The Moon out of Reach. Margaret Pedler

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      Rooke looked at her gravely. With him, sincerity in art was a fetish; in life, a superfluity. But for the moment he was genuinely moved. The poseur's mask which he habitually wore slipped aside and the real man peeped out.

      "Yours ought to be more than attempts," he said quietly. "It's in you to do something really big. And you must do it. If not, you'll go to pieces. You don't understand yourself."

      "And do you profess to?"

      "A little." He smiled down at her. "The gods have given you the golden gift—the creative faculty. And there's a price to pay if you don't use the gift."

      Nan's "blue violet" eyes held a startled look.

      "You've got something which isn't given to everyone. To precious few, in fact! And if you don't use it, it will poison everything. We artists may not rust. If we do, the soul corrodes."

      The sincerity of his tone was unmistakable. Art was the only altar at which Rooke worshipped, it was probably the only altar at which he ever would worship consistently. Nan suddenly yielded to the driving force at the back of his speech.

      "Listen to this, then," she said. "It's a setting to some words I came across the other day."

      She handed him a slip of paper on which the words were written and his eyes ran swiftly down the verses of the brief lyric:

      EMPTY HANDS

      Away in the sky, high over our heads,

       With the width of a world between,

       The far Moon sails like a shining ship

       Which the Dreamer's eyes have seen.

      And empty hands are out-stretched in vain,

       While aching eyes beseech,

       And hearts may break that cry for the Moon,

       The silver Moon out of reach!

      But sometimes God on His great white Throne

       Looks down from the Heaven above,

       And lays in the hands that are empty

       The tremulous Star of Love.

      Nan played softly, humming the melody in the wistful little pipe of a voice which was all that Mature had endowed her with. But it had an appealing quality—the heart-touching quality of the mezzo-soprano—while through the music ran the same unsatisfied cry as in her setting of the old Tentmaker's passionate words—a terrible demand for those things that life sometimes withholds.

      As she ceased playing Maryon Rooke spoke musingly.

      "It's a queer world," he said. "What a man wants he can't have. He sees the good gifts and may not take them. Or, if he takes the one he wants the most—he loses all the rest. Fame and love and life—the great god Circumstance arranges all these little matters for us. … And mighty badly sometimes! And that's why I can't—why I mustn't—"

      He broke off abruptly, checking what he had intended to say. Nan felt as though a door had been shut in her face. This man had a rare faculty for implying everything and saying nothing.

      "I don't understand," she said rather low.

      "An artist isn't a free agent—not free to take the things life offers," he answered steadily. "He's seen 'the far Moon' with the Dreamer's eyes, and that's probably all he'll ever see of it. His 'empty hands' may not even grasp at the star."

      He had adapted the verses very cleverly to suit his purpose. With a sudden flash of intuition Nan understood him, and the fear which had knocked at her heart, when Penelope had assumed that there was a definite understanding between herself and Rooke, knocked again. Poetically wrapped up, he was in reality handing her out her congé—frankly admitting that art came first and love a poor second.

      He twisted his shoulders irritably.

      "Last talks are always odious!" he flung out abruptly.

      "Last?" she queried. Her fingers were trifling nervously with the pages of an album of songs that rested against the music-desk.

      He did not look at her.

      "Yes," he said quietly. "I'm going away. I leave for Paris to-morrow."

      There was a crash of jangled notes as the album suddenly pitched forward on to the keys of the piano.

      With an impetuous movement he leaned towards her and caught her hand in his.

      "Nan!" he said hoarsely, "Nan! Do you care?"

      But the next moment he had released her.

      "I'm a fool!" he said. "What's the use of drawing a boundary line and then overstepping it?"

      "And where"—Nan's voice was very low—"where do you draw the line?"

      He stood motionless a moment. Then he gestured a line with his hand—a line between, himself and her.

      "There," he said briefly.

      She caught her breath. But before she could make any answer he was speaking again.

      "You've been very good to me, Nan—pushed the gate of Paradise at least ajar. And if it closes now, I've no earthly right to grumble. … After all, I'm only one amongst your many friends." He reclaimed her hands and drew them against his breast. "Good-bye, beloved," he said. His voice sounded rough and uneven.

      Instinctively Nan clung to him. He released himself very gently—very gently but inexorably.

      "So it's farewell, Sun-kissed."

      Mechanically she shook hands and her lips murmured some vague response. She heard the door of the flat close behind him, followed almost immediately by the clang of the iron grille as the lift-boy dragged it across. It seemed to her as though a curious note of finality sounded in the metallic clamour of the grille—a grim resemblance to the clank of keys and shooting of bolts which cuts the outer world from the prisoner in his cell.

      With a little strangled cry she sank into a chair, clasping her hands tightly together. She sat there, very still and quiet, staring blankly into space. …

      And so, an hour later, Penelope found her. She was startled by the curious, dazed look in her eyes.

      "Nan!" she cried sharply. "Nan! What's the matter?"

      Nan turned her head fretfully from one side to the other.

      "Nothing," she answered dully. "Nothing whatever."

      But Penelope saw the look of strain in her face. Very deliberately she divested herself of her hat and coat and sat down.

      "Tell me about it," she said practically. "Is it—is it that man?"

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