is so slow."
"Trenby? Pooh! It's not his picture. I shall have to explain to
him"--smiling--"that art is long."
"He'll get fidgety about it. You see, already we've stayed at home
several times when the others have arranged a picnic expedition."
"Choosing the better part," he retorted. "I should like to make one
more attempt this afternoon, if you're not too tired. See, your
arms . . . so! And I want your face the least bit tilted."
He put his hand very gently beneath her chin, posing her head as he
wished it. For a moment he held her so, her face cupped in his hand,
while his hazel eyes stared down at her with a smouldering fire in
their depths.
Slowly the hot colour crept into her face beneath his scrutiny.
"Maryon!" Her lips moved protestingly.
"I think you've got the shortest upper lip of any woman I know," he
said, calmly releasing her and going back to his easel. "And women
with short upper lips are the very devil."
He sketched rapidly for a time.
Her pose at the moment was practically perfect--the small head tilted a
little on the long round throat, while the slanting rays of the sun
turned the dusky hair into a shadowy, gold-flecked nimbus.
Rooke worked on in silence, though once as he looked across at her he
caught his underlip suddenly betwixt his teeth. She was so utterly
desirable--the curve of her cheek, the grace of her lissom body, the
faint blue veins that showed beneath the warm, ivory skin. And she was
going to be Trenby's wife!
"There!" he said abruptly. "That's the idea at last. Tomorrow we'll
begin the portrait itself."
Nan rose, stretching her arms above her head.
"I'm sure I shall die of fatigue, Maryon," she observed, coming round
to his side to inspect the sketch.
"Nonsense! I shall allow due intervals for rest and--mental
refreshment. What do you think of it?"
"I look rather--attractive"--impertinently.
"You do. Only I could suggest a substitute for the word 'rather.'"
Her eyes defied him.
"Could you? . . . What would it be?"
Before he could make any answer, there came a sound of voices close at
hand, and a minute later Trenby and Isobel Carson appeared from round
the corner of a high box hedge.
"We've been farming," announced Isobel. "I've been looking at Roger's
prize sheep and cattle. I mean"--with a laughing, upward glance at her
companion--"at the ones that are _going_ to be his prize sheep and
cattle as soon as they come under the judged eye. Then we thought we'd
motor across and inspect the portrait. How's it going, Mr. Rooke?"
"The portrait isn't yet begun, Miss Carson," he replied blandly.
"It seems to take a long time to get under way," she retorted. "Is it
so difficult to make a start? Surely not--for the great Mr.
Rooke!"--with delicate mockery.
There was a perpetual warfare between herself and Rooke. She was the
kind of woman he cordially detested--the pseudo sporting, outdoor type,
with a strong tendency towards the feline--"Neither male nor female
created He them," as he had once said. And when Rooke disliked man or
woman he took small pains to conceal the fact. Isobel had winced, more
than once, under the lash of his caustic tongue.
"I've made a start, Miss Carson, as these sketches testify"--waving his
arm towards them. "But some subjects require very much more delicate
handling than--others would do." And his half-closed eyes swept her
insolently from head to foot.
Isobel reddened and her mouth took on a somewhat disagreeable
expression.
"Then Nan must be an unusually difficult subject, mustn't she, Roger?
Why, you've been at it two weeks and have literally nothing to show for
it! You want speeding up."
Meanwhile Roger had been regarding the sketches in silence, an uneasy
feeling of dissatisfaction stirring in his mind.
"Yes," he said slowly. "You don't seem to have made much progress."
And his eyes travelled rather sombrely from Nan's face to that of the
artist.
"You must have a little patience, Trenby," replied Rooke pleasantly.
"The start is the difficult part. Tell me"--placing a couple of
sketches on the easel as he spoke--"which of those two poses do you
like the better?"
For the moment Roger's thoughts, slowly moving towards a vague
suspicion, were directed into another channel, precisely as Rooke had
intended they should be, and he examined the sketches carefully.
Finally he gave his opinion with surprisingly good judgment.
"That's Nan," he said, indicating one of them--the last of the
afternoon's efforts.
"Yes," agreed Rooke. "That's my choice." Then, turning laughingly to
Nan, he went on: "The die is cast. To-morrow we'll begin work in good
earnest."
"To-morrow?" broke in Isobel. "Oh, Roger, you mustn't let him take
possession of Nan to-morrow! We're all motoring over to Denleigh Abbey
for lunch, and the Peabodys will think it most odd if Nan doesn't come."
"The Peabodys?" queried Rooke. "Are those the 'new rich' people who've
bought the Abbey?"
"Yes. And they want us all to go--Mrs. Peabody made a special point of
it the other day. She asked everyone from Mallow as well as ourselves."
"What extensive hospitality!" murmured Rooke.
"They're quite nice people," asserted Isobel defiantly.
"Dear lady, they must indeed be overflowing with the milk of human
kindness--and Treasury notes."
Isobel's bird-like eyes gleamed maliciously.
"They want to hear Nan play," she persisted.
"And to see me paint?" he suggested ironically.
She ignored his retort and, turning to Nan, appealed to her directly.
"Shan't you come?" she asked bluntly.
"Well, if Maryon wants me to sit for him--" Nan began hesitatingly.
"The sooner the portrait's begun, the sooner it will be finished,"
interposed Rooke. "Can't you dispense with your fiancée to-morrow,
Trenby? . . . But just as you like, of course," he added courteously.
Roger hesitated. The frank appeal was disarming, shaking the suspicion
he was harbouring.
"Let's leave it like this," continued Rooke, following up his
advantage. "If the light's good, you'll let me have Nan, but if it's a
dull day she shall be swept into the gilded portals of the Peabodys."
"Very well," agreed Roger, rather reluctantly.
"I think you'll find," said Isobel, as she and Roger strolled back to
the car, "that the light _will_ be quite good enough for painting."
And that seemingly harmless remark lodged in Roger's mind and rankled
there throughout the whole of the following day when the Peabody lunch
took place as arranged--but lacking the presence of Maryon Rooke and
Nan.