A REVELATION
"My dear, it is quite useless for you to attempt to justify your conduct,
for it was simply inexcusable. No argument can possibly alter that fact.
Everyone was waiting about for a considerable time in the supper-room,
desirous of drinking your health, while you, it transpires, were hiding
in a corner with this very questionable foreigner whom Trevor has been
eccentric enough to befriend, but of whom I can discover practically
nothing."
"But Trevor knows all about him, Aunt Philippa," pleaded Chris.
"That," said Aunt Philippa, "may or may not be the case. But so long as
you are in my charge, I, and not Trevor, am the one to direct your choice
of acquaintances, and I very strongly object to the inclusion of this
Frenchman in the number. It is my desire, Chris, that you do not see him
again during the rest of the time that you are under my roof. I intend to
speak to Trevor upon the matter at the earliest opportunity. I consider
that, in the face of what has occurred, he would be extremely ill-advised
to retain this unknown foreigner in his employment, though I should
imagine he has already arrived at that conclusion for himself. I could
see that he was seriously displeased by your behaviour last night."
"Oh, was he?" said Chris blankly. "He didn't say so."
"He probably realized that it would be useless to express his displeasure
at such a time. But let me warn you, Chris. He is not a man to stand any
trifling. I have heard it from several quarters. Jack, as you are aware,
knows him well, and he will tell you the same. You may try his patience
too far, and that, I presume, is not your intention. Should it happen, I
think that you would regret it all your life."
"But I haven't trifled! I don't trifle!" protested Chris, divided between
distress and indignation.
Aunt Philippa smiled unpleasantly--she seldom displayed any other variety
of smile. "That, my dear, is very much a matter of opinion. You had
better go now to Hilda. She is waiting to see your bridesmaid's dress
tried on."
Chris went, with a worried pucker between her brows. How curious it was
that some people failed so completely to take a reasonable view of
things! They made mountains out of molehills, and expected her to climb
them--she, whose unwary feet were accustomed to trip so lightly along
easy ways. And Trevor too--she caught her breath with a sharp shiver--was
he really seriously displeased with her? He had given no hint of it when
they had danced together, save that he had been somewhat grave and
silent. But then, he was naturally so. She had not thought much of it;
in fact, she had been thinking mainly of Bertie.
And here a sudden throb of dismay sent the blood to her heart. Aunt
Philippa was going to speak to him upon this subject, was going to
suggest unspeakable things, was going to talk over her conduct with him
and make him furious in earnest. And then it would all come out about her
having met Bertrand all those years ago. Trevor would mention that in the
natural course of things, and then Aunt Philippa would tell him--would
tell him--
"Chris, dear, what is the matter? You are as white as a ghost."
It was Hilda's voice gently recalling her. She came to herself with a
start, and the hot blood rose to her cheeks with a rush.
"Are you very tired after yesterday?" her cousin asked. "I am afraid you
got up too early."
"Oh, no!" said Chris. "I wasn't early at all. I didn't ride this morning.
Jack has promised to come for me this evening instead."
She diverted Hilda's attention desperately. She could not make
confidences in the presence of the dressmaker. Moreover, she was not sure
that she wanted to talk even to Hilda about her pal from Valpré. It was
true Hilda understood most things, but Aunt Philippa had somehow managed
to inspire her with a sense of guilt. She knew she could not speak of
Bertrand with ease to anyone now.
Besides, there was no time. The moment she was free she must manage
somehow to communicate with Trevor. She must warn him of Aunt Philippa's
intentions. She must explain to him.
She did not want him to know about that night in the Magic Cave.
Everyone who heard of it was shocked, everyone except Max, and he made
a speciality of never being shocked at anything. Why, it was even
possible--here a new thought leaped up and struck her an unexpected
blow--was it not more than possible that it was this self-same event that
had given rise to the insult that had led to the duel? Of course that
must be it! That was why Bertrand so persistently refused to enlighten
her. How was it she had never before thought of it? It was the truth of
course! How had she failed to see anything so glaringly apparent?
Yes, it was the truth. She had blundered upon it unawares, and now she
surveyed it horror-stricken, remembering Bertrand's warning that the
knowledge of evil was a poisonous thing. So must Eve have felt when first
her eyes were opened to the wisdom of the gods.
She was free at last, and sped up to her room. The scribbled message that
reached her _fiancé_ an hour later was only just legible, but it spoke
more eloquently of the state of mind of the writer than she knew.
"DEAR TREVOR,--
"Aunt Philippa says you are angry with me. Please don't be. Really there
is nothing to be angry about, though she thinks there is, and she is
going to try and persuade you to send Bertie away. Trevor, don't listen
to her, will you? And, whatever you do, don't tell her about Valpré. I'm
very bothered about it. Do be as kind as you always are to
"Your loving
CHRIS."
Mordaunt's answering note reached her late in the afternoon just before
she set forth for her ride in the Park with Jack.
"MY DEAR LITTLE CHRIS,--
"My love to your Aunt Philippa, and I am just off to Paris for the inside
of a week. I shall be back for your cousin's wedding. Ask her to reserve
her lecture till then. Our friend Bertrand sends his _amitiés_. I send
nothing, for you have it all.
"Yours,
TREVOR."
Chris kissed the note with a rush of tenderness--greater than she had
ever managed to bestow upon the writer. That brief response to her appeal
stirred her as she had never been stirred before. It was sweet of him to
trust her so. She would never forget it, never, as long as she lived.
When Jack appeared to escort her, he noted her radiant face and shining
eyes with approval.
"Why, you're looking almost pretty for once," he said. "What has happened
to bring it about? It must be a recipe worth having."
"Don't be absurd!" she retorted, beaming upon him. "Who wants to be
pretty?"
"It's better to be good certainly," he said. "I know you couldn't be
both. But what's the joke? I think you might let me help laugh."
"There isn't a joke," she said. "And I'm not laughing. I've had a letter
from Trevor, that's all. And he's going to Paris."
"Oh-ho!" said Jack.
"Now you're horrid!" she protested. "I don't want him to go in the
least."
"Of course not," said Jack. "I've observed how remarkably depressed you
were by the news."
"I shall be cross with you in a minute," said Chris.
"Heaven forbid!" said Jack. "When is he coming back?"
"In time for Hilda's wedding."
"And does he take the French secretary with him?"
"Oh, no, he can't go to France. I mean--I mean--"
Chris stopped in sudden confusion.
"I know what you mean," said Jack. "They would take too keen an interest
in him over there. Isn't that it?"
"How did you know?" said Chris.
He laughed. "The proverbial little bird! I might add that a good many
people know by this time."
"Oh, Jack, do they?" Chris looked at him in consternation. "He didn't
want anyone to know."
"My dear child, in that case he should not have courted publicity as the
guest of the evening last night."
"Jack! He wasn't the guest of the evening! How dare you say such things!"
Chris's rare displeasure actually was aroused now. Her slight figure
stiffened, and she tapped her knee with her riding-switch. She never
touched her animal with this weapon, whatever his idiosyncrasies, and
certainly the horses she rode generally behaved with docility.
Jack surveyed her with amused eyes as they turned up under the trees.
"All right," he said imperturbably. "He wasn't. My mistake, no doubt. But
where on earth were you hiding during the supper extras? He was missing
too. Curious, wasn't it?"
Chris came out of her temper with a winning gesture of appeal. "Jack
dear, don't! I've heard such a lot about it from Aunt Philippa already.
And why shouldn't I talk to my pals? You wouldn't like it if I didn't
talk to you sometimes."
"Is he that sort of pal?" asked Jack.
She nodded. "Just that sort. And Trevor knows all about it and
understands. I've just had a line from him to tell me so."
"Have you, though?" said Jack. "Then all I can say is Trevor is a
brick--a very special kind of brick--and I hope you realize it."
"He's just the sweetest man in the world," said Chris with enthusiasm.
"He is never horrid about things, and he never thinks what isn't."
"Lucky for you!" said Jack.
"Why?" She turned towards him sharply.
He began to smile. "Because, my dear, you have rather an unfortunate
knack of making things appear--as they are not."
"I don't know what you mean," she protested. "It's very horrid of people
to imagine things, and it certainly isn't my fault. Trevor understands
that. He always understands."
"Let us hope he always will," said Jack.
"He would trust me even if he didn't," said Chris.
"At the same time," said Jack, "I shouldn't try his faith too far if I
were you. If you ever overstepped it, I have a notion that it might
be--well, somewhat unpleasant for you."
He spoke the words with a smile, but the silence with which they were
received had in it something that was tragic. Chris was gazing straight
before her as they rode. Her expression was curiously stony, as if, by
some means, her customary animation had been suspended. Jack wondered a
little. After a moment she spoke, without looking round. "Jack!"
"Your humble servant!" said Jack.
"I'm not laughing," she said. "I want you to tell me something. You know
Trevor. You knew him years before I did. Have you ever seen him--really
angry?"
"Great Jove! yes," said Jack.
"Many times?" There was a little quiver in her voice, but it did not
sound exactly agitated.
"No, not many times. He isn't the sort of fellow to let himself go, you
know," said Jack.
"No," she said. "But what is he like--when he is angry?"
Jack considered. "He's rather like a devil that's been packed in ice for
a very long time. He doesn't expand, he contracts. He emits a species of
condensed fury that has a disastrous effect upon the object thereof. He
is about the last man in the world that I should choose to quarrel with."
"But why?" she said. "Would you be afraid of him?"
Jack considered this point too quite gravely and impartially. "I really
don't know, Chris," he said at last. "I believe I should be."
"He can be terrible, then," she said, as if stating a conclusion rather
than asking a question.
"More or less," Jack admitted. "But he is never unreasonable. I have
never seen him angry without good cause."
"And then--I suppose he is merciless?"
"Quite," said Jack. "I saw him shoot a Kaffir once for knocking a wounded
man on the head. It was no more than the brute deserved. I was lying
wounded myself, and he took my revolver to do it with. But it was a nasty
jolt for the Kaffir. He knew exactly what was going to happen to him and
why, before it happened. Afterwards, when Trevor came back to me, he was
smiling, so I suppose it did him good. He's a very deliberate chap. Some
people call him cold-blooded. He never acts on impulse. And I've never
known him make a mistake."
"I see." Chris swallowed once or twice as if she felt an obstruction
in her throat. "I expect he would be like that with anyone," she said.
"I mean if he had reason to be angry with anyone, he wouldn't spare
them--whatever they were. I always felt he was like that."
"He's one of the best chaps in the world," said Jack warmly.
She assented, but not with the enthusiasm that had marked her earlier
eulogy. She seemed, in fact, to have become a little _distrait_, and
Jack, remarking the fact, suggested a canter.
They met several people whom they knew before they turned homewards, and
it was not until they were leaving the Park that any further conversation
was possible.
Then very suddenly Chris reined in and spoke. "Jack, before we go back, I
want to ask you something."
"Well?" said Jack.
She made a pathetic little gesture towards him, and touched his knee
with her riding-switch. Her blue eyes besought him very earnestly. "Jack,
we--we are pals, aren't we? Or I couldn't possibly ask it of you. Jack,
I--I've been foolish--and extravagant. And--" she became suddenly
breathless--"I want twenty pounds--to pay some debts. Jack, could
you--would you--"
"You monkey!" said Jack.
"I couldn't help it," she declared piteously. "I've spent a frightful lot
of money lately. I don't know how it goes. It runs away like water. But
I--want to get out of debt, Jack. If you will help me just this once,
I'll pay you back when--when--when I'm married."
"Good heavens, child!" he said. "You shall have it twice over if you
like. But why on earth didn't you tell me before? Don't you know it's
very naughty to run up debts?"
She nodded. "Yes, I know. But I couldn't help it. There were things I
wanted. And London is such an expensive place. You do understand, dear
Jack, don't you?"
Jack thought he did. He was, moreover, too fond of his young cousin to
treat her with severity. But he considered it his duty to deliver a brief
lecture on the dangers of insolvency, to which Chris listened with
becoming docility, thanking him with a quick, sweet smile when he had
done.
Jack did not flatter himself that he had succeeded in making a very deep
impression. He wondered a little what Trevor Mordaunt would have said
under similar circumstances.
"I hope she will be straightforward with him," was his reflection. "But
she is a Wyndham of the Wyndhams, and everyone knows that her father
didn't suffer over-much from that complaint."
Which was true. Chris's father had been one of those baffling persons who
are always in want of money and yet seem quite incapable of giving a
clear account of their wants. His affairs had been in a perpetual muddle
from the beginning of his career, and had probably ended so.
"Most unsatisfactory!" as Aunt Philippa invariably remarked, as a
suitable conclusion to any discussion on the subject of her brother or
any of his family. How she personally had managed to escape the general
blight that rested upon them was a mystery that no one--not Aunt Philippa
herself--had ever been able to solve.