A SURPRISE VISIT
It was raining--one of those sudden, pelting showers that descend from
June thunder-clouds, brief but drenching. It was also very dark, and
Bertrand had switched on the light. He was seated at Mordaunt's
writing-table, his black head bent over a pile of letters. The pen he
held moved busily, but not very quickly. He was writing with extreme
care. It was evident that he meant his first day's work to be a success.
He scarcely noticed the heavy downpour, being profoundly intent upon the
work he had in hand. Only at a sharp clap of thunder did he glance up
momentarily and shrug his shoulders. But he was at once immersed again in
his occupation, so deeply immersed that at the opening of the door he did
not turn his head.
Holmes paused just inside the room. "If you please, sir--"
"Ah, put it down, put it down!" said the Frenchman impatiently. "I am
busy."
But Holmes, being empty-handed, did not comply with the request. He
remained hesitating, obviously doubtful, till with a sharp jerk de
Montville turned in his chair.
"What is it, then? I have told you--I am busy."
Holmes looked apologetic. He found the abrupt ways of the new secretary
somewhat disconcerting. "It's a young lady, sir," he explained rather
diffidently. "It's Miss Wyndham. She run in here for shelter, and, seeing
as Mr. Mordaunt be out, I didn't know whether you would wish me to show
her up or not, sir."
Bertrand was on his feet in a moment. "A young lady! Miss Wyndham! Who
is--Miss Wyndham?"
"It's the young lady as Mr. Mordaunt is a-going to marry," said Holmes,
dropping his voice confidentially. "I told her as Mr. Mordaunt weren't
in, and she said as she'd like to wait. Didn't know quite what to do,
sir. Would you like me to show her up?"
"But certainly!" De Montville's eyebrows had gone up an inch, but he
lowered them hastily and smiled. Doubtless it was an English custom,
this; he must not display surprise. "Beg her to ascend," he said. "Mr.
Mordaunt may return at any moment. He would not wish his _fiancée_ to
remain below."
"Very good, sir." Holmes withdrew, leaving the door ajar.
Bertrand remained upon his feet, watching it expectantly.
At the sound of voices on the stairs he smiled involuntarily. But how
they were droll--these English ladies! Would he ever accustom himself--
"Miss Wyndham, sir!" It was Holmes again, opening the door wide to usher
in the unexpected visitor.
Bertrand bowed low.
The visitor paused an instant on the threshold, then came briskly
forward. "Oh," she said, "are you the organ-grinder?"
He straightened himself with a jerk; he looked at her. And suddenly a cry
rang through the room--a cry that came straight from a woman's heart,
inarticulate, thrilled through and through with a rapture beyond words.
And in a moment Bertrand de Montville, outcast and wanderer on the face
of the earth, had shed the bitter burden that weighed him down, had
leaped the dark dividing gulf that separated him from the dear land of
his dreams, and stood once more upon the sands of Valpré, with a girl's
hands fast clasped in his.
"_Mignonne_!" he gasped hoarsely. "_Mignonne_!" And again "_Mignonne_!"
Her answering voice had a break in it--a sound of unshed tears.
"Bertie--dear! Bertie--dear!"
The door closed discreetly, and Holmes departed to his own premises. It
was no affair of his, he informed himself stolidly; but it was a rum go,
and he couldn't help wondering what the master would make of it.
"But why wasn't I told?" said Chris, yet hovering between tears and
laughter. "They--Bertie--they said you were an organ-grinder!"
He let her hands go, but his dark eyes still shone with the wonder and
the joy of the encounter.
"Ah!" he said. "And they told me--they told me--that you were--" He
stopped abruptly with the dazed expression of a man suddenly hit in a
vital place. All the light went out of his face. He became silent.
"Why--what is it?" said Chris.
He did not answer at once, and in the pause that ensued he resumed his
burden, he re-crossed the gulf, and the sands of Valpré were left very,
very far away.
In the pause also she saw him as he was--a man broken before his prime,
haggard and tired and old, with the fire of his genius quenched for ever
in the bitter waters of adversity.
With an effort he spoke. "It is nothing, _chérie_. You are the same. But
with me--all is changed."
"Changed, Bertie? But how?"
He looked at her. His eyes dwelt upon the vivid, happy face, but all the
spontaneous gladness had died out of his own; it held only an infinite
melancholy.
"He--Mr. Mordaunt--has not told you?"
"No one has told me anything," she said. "What is it, Bertie? Have things
gone wrong with you? Tell me! Was it--was it the gun?"
He bent his head.
"Oh, but I'm so sorry," she said. "Was it a failure, after all?"
She drew near to him. She laid a sympathetic hand upon his arm.
A sharp tremor went through him. He stooped very low and kissed it. "It
was--worse than that," he said, his voice choked, barely audible. "It
was--it was--dishonour."
"Dishonour!" She echoed the word, uncomprehending, unbelieving.
He remained bent over her hand. She could not see his face. "Have you
never heard," he said, "of ex-Lieutenant de Montville--the man whom all
France execrated three years ago as a traitor?"
"Yes," said Chris. "I've heard of him, of course. But"--doubtfully--"I
don't read the papers much. I didn't know what he was supposed to have
done. I only knew that everyone in England said he hadn't."
The Frenchman sighed heavily. "The people in England did not know," he
said.
"No? Then you think he was guilty?"
He stood up sharply and faced her. "I know that he was innocent," he
said. "But it could not be proved. That is what the English could never
realize. And--_chérie_--I was that man. I was Lieutenant de Montville."
Chris was gazing at him in amazement. "You!" she said incredulously.
"I," he said. "They accused me of treason. They thought that I would sell
my own gun--my own gun. They sent me to prison--_mon Dieu_! I know not
how I survived. I suffered until it seemed that I could suffer no more.
And then they gave me my liberty--they banished me from France. I came to
England--and I starved."
"You starved, Bertie!" Her blue eyes widened with horrified pity. "You!"
she said. "You!"
He smiled with wistful humour. "Men more worthy than I have done the
same," he said.
"Oh, but you, my own _preux chevalier_!" Chris's voice trembled upon the
words.
He made a quick, restraining gesture. "But no--not that!" he said. "Your
friend always, _petite_, but your _preux chevalier_--never again!"
Chris smiled, with quivering lips. "You will never be anything but my
_preux chevalier_ so long as you live," she said. "Oh, Bertie, I'm so
distressed--so grieved--to think of all you have had to bear. I never
dreamt of its being you. You know, I never heard your name. We went
away so suddenly from Valpré. I had no time to think of anything. I--I
was very miserable--afterwards." Her voice sank; her eyes were full of
tears. "I knew you would think I had forgotten, but indeed, indeed it
wasn't that!"
"Ah, _pauvre petite_!" he said gently.
"And you didn't know my name either, did you?" she said. "I kept telling
myself you would find out somehow and write--but you never did."
He spread out his hands. "But what could I do? Your name was not known.
And I--I could not leave Valpré to seek you. My duties kept me at the
fortress. And so--and so--I said that I would wait until my fortune was
well assured, and then--then--" He stopped. "But that is past," he said,
with an odd little smile that somehow cut her to the heart. "_Et
maintenant_ tell me of yourself, _petite_, of all your affairs. Much may
arrive in four years. But first--you are happy, yes?"
Eagerly the dark eyes sought hers as he asked the question.
Chris looked back at him with a little frown. "Yes, I am happy, Bertie.
At least--I should be happy--if it weren't for thinking of you. Oh,
Bertie, that horrid gun! I always hated it!"
Again her voice quivered on the verge of tears, and again with a quick
gesture he stayed her.
"We will speak of it no more," he said. "See! We turn another page in the
book of life, and we commence again. Let us remember only, Christine,
that we are good comrades, you and I. But it is a good thing, this
_camaraderie_. It gives us pleasure, yes?"
She gave him her hands impulsively. "Bertie!" she cried. "We shall always
be pals--always--all our lives; but don't--dear, don't smile at me like
that! I can't bear it!"
He held her hands very tightly; he had wholly ceased to smile. But still
gallantly he shielded her from the danger she had not begun to see. He
did it instinctively, because of the love he bore her, and because of the
innocence in her eyes.
"But what is it?" he said. "It is necessary that we smile sometimes,
_chérie,_ since to weep is futile, and laughter is always more precious
than tears. Ah! that is better. You smile yourself. It is always thus
that I remember my little friend of Valpré. She was ever too brave for
tears."
He pressed her hands encouragingly, and again he let them go. But the
strain was telling upon him. There was one subject which he could not
trust himself to broach.
And for some reason Chris could not broach it either. She took refuge in
every-day affairs; she told him of the giddy doings that kept her
occupied from morning till night, of Cinders (the mention of whose name
kindled a reminiscent gleam in the Frenchman's eyes), of the coming
birthday dance, which he must promise to attend.
He shook his head over that; such gaieties were not for him. But Chris
pressed the point with much persistence. Of course he must come. It would
be no fun without him. Did he remember that birthday picnic at Valpré,
and--and the night they had passed in the Magic Cave? She spoke of it
with heightened colour and a hint of defiance which was plainly not
directed against him.
"And I was afraid of the dragon," she said. "And you held my hand. I
remember it so well. And afterwards I went to sleep, and slept all night
long with my head on your shoulder."
"You were but a child," he said softly.
"But it seems like yesterday," she answered.
And then it was that the door opened very quietly, and Trevor Mordaunt
came in upon them, sitting together in the gloom.