The Moon out of Reach | Page 5

Rooke leaned forward, his eyes lit by momentary
enthusiasm. They were curious eyes--hazel brown, with a misleading
softness in them that appealed to every woman he met. "It's all true," he
repeated. "You could do big things, Nan. And you do nothing."
Nan laughed, half-pleased, half-vexed.
"I think you overrate my capabilities."
"I don't. There are very few pianists who have your technique, and
fewer still, your soul and power of interpretation."
"Oh, yes, there are. Heaps. And they've got what I lack."
"And that is?"
"The power to hold their audience."
"You lack that? You who can hold a man--"
She broke in excitedly.
"Yes, I can hold one man--or woman. I can play to a few people and
hold them. I know that. But--I can't hold a crowd."
Rooke regarded her thoughtfully. Perhaps it was true that in spite of her
charm, of the compelling fascination which made her so
unforgettable--did he not know how unforgettable!--she yet lacked the
tremendous force of magnetic personality which penetrates through a
whole concourse of people, temperamentally differing as the poles, and
carries them away on one great tidal wave of enthusiasm and applause.
"It may be true," he said, at last, reluctantly. "I don't think you possess
great animal magnetism! Yours is a more elusive, more--how shall I
put it?--an attraction more spirituelle. . . . To those it touches, worse
luck, a more enduring one."
"More enduring?"

"Far more. Animal magnetism is a thing of bodily presence. Once one
is away from it--apart--one is free. Until the next meeting! But your
victims aren't even free from you when you're not there."
"It sounds a trifle boring. Like a visitor who never knows when it's time
to go."
Rooke smiled.
"You're trying to switch me off the main theme, which is your work."
She sprang up.
"Don't bully me any more," she said quickly, "and I'll play you one of
my recent compositions."
She sauntered across to the piano and began to play a little ripping
melody, full of sunshine and laughter, and though a sob ran through it,
it was smothered by the overlying gaiety. Rooke crossed to her side and
quietly lifted her hands from the keys.
"Charming," he said. "But it doesn't ring true. That was meant for a sad
song. As it stands, it's merely flippant--insincere. And insincerity is the
knell of art."
Nan skimmed the surface defiantly.
"What a disagreeable criticism! You might have given me some
encouragement instead of crushing my poor little attempt at
composition like that!"
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