THE EXPLANATION
There was nothing hurried in his entrance, nothing startling; but yet a
sudden silence fell.
Out of it almost immediately came Bertrand's voice. "Ah, Mr.
Mordaunt, you return to find a visitor. Miss--Wyndham is here. She
came to seek you, but she found only--" he spread out his hands
characteristically--"the organ-grinder."
He had risen with the words; so also had Chris. She went forward, but
without her usual impetuosity.
"I have found an old friend, Trevor," she said, speaking quickly, as if
embarrassed. "I have known Mr.--Mr.--what did you say your name was?"
turning towards him again.
He shrugged his shoulders. "I am called Bertrand, mademoiselle."
She smiled in her quick way. "I have known--Bertrand--for years. At
least, we used to know each other years ago, and--and we knew each other
again the moment we met. It was a great surprise to me--to us both."
"And a great pleasure," said Bertrand, with a bow.
"An immense pleasure," said Chris, with enthusiasm.
"But, my dear girl," Mordaunt said, his quiet voice falling almost coldly
upon their explanations, "what on earth made you come here of all
places?"
"Oh," said Chris, leaping to this new point almost with relief, "it was
raining, and thundering too. I hadn't an umbrella and I knew I should be
drenched, and this was the nearest shelter I could think of, so I just
came. It seemed the most sensible thing to do. I thought perhaps you
would be pleased to see me. I even fancied you might give me tea."
There was a faint note of wistfulness in her voice though she was
smiling. She stood before him with something of the air of a culprit.
"Of course Aunt Philippa wouldn't approve," she said. "I know that.
But--you always say you are not like Aunt Philippa, Trevor."
He took her hand very gently but with evident purpose into his own.
"I will give you tea with pleasure," he said, "but not here. Holmes shall
call a taxi. I am afraid you must say good-bye to your friend now,
unless--" he paused momentarily--"unless, Bertrand, you care to accompany
us."
"Oh do, Bertie!" she said eagerly. "I want you. Please come!"
But Bertrand's refusal was instant and final.
"It is impossible," he declared. "I thank you a thousand times, but I
have yet many letters to write, and the post will not wait."
"Letters?" said Chris curiously.
"M. Bertrand is my secretary," said Mordaunt quietly.
"Oh, is he? And you never told me! But what a splendid idea!" Chris stood
between the two men, flushed, eager, charming. "I'm so glad, Bertie," she
said impulsively. "You may think yourself very lucky. Mr. Mordaunt is
quite the nicest man in the world."
Bertrand bowed low. "I believe it," he said simply.
"Then we shall see quite a lot of each other," went on Chris. "That will
be great fun--just like old times. Oh, must I really go? I don't want to
at all, and nothing will make me sorry that I came." She threw a gay
smile at her _fiancé_, and withdrew her hand to give it to the friend of
her childhood. "_Au revoir, preux chevalier_! You will come to my
birthday party? Promise!" Then, as he still shook his head: "Trevor, if
you don't bring him, I shall come all by myself and fetch him."
"No, you mustn't do that," Mordaunt answered with decision.
"Then will you bring him?"
"I will do my best," he promised gravely.
"Will you really? Oh, thank you, Trevor. I shall expect you then, Bertie.
Good-bye!"
Her hand lay for a couple of seconds in his, and he bent low over it, but
he did not speak in answer.
She went out of the room with the silent Englishman. He heard her
laughing as they went downstairs. He heard her gay young voice a while
longer in the hall below. Then came the throb of a motor and the closing
of the street door. She was gone.
He stood quite motionless, listening to the taxi as it whirred away. And
even after he ceased to hear it he did not move. He was gazing straight
before him, and his eyes were the eyes of a man in a dream. They saw
naught.
Stiffly at last he moved, and something like a shudder went through him.
He crossed the room heavily, with the gait of one stricken suddenly old.
He sat down again at the writing-table, and took up the pen that he had
dropped--how long ago!
He even wrote a few words slowly, laboriously, still with that fixed look
in his eyes. Then quite suddenly he was assailed by a violent tremor. He
pushed back his chair with a sharp exclamation, half-rose, then as
swiftly flung himself forward and lay across the table, face downwards,
gasping horribly, almost choking. His hands were clenched, and hammered
upon the papers littered there. The pen rolled unheeded over the polished
wood and fell upon the floor.
Seconds passed into minutes. Gradually the bony fists ceased their
convulsive tattoo. The laboured breathing grew less agonized. The man's
rigid pose relaxed. But still he lay with his arms outspread and his head
bowed between them, a silent image of despair.
Slowly the minutes crawled by. Down in the street below a newsboy was
yelling unintelligibly, and in the distance a barrel-organ jangled the
latest music-hall craze; but he was deep, deep in an abyss of suffering,
very far below the surface of things. There was something almost boyishly
forlorn in his attitude. With his face hidden, he looked pathetically
young.
The sound of the opening door recalled him at last, and he started
upright. It was Holmes with the evening paper.
The man spied the pen upon the floor and stooped for it. Bertrand
stretched out a quivering hand, took it from him, and made as if he would
resume his writing. But the pen only wandered aimlessly over the paper,
and in a moment fell again from his nerveless fingers.
Holmes paused. Bertrand sat with his head on his hand as if unaware of
him.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" he ventured.
Bertrand made a slight movement. "If I might have--a little brandy," he
said, speaking with obvious effort.
"Brandy? I'll get it at once, sir," said Holmes, and was gone with the
words.
Returning, he found Bertrand so far master of himself as to force a
smile, but his face was ghastly. There was a blue, pinched look about his
mouth that Holmes, reminiscent of his hospital days, did not like. He had
seen that look before.
But the first taste of spirit dispelled it. Very courteously Bertrand
thanked him.
"You are a good man, Holmes. And I think that you are my friend, yes?"
"Very pleased to do anything I can for you, sir," said Holmes.
"Ah! Then I will ask of you one little thing. It is that you remember
that this weakness--this malady of a moment--remain a secret between us
two--between--us--two. _Vous comprenez; non_?"
His eyes, very bright and searching, looked with a certain peremptoriness
into the man's face, and Holmes, accustomed to obey, made instinctive
response.
"You mean as I am not to mention it to Mr. Mordaunt, sir?"
"That is what I mean, Holmes."
"Very good, sir," said Holmes. "You're feeling better, I hope, sir?"
Very slowly de Montville rose to his feet, and stood, holding to the back
of his chair.
"I am--quite well," he said impressively.
"Very good, sir," said Holmes again, and withdrew, shaking his head
dubiously as soon as he was out of the Frenchman's sight.
As for de Montville, he went slowly across to the window and, leaning
against the sash, gazed down upon the empty street.
Not until he heard Mordaunt's step outside more than half an hour later
did he move, and then very abruptly he returned to the writing-table and
seized the pen anew. He was writing with feverish rapidity when Mordaunt
entered.
Very quietly Mordaunt came up and looked over his shoulder. "My boy," he
said, "I am very sorry, but that is not legible."
His tone was unreservedly kind, and Bertrand jerked up his head as if
surprised.
He surveyed the page before him with pursed lips, then flashed a quick
look into Mordaunt's face.
"It is true," he admitted, with a rueful smile. "I also am sorry."
"Leave it," Mordaunt said. "You are looking fagged, Yes, I mean it. It
will keep."
"But I have done nothing!" Bertrand protested, with outspread hands.
"No? Well, I don't believe you ought to be doing anything at present.
Come and sit down." Then, peremptorily, as Bertrand hesitated: "I won't
have you overworking yourself. Understand that! I have had trouble
enough to get you off the sick list as it is."
He spoke with that faint smile of his that placed most men at their ease
with him. Bertrand turned impulsively and grasped his hand.
"You have been--you are--more than a brother to me, monsieur," he said,
with feeling. "And I--I--ah! Permit me to tell you--I--am glad that
Mademoiselle has placed herself in your keeping. It was a great surprise,
yes. But I am glad--from my heart. She will be safe--and happy--with
you."
He spoke with great earnestness; his sincerity was shining in his eyes.
Mordaunt, looking straight down into them, saw no other emotion than
sheer friendliness, a friendliness that touched him, coming from one who
was so nearly friendless.
"I shall do my best to make her so," he made grave reply. "She has been
telling me about you, Bertrand."
"Ah!" The Frenchman's eyes interrogated him for a moment and instantly
fell away. "I am surprised," he said, "to be remembered after so long.
No, I had not forgotten her; but that is different, _n'est-ce pas_? I
think that no one would easily forget her." He smiled as though
involuntarily at some reminiscence. "_Christine et le bon Cinders_!" he
said in his soft voice. "We were all friends together. We were--" again
his eyes darted up to meet the Englishman's level scrutiny--"what you
call 'pals,' monsieur."
Mordaunt smiled. "So I gathered. It happened at Valpré, I understand."
Bertrand nodded. His eyes grew dreamy, grew remote. "Yes," he said
slowly, "it happened at Valpré. The little one was lonely. We made games
in the sand. We chased the crabs; we explored the caves; we played
together--as children." He stifled a sudden sigh, and rose. "_Eh bien_,"
he said, "we cannot be children for ever. We grow up--some quick--some
slow--but all grow up at last."
He broke off, and took up the evening paper to cut the leaves.
Mordaunt watched him in silence--a silence through which in some fashion
he conveyed his sympathy; for after a moment Bertrand spoke again, still
dexterously occupied with his task.
"Ah! you understand," he said. "I have no need to explain to you that
this meeting with my little friend who belonged to the happy days that
are past has given me almost as much of pain as of pleasure. I do not try
to explain--because you understand."
"You will get over it, my dear fellow," Mordaunt said, with quiet
conviction.
"You think it?" Bertrand glanced up momentarily.
"I do," Mordaunt answered, with a very kindly smile. "In fact, I think,
with all due respect to you, that you are younger than you feel."
"Ah!" There was not much conviction in Bertrand's response. He
stood up and handed the paper to Mordaunt with a quick bow. "But--all
the same--you understand?" he questioned, with a touch of anxiety.
"Of course I understand," Mordaunt answered gently.