The Moon out of Reach Part 51

"Yes," she answered slowly. Her lips felt dry. "And I'll never play to you again as long as I live!"

He smiled indulgently.

"That's putting it rather strong, isn't it?" he said, making a long arm and pulling her down on to his knee.

She sprang up again instantly and stood a little away from him, her hands clenched, her breast heaving tumultuously.

"Come back, small firebrand!" he commanded laughingly.

A fresh gust of indignation, swept over her. Even now he didn't comprehend, didn't realise in the very least how he had wounded her.

Her nails dug into the flesh of her palms as she took a fresh grip of herself and answered him--very slowly and distinctly so that he might not miss her meaning.

"It's not putting it one bit too strong. It's what I feel--that I can't ever play to you again." She paused, then burst out impetuously: "You've always disliked my love of music! You were jealous of it. And to-night I wanted to show you--to--to share it with you. You hated the piano--you wanted to smash it, because you thought it came between us.

And so I tried to make you understand!" Her words came rushing out headlong now, bitter, sobbing words, holding all the agony of mind which she had been enduring for so long.

"You've no idea what music means to me--and you've not tried to find out. Instead, you've laughed indulgently about it, been impatient over it, and behaved as though it were some child's toy of which you didn't quite approve." Her voice shook. "And it isn't! It's _part_ of me--part of the woman you want to marry . . ."

She broke off, a little breathlessly.

Roger was on his feet now and there was a deep, smouldering anger in his eyes as he regarded her.

"And is all this outburst because I fell asleep while you were playing?" he asked curtly.

She was silent, battling with the emotion that was shaking her.

"Because"--he went on with a tinge of contempt in his voice--"if so, it's a ridiculous storm in a tea-cup."

"'Ridiculous'! . . . Yes, that's all it would be to you," she answered bitterly. "But to me it's just like a light flashed on our future life together. We're miles apart--miles! We haven't a thought, an idea, in common. And when it comes to music--to the one big thing in my life--you brush it aside as if it could be taken up or put down like a child's musical box!"

Roger looked at her. Something of her pa.s.sionate pain and resentment was becoming clear to him.

"I didn't know it meant as much to you as that," he said slowly.

"It's everything to me now!" she burst out wildly. "The only thing I have left--left of my world as I knew it."

His face whitened, and a curious, strained brilliance came into his eyes. She had touched him an the raw, roused his mad jealousy of all that had been in her life of which, he had had no share.

"The only thing you have left?" he repeated, with a slow, dangerous inflection in his voice. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes!"--smiting her hands together. "Can't you see it? There's . . .

_nothing_ . . . here for me. Are we companions, you and I? We're absolute strangers! We don't think, or feel, or move in the same world."

"No?"

Just the brief monosyllable, spoken as coolly as though she had remarked that she didn't like the colour of his tie. She looked up, bewildered, and met his gaze. His eyes frightened her. They were ablaze, remorseless as the eyes of a bird of prey. A sudden terror of him overwhelmed her.

"Roger!" she cried. "We can't marry! Let me go--release me from my promise! Oh!"--breaking down all at once--"I can't bear it! I can't marry you! Let me go--oh, please let me go!"

There was a pause--a pause during which Nan could feel her heart leaping in her body like some terrified captive thing. Then, Roger made a movement. Instinctively she knew it was towards her and flung out her arms to ward him off. But she might as well have opposed him with two straws. He caught both wrists in one of his big hands and bent her arms downwards, drawing her close to him till she lay unwillingly against his breast, held there in a grasp like iron.

"Will I release you?" he said savagely. "No, I will _not_! Neither now, nor at any future time. You're _mine_! Do you understand what that means? It means if you'd one day left to live, it would be _my_ day--one night, _mine_! And I swear to you if any man takes you from me I'll kill him first and you after. _Now_ do you understand?"

She tried to speak, but her voice failed her. It was as though he had p.r.o.nounced sentence on her--a life sentence! She could never get away from him--never, never! A shudder ran through her whole body. He felt it, and it stung him to fresh anger. Her head was pressed into his shoulder as though for shelter.

"Look up!" he demanded imperiously. "Don't hide your face. It's mine.

And I want to see it!"

Reluctantly, compelled by his voice, she lifted a white, tortured face to his. Then, meeting his eyes, savagely alight with the fire of conquest, she turned her head quickly aside. But it was useless. She was powerless in the vice-like grip of his arms, and the next moment he was kissing her, eyes and mouth and pulsing throat, with terrible, burning kisses that seemed to sear their way through her whole body, branding her indelibly his.

It was useless to struggle. She hung nervelessly in his straining arms, mute and helpless to withstand him, while his pa.s.sion swept over her like a tidal wave, submerging her utterly.

When at last he set her free she swayed unsteadily, catching at the table for support. Her knees seemed to be giving way under her. She was voiceless, breathless from his violence. The tide had receded, leaving her utterly spent and exhausted.

He regarded her in silence for a moment.

"I don't think you'll ask me to release you from your engagement again," he said slowly.

"No," she whispered tonelessly. "No."

She tottered almost as though she were going to fall. With a sort of rough kindliness he put out his hand to steady her, but she shrank from him like a beaten child.

"Don't do that!" he exclaimed unevenly. Adding: "I've frightened you, I suppose?"

She bent her head.

"Well"--sulkily--"it was your own fault. You roused the wild beast in me." Then, with a queer, half-shamed laugh, he added: "There's Spanish blood in the Trenbys, you know--as there is in many of the Cornish folk."

Nan supposed this avowal was intended as an apology, or at least as an explanation of sorts. It was rather appealing in its boyish clumsiness, but she felt too numb, too utterly weary, to respond to it.

"You're tired," he said abruptly. "You'd better go to bed." He put a hand beneath her arm, but she shrank away from him with a fresh spasm of terror.

"Don't be afraid. I'm not going to kiss you again." He spoke rea.s.suringly. "Come, let me help you. You can hardly stand."

Once more he took her arm, and, too stunned to offer any resistance, she allowed him to lead her from the room.

"Will you be all right, now?" he asked anxiously, as they paused at the foot of the staircase.

She gripped the banister.

"Yes," she answered mechanically. "I shall be all right."

He remained at the bottom of the stairs, watching until her slight figure had disappeared round the bend of the stairway.

CHAPTER XXIII

A QUESTION OF HONOUR