Gradually the stony look of despair lifted from her face, and a new spirit of resolution took possession of her.  She was not the only person in the world who had to suffer.  There were others, Peter amongst them, who were debarred by circumstances from finding happiness, and who went on doing their duty unflinchingly.  It was only she who had failed—­letting Roger bear the cost of her mistake.  She had promised to marry him when it seemed the only way out of the difficulties which beset her, and now she was not honouring that promise.  While Peter Mallory was still waiting quietly for the wife he no longer loved to come back to him—­keeping the door of his house open to her whenever she should choose to claim fulfilment of the pledges he had given the day he married her.

Nan leaned her head against the window-pane, realising that, whatever Roger’s faults might he, she, too, had fallen short.

“Our troth, Nan.  Hang on to it—­hard, when life seems a bit more uphill than usual.”

She could hear Peter’s voice, steady and clear and reassuring, almost as she had heard it that night on the headland at Tintagel.  She felt her throat contract and a burning mist of tears blurred her vision.  For a moment she fought desperately against her weakness.  Then, with a little strangled cry, she buried her face against her arm and broke into a passion of tears.

CHAPTER XXII

THE OFFERING OF FIRST-FRUITS

The concerto was finished!  Finished, at least, as far as it was possible without rehearsing the effect with orchestra, and as Nan turned over the sheets of manuscript, thickly dotted with their medley of notes and rests and slurs, she was conscious of that glorious thrill of accomplishment which is the creative artist’s recompense for long hours of work and sacrifice,—­and for those black moments of discouragement and self-distrust which no true artist can escape.

She sat very quietly in the West Parlour, thinking of the concerto and of what she meant to do with it.  She was longing to show it to Sandy McBain, who would have a musician’s comprehension of every bar, and she knew he would rejoice with her whole-heartedly over it.  But that would have to wait until after Roger had heard it.  The first-fruits, as it were, were to be offered to him.

She had it all planned out in her mind.  Roger was out hunting to-day, so that she had been able to add certain final touches to the concerto uninterrupted, and after dinner she proposed to carry him off to the West Parlour and play it to him.  There would be only their two selves, alone together—­for she had no intention of inviting Lady Gertrude and Isobel to attend this first performance.

She was nervously excited at the prospect, and when she heard the distant sound of a horseman trotting up the drive she jumped up and ran to the window, peering out into the dusk.  It was Roger, and as horse and rider swung past the window she drew back suddenly into the fire-lit shadows of the room, letting the short window-curtains fall together.