MARRIED
It was certainly the quietest wedding of the season. People said that
this was due to the bridegroom's well-known dislike of publicity; but,
whatever the reason, the secret was well kept, and when Chris came out of
the church on her husband's arm there was only Bertrand, standing
uncovered by the carriage-door, to give her greeting.
She was smiling as she came, but it was rather a piteous smile. She had
faced the ordeal with a desperate courage, but she had not found it easy.
Only Trevor's steadfast strength had held her up. She had been conscious
of his will acting upon hers throughout. With the utmost calmness he had
quelled her agitation, had stilled the wild flutter of her nerves, had
compelled her to a measure of composure. And now that it was over she
felt that he was still in a fashion holding her back, controlling her,
till she should have recovered her normal state of mind and be in a
condition to control herself.
But the sight of Bertrand diverted her thoughts. Owing to her aunt's
strenuous prohibition, she had not met him since the night of her
birthday dance. She broke from Mordaunt to give him both her hands.
"Oh, Bertie," she cried, between tears and laughter, "it is good to see
you again!"
He bent very low, so low that she only saw the top of his black head.
"Permit me to offer my felicitations," he said, in a voice that was
scarcely audible.
Her hands closed tightly for a second upon his. "You are pleased,
Bertie?" she said, with a quickening of the breath.
He straightened himself instantly; he looked into her eyes. "But you are
happy, yes?" he questioned.
"Of course," she told him hurriedly.
He smiled--the ready smile with which he had learned to mask his soul.
"_Alors_, I am pleased," he said.
He helped her into the carriage, and turned, still smiling, to the man
behind her. Yet he flinched ever so slightly from the grip of Mordaunt's
hand. It was the merest gesture, scarcely perceptible; in a moment he had
covered it with the quick courtesy of his race. But Mordaunt was aware of
it, and for a single instant he wondered.
He took his place beside his bride, who tucked her hand inside his arm,
with a little sob of sheer relief.
"Did I sound very squeaky, Trevor? I tried not to squeak."
He forgot Bertrand and everyone else but the trembling girl by his side.
He laid a soothing hand on hers.
"My dear, you did splendidly. It wasn't so very terrifying, was it?"
"It was appalling," said Chris. "I kept saying to myself, 'Just a little
longer and then that lovely new motor--my motor--and home.' You are going
to give me my first lesson in driving to-day, aren't you? Say yes!"
He said "Yes," feeling that he was bestowing a reward for good behaviour.
She squeezed his arm. "And isn't it nice," she whispered, with shining
eyes, "to feel that we are really going to stay there when we get there?"
He pressed the small, confiding hand. "You are glad, then, Chris?" he
said.
"Oh, my dear, I should think I am!" she made answer. "I've been counting
the days to the one when I shan't have to peck Aunt Philippa good-night.
She never kisses properly and she won't let me. She says it's childish
and unrestrained." She laid her cheek suddenly against his shoulder.
"I've had no one to hug for ever so long--except Cinders," she said.
"Hasn't Cinders been enough?" he asked, with a hint of surprise.
She turned her face upwards quickly. "Trevor, you're not to laugh at me!
It isn't fair."
He smiled a little. "I am not laughing, Chris, I assure you. I have
always thought until this moment that Cinders was more precious to you
than anyone else in the world."
"Oh, that's because you're a man," said Chris inconsequently. "Men always
have absurd theories about women and the things they care for. As if we
can't love heaps of people at the same time!"
"You can only love one person best," he pointed out.
"At a time," supplemented Chris, with a merry smile. "And you choose your
person according to your mood. At least, I do. Oh, Trevor," with a sudden
change of tone, "don't look! There's a hearse!"
She hid her face against him, and he felt a violent tremor go through
her. He put his arm about her and held her close.
"My darling, what makes you so superstitious?"
"I'm not," she murmured shakily. "It isn't superstitious to believe in
death, is it? It's a fact one can't get away from. And it frightens
me--it frightens me! Think of it, Trevor! We only belong to each other
till death us do part. Afterwards--who knows?--we may be in different
worlds."
He pressed her closer, feeling her cling to him. "There is a greater
thing than death, Chris," he said.
"I know! I know!" she whispered back. "But--I sometimes think--I'm not
big enough for it. I sometimes wonder--if God gave me a heart at all."
"My little Chris!" he said. "My darling!"
She lifted a troubled face. The tears were in her eyes. "Don't you often
think me silly and fickle?" she said. "And you'll find it more and more
the more you see of me. You'll be disappointed in me--you'll be horribly
disappointed--some day."
He looked down at her with great tenderness. "That day will never come,
dear," he said. "If it did, I should blame myself much more than I blamed
you. Come! You mustn't cry on our wedding-day. You're not really
unhappy?"
"But I'm afraid," she said.
He dried her eyes and kissed her. "There is nothing to make you afraid,"
he said. "Haven't I sworn to love and cherish you?"
She nestled to him with a sigh. "It was very nice of you, Trevor," she
said.
Her spirits revived during her motor-ride to Kellerton. The renovations
there were in full swing. One portion of the house had been already made
habitable for them. Mordaunt had had the entire management of this, but,
as Chris gaily remarked, she would probably change everything round when
she came upon the scene.
"I feel as if the holidays have just begun," she said to him as they sped
over the dusty road. "And I'm going to work harder than I have ever
worked in my life."
"If I let you," he said.
At which remark she made a face, and then, repenting patted his knee.
"You will let me do what I like, I know. You always do."
"In moderation," said Trevor, with a smile.
She dismissed the matter as too trivial for discussion. "When are you
going to let me drive?"
He gave her her first lesson then and there, an experience which
delighted Chris so much that she refused to relinquish the wheel until
they stopped at a country town for luncheon.
Here her whole attention was occupied in keeping Cinders from chasing the
hotel cat, till Trevor caught and cuffed the miscreant, when her anxiety
turned to indignation on her darling's behalf, and she snatched him away
and kept him sheltered in her arms for the rest of their sojourn.
"I never punish Cinders," she said. "He's hardly ever naughty, and if he
is he's always sorry afterwards."
Cinders, whose temper was ruffled, glared at Mordaunt and cursed him in
an undertone throughout the meal, notwithstanding the choice morsels with
which his young mistress sought to propitiate him.
"I do hope you haven't made him dislike you," she said, when at length
they returned to the car. "He is rather tiresome with people he doesn't
like."
"If he doesn't behave himself, we will send him to Bertrand to take care
of," Mordaunt rejoined.
"Indeed we won't!" Chris declared, with warmth. "He has never been away
from me day or night since I first had him."
At which declaration Mordaunt raised his eyebrows, and said no more.
He had always known Cinders for a dog of character, but not till that day
had he credited him with the remarkable intuition by which he seemed to
know--and resent--the fact that his mistress was no longer his exclusive
property. It may have been that Chris herself imparted something of the
new state of affairs to him by the very zeal of her guardianship. But
undoubtedly, whatever its source, the knowledge had dawned in Cinders'
brain and with it a fierce jealousy which he had never displayed in
Mordaunt's presence before.
It was an afternoon of unclouded sunshine. Chris lay back in her seat,
somewhat wearied but quite content, watching the cornfields with their
red wealth of poppies, watching the long, white road before them, and now
and then the unerring hands that held the wheel.
When at length they neared Kellerton she roused herself and became more
animated. "It's been a lovely ride, Trevor. Let's go for one every day.
Sometimes we might go down to the sea--it's only ten miles. But we will
wait till Bertie comes for that. Ah, there is the lodge! How smart it
looks! And they have actually taken the thistles out of the drive! I
shouldn't have known it."
She sat up with eager delight in her eyes. The lodge-gates were open;
they ran smoothly in without a pause and on up the long avenue to the old
grey house.
Chris was enchanted. It was such a home-coming as she had never pictured.
"It's like a dream," she said. "I can't believe it's true. Everything
looks so different. The garden was an absolute wilderness the last time
we were here."
It had been turned into a paradise since then, and every second brought
fresh discoveries to her ecstatic gaze.
"I didn't know it could be so lovely," she declared. "And you've done it
all in a few weeks. Trevor, you're a magician!"
He smiled at her enthusiasm. "Oh, it isn't all my doing. I have only been
down twice since the day you were here. I put it into capable hands,
that's all. Nothing has been altered, only set to rights."
"It's lovely!" cried Chris.
Tired and thirsty though she was, she could hardly wait to have tea on
the terrace before the house before she was off along the dear, familiar
paths to her favourite nook under a great yew-tree whose branches swept
the ground. A rustic seat surrounded the ancient trunk.
"This is my castle," said Chris. "This is where I hide when I don't want
anyone to find me."
She stretched back a hand to her husband, and led him into her shadowy
domain.
"The boys used to call it Hades," she said, in a hushed voice. "And I
used to pretend I was Persephone. I did so wish Pluto would appear some
day with his chariot and his black horses and take me underground. But,"
with a sigh, "he never did."
"Let us hope you have been reserved for a happier fate," Mordaunt said,
with his arm about her.
She flashed him her quick smile. "You instead of Pluto! But I always
thought he was rather fascinating, and I longed to see the underworld."
"I think the sunshine suits you best," he said.
"Oh yes, but just to see--just to know what it's like! I do so love
exploring," insisted Chris.
He smiled and drew her out of her gloomy retreat. "Sometimes it's better
not to know too much," he said.
"But one couldn't," she protested. "All knowledge is gain."
"Of a sort," he said. "But it is not always to be desired on that
account."
A sudden memory went through Chris. She gave a sharp shudder. "Oh no!"
she said. "One doesn't want to know horrid things! I forgot that."
He looked at her interrogatively, but she turned her face away. "Let's go
back to the house. I wonder where Cinders is."
They returned to the house, and again Chris was lost in delight. A great
deal yet remained to be done, but the completed portion was all that
could be desired. They had chosen much of the furniture together, and she
spent most of the evening in arranging it, with her husband's assistance,
to her satisfaction.
But when at length the hour for dinner arrived he would not suffer her to
do anything further.
"I believe you have done too much as it is," he said, "and after dinner I
shall have something to show you."
She yielded readily enough. She certainly was tired. "I feel as if to-day
had lasted for about six weeks," she said.
But her animation did not wane in spite of this, and she would even have
returned to her labours after they had dined had Mordaunt permitted it.
He was firm upon this point, however, and again without protest she
yielded.
"You were going to show me something. What was it?"
"To be sure," he said. "I was going to show you how to write a cheque.
Come over to the writing-table and see how it is done."
Chris went, looking mystified. "But I shall never write cheques, Trevor,"
she said.
"No? Why not?"
He drew up a chair for her and knelt down beside her.
"You are a woman of property now, Chris," he said, and laid a new
cheque-book on the pad in front of her.
Chris gazed at it, wide-eyed. "But, Trevor, I haven't got any money at
the bank, have I?"
"Plenty," he said, with a smile--"in fact, a very large sum indeed which
will have to be invested in your name. That we will go into another day,
but for present needs, if you are wanting money--"
"Yes?" said Chris eagerly.
He put a pen into her hand and opened the cheque-book.
She slipped her arm round his neck. "Trevor, I--I don't feel as if you
ought. I--of course I--knew you would make me an allowance, but--but--you
ought not to give me a lot of money all my own."
"My darling," he said gently, "don't forget that you are my wife, will
you?"
She smiled a little shyly. "Do you know--I had forgotten--quite!"
He put his arm about her as she sat. "You must try to remember it, dear,
because it's rather important. I know I might have made you an allowance,
but I prefer that you should be independent. Only, Chris, I am going to
ask a promise of you; and I want you to make it at the very beginning of
our life together. That is why I have spoken on our wedding-night."
"Yes?" whispered Chris.
She had begun to tremble a little, and he pressed her to him
reassuringly. "I want you to promise me that you will never run into
debt, that if for any cause you find that you have not enough of your own
you will come to me at once and tell me."
He spoke with grave kindness, watching her face the while. But Chris's
eyes did not meet his own. She was rolling the pen he had given her up
and down the blotting-pad with much absorption.
"Is it a promise, Chris?" he asked at length.
She threw him a nervous glance and nodded.
He laid his hand upon hers and held it still. "Chris, have you any debts
now?"
She was silent.
"My dear," he said, "don't be afraid of me!"
There was that in his voice that moved her to the depths; she could not
have said why. Impulsively, almost passionately, she went into his arms.
"I won't!" she said. "I won't! Trevor, I--I've been a little beast! That
money you gave me on my birthday I didn't do--what you meant me to do
with it. I just--spent it. I don't know how. And then--when you asked
about it that night--I didn't dare to tell you, and I haven't dared
since. I just let you think it was all right--when it wasn't. Oh, Trevor,
don't be angry--don't be angry!"
"I am not angry," he said.
"Not really? But how you must despise me! It's just the way of the
Wyndhams. We all do it. Trevor, why did you make me tell you?"
"My dear child," he said, "you must tell me these things. It is your only
possibility of happiness, and mine also. Chris, never keep anything from
me, for Heaven's sake! Don't you know that I trust you?"
"I don't deserve it!" sobbed Chris, clinging faster. "You don't know how
bad I am!"
"Hush!" he said, with a restraining hand upon her head. "You have told me
everything now?"
"Oh no, I haven't!" she whispered. "There are crowds of things I couldn't
even begin to tell you. I have always warned you how it would be. I
always said--"
Her agitation was increasing, and her words became inaudible. He saw that
her nerves had given way under the long day's strain, and firmly, with
infinite gentleness, he put a stop to further discussion of a subject
that threatened to upset her seriously.
"Never mind," he said. "You will tell me by and bye, or if you don't I
shall know it is all right. Chris, Chris, you mustn't get hysterical. You
are worn out, dear, and it has upset your sense of proportion. Come, I am
going to send you to bed. We will go into these money matters in the
morning."
But Chris vehemently negatived this. "I don't want to--to spoil
to-morrow. I--I shouldn't sleep for thinking of it. Oh, Trevor, let's
settle it now. I'm going to be sensible--really. And--and--if you'll
forgive me for all the bad things I've done up to to-day I--I will really
try to tell you everything as it happens from now on. Will you, Trevor?"
She raised pleading, pathetic eyes, still wet with tears. He could feel
her still quivering with the emotion she was striving to subdue. She was
too near in that moment to resist--perhaps he would not have resisted her
in any case; for he had it not in his heart to think ill of her.
"My darling," he said, "we will leave it at that. Only--in the
future--trust me as I am trusting you."
He turned to the table and closed the cheque-book. "These debts are my
affair. I will settle them. Just tell me what they are."
"Oh, but they are settled!" she told him. "I promised I would, you know."
"Then"--he looked at her--"someone lent you the money?"
Something in his tone made her shrink again. She hesitated.
"Chris!" he said.
Nervously she answered him. "Jack lent me forty pounds."
"Jack!" he said. "You weren't afraid to ask him, then?"
"Oh no!" she said quickly. "I'm not a bit afraid of Jack."
"Only of me, Chris!"
She gave herself back to him with a swift, shy movement. "It's the fear
of vexing you," she said. "I don't mind vexing--other people. It's only
you--only you. Trevor, say you understand!"
He did not answer her instantly, but the close holding of his arms drove
all misgiving from her soul. He rose to his feet, raising her with him,
pressing her to him faster and ever faster till her arms crept round his
neck again, and she lay, a willing prisoner, against his heart.
And so holding her, at last he answered her tremulous appeal. "My
darling, never be afraid of vexing me! Never be afraid that I shall not
understand!"
She could not speak in answer. The wonder of his love for her had
stricken her dumb; it had swept upon her like a wave, towering, immense,
resistless, bearing her far beyond her depth.
She could only mutely lift her quivering lips; and he, moved to
gentleness by her action, took her face between his hands with infinite
tenderness, gazing down into her eyes with that in his own which cast out
the last of her fear.
"My little Chris!" he said. "My wife!"
PART II
CHAPTER I
SUMMER WEATHER
"I think quite the worst part of being married is having to pay calls,"
said Chris.
"You do not like it, no?" said Bertrand, with quick sympathy.
"No," she rejoined emphatically. "And I don't see any sense in it either.
No one ever wants afternoon callers."
"But that depends upon the caller, does it not?" he said.
"Not in the least," said Chris. "There's a stodginess about afternoon
calling that affects even the nicest people. It's the most tiresome
institution there is."
"Then why do it?" he suggested, with a smile.
She shook her head severely.
"Don't be immoral, Bertie! You're trying to tempt me from my duty."
"Never!" he declared earnestly.
"Oh, but you are; and I am not sure that you are not neglecting your own
as well. What brought you out at this hour?"
He spread out his hands. "Mr. Mordaunt has ordered me to take a rest
to-day."
Chris looked up at him sharply. "Aren't you well, Bertie?"
"But it is nothing," he said. "I have told him. It happens to me
often--often--that I do not sleep. I have explained all that. But what
would you? He is obstinate--he will not listen."
Chris patted a hammock-chair beside her. "Sit down at once. I knew there
was something the matter directly I saw you this morning. But you always
look horribly tired. Do you never sleep properly?"
He dropped into the chair and stretched up his arms with a sigh. "It is
only in the morning that I am tired," he said. "It is nothing--a weakness
that passes. Or if it passes not--I go."
"Go!" repeated Chris, startled.
He turned his head towards her. "That surprises you, yes? But how can I
remain if I cannot work?"
"Oh, but you haven't been here a fortnight," she said quickly. "I expect
the change of air has upset you. And it has been so hot too."
He acquiesced languidly, as if not greatly interested. His dark eyes
watched her gravely. Evidently his thoughts had wandered from himself.
Chris was not slow to perceive this. "What are you thinking of?" she
demanded.
"I am thinking of you," he answered promptly.
"What of me?" The blue eyes met his quite openly. Chris was always frank
to her pals.
"I was thinking," he said, in his soft, friendly voice, "how you were
happy, and how I was glad."
She threw him a quick smile. "How nice of you, Bertie! And how
beautifully French! But, you know, I shan't be happy if you talk of
leaving us. It will spoil everything, and I shall be absolutely
miserable."
"You were not miserable before I joined you, no?" he said, smiling back
at her.
"Of course I wasn't. But that was quite different. I knew all the while
that you were coming. I should have been if anything had happened to
prevent you."
"Really?" he said thoughtfully.
"Yes, really!" Chris was emphatic. "And I am sure there is nothing much
the matter with you, Bertie; now, is there?"
He scarcely responded. "It will pass," he said. "And so you have arranged
to make visits this afternoon?"
"Yes. Isn't it a bother?" Chris's brow wrinkled. "Noel wanted me to go
and fish with him, but Trevor says I must go and see Mrs. Pouncefort, so
I suppose I must. I hoped he would come too, but he has got to stay and
interview the architect about that subsidence in the north wing. I wish
you would come instead."
He shook his head. "No--no! That is not possible. Where does this lady
live?"
"Sandacre way, towards the sea. Oh, do you know Rupert is coming over on
Sunday with some brother officers? I had a card from him this morning. He
is very fond of Mrs. Pouncefort--they all are. I don't know quite why. I
believe they spend half their time there. Mr. Pouncefort is a dear little
man--no one could help liking him. He has a yacht, and they always have a
crowd of people staying there at this time of the year."
"_Alors_," he said, "it will amuse you to go there, no?"
Chris smiled. "Oh, not particularly. I would much rather stay with you
and Trevor. Besides, I've such a lot to do."
She did not look overwhelmed with work as she leaned back in her
hammock-chair, but she evidently intended to be busy, for a basket and
scissors stood beside her.
Bertrand was much too courteous to suggest that she was not making the
most of her time. Or perhaps he did not want to be left in solitary
contemplation of that fleeting August morning. He lay silent for a
little, and presently requested permission to smoke a cigarette.
"Of course," she said at once. "Why don't you go and lie in the hammock?
I will come and rock you to sleep."
He thanked her, smiling, but declined.
She watched him light his cigarette with eyes grown thoughtful. Suddenly:
"Bertie," she said, "are you very unhappy nowadays?"
He made a jerky movement, and dropped the match, still burning. Hastily
he bent to extinguish it, but Chris was before him, her hand upon his
arm, restraining him.
"No, sit still! It's all right. Tell me, please, Bertie! I want to know."
He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, still smiling, but in a fashion
that she was at a loss to interpret.
"But what a question, _petite_! How can I answer it?"
"I should have thought---between friends---" she began.
"_Ah, oui_! We are friends, are we not?" A curious expression of relief
took the place of his smile, and she felt as if for some reason he had
been afraid. "And you ask me if I am unhappy," he said. "_Mais
vraiment_--I know not what to say!"
"Then you are!" she said, quick pain in her voice.
He looked down at the little friendly hand that lay upon his arm, but he
did not offer to touch it. His eyes remained downcast as he spoke. "I am
more happy than I ever expected to be, Christine."
"You like your work?" she questioned. "Trevor is kind to you?"
"He is--much too kind," the Frenchman answered, with feeling.
"But still you are unhappy?" she said.
"It is--my own fault," he told her, still not looking at her.
She rubbed his sleeve sympathetically. "Bertie, don't you think--if you
tried very hard--you might manage to forget all that old trouble?"
There was a note of pleading in her voice, and he made a quick gesture as
he heard it, as if in some way it pierced him.
She went on speaking, as he made no attempt to do so. "You know, Bertie,
you really are quite young still, and there are such a lot of nice things
left. It's such a pity to keep on grieving. Don't you think so? It seems
rather a waste of time. And I do--so--want you to be happy."
At the quiver in her voice he glanced up sharply, but he instantly
lowered his eyes again. And still he said no word. He only drew his brows
together and bit his cigarette to a pulp.
Her hand came softly down his arm and lay upon his.
"Bertie," she said, in a whisper, "you're not--vexed?"
His hand clenched at her touch, but on the instant he looked up at her
with a smile. "Vexed!" he said. "With you! A thousand times--no!"
She smiled back, reassured. "Then will you--please--try to forget what
you have lost? I know it won't be easy, but will you try? It's the only
possible way to be happy. And if you are not happy--I shan't be either."
He took her hand at last with perfect steadiness into his own. "You know
not what I have lost," he said. "But--if I try to forget--that will
content you?"
She nodded. "Yes, Bertie."
He looked at her intently for a moment, then, "_Eh Bien_!" he said
briskly. "I will try."
"_Bon garçon_!" she said, with a merry smile. "That is settled, then.
Why, there is Trevor! Has he finished that article of his already? He
looked quite absorbed when I passed his window half an hour ago." She
waved to him as he approached. "Why don't you wear a hat, you mad
Englishman? Don't you know the sun is broiling?"
He smiled and ignored the warning. Bertrand sprang from his chair as he
reached them, but Mordaunt instantly pressed him down again.
"No, no, man! Sit still! I have only come out for a moment."
"But I am going," Bertrand protested. "I cannot sit and do nothing. There
are those accounts that you have given me to do. They are not yet
finished. Also--"
"Also, they are not going to be done to-day," Mordaunt said, shaking him
gently by the shoulder. "Chris, I am going to hand this fellow over to
you for the next few days. You can do what you like with him so long as
you don't let him do any work. That I absolutely forbid. You understand
me, Bertrand?"
"But I cannot--I cannot," Bertrand said restlessly. "You are already much
too good to me. You overwhelm me with kindness, and I--I make no return
at all. No, listen to me--"
"I'm not going to listen to you," Mordaunt said. "You are talking
nonsense, my friend, arrant drivel--nothing less. Chris will tell you the
same."
"Of course," said Chris. "Besides, there are crowds of things you can do
for me. No, he shan't be overworked, I promise you, Trevor. But I'm going
to try a new cure. Just for this afternoon he is going to lie in the
hammock and smoke cigarettes. But after to-day"--she nodded gaily at the
perturbed Frenchman--"after to-day, Bertie, _nous verrons_!"
He smiled in spite of himself, but he continued to look dissatisfied till
Mordaunt carelessly turned the conversation.
"Where's that young beggar Noel?"
"Fishing in the Home Meadow," said Chris.
"Quite sure?"
"I think so," she said. "Why?"
"Because he has taken one of my guns, and I believe he is potting
rabbits."
Chris sat up with consternation in her eyes. "Trevor! I believe he is
too! I heard someone shooting half an hour ago. And he has got Cinders
with him! I know he will go and shoot him by mistake!"
"Or himself," said Mordaunt grimly.
"Oh, he won't do that," said Chris with confidence. "Nothing ever happens
to Noel."
"Something will happen to him before long if he doesn't behave himself,"
observed Mordaunt. "My patience began to wear thin last night when I
caught him asleep with a smouldering pipe on his pillow."
"Oh, but he always does what he likes in the holidays," pleaded Chris.
"Does he?" Mordaunt's voice was uncompromising.
She slipped a quick hand into his. "Trevor, you wouldn't spoil his fun?"
He looked down at her, faintly smiling. "My dear Chris, it depends upon
the fun. I'm not going to have the place burnt down for his amusement."
"Oh no," she said. "But you won't be strict with him, will you? He will
only do things on the sly if you are."
Mordaunt frowned abruptly. "If I catch him doing anything underhand--"
She broke in sharply in evident distress. "But we all do, Trevor! I--I've
done it myself before now--often with Mademoiselle Gautier, and then with
Aunt Philippa. One has to, you know. At least--at least--" His grey eyes
suddenly made her feel cold, and she stopped as impulsively as she had
begun.
There was a moment's silence, then quite gently he drew his hand away. "I
think I will go and see what mischief the boy is up to."
She jumped up. "I'll come too."
He paused, and for a single instant his eyes met Bertrand's. At once the
Frenchman spoke.
"But, Christine, have you not forgotten your roses? It is growing late,
is it not? And you will be out this afternoon. Permit me to assist you
with them."
He picked up the basket as he spoke. Chris stopped irresolute. Her
husband was already moving away over the grass.
"Come!" said Bertrand persuasively.
Chris turned with a smile and took the basket. "All right, Bertie, let's
go. It is getting late, as you say, and I must get the vases filled."
They went away together to the rose-garden, and here, after brief
hesitation, Chris voiced her fears.
"I'm so afraid lest Trevor should ever get really angry with any of the
boys. They won't stand it, you know. And he--I sometimes think he is just
a little hard, don't you?"
Mordaunt's secretary pondered this proposition with drawn brows. "No," he
said finally, "he is not hard, but he is very honourable."
Chris laughed aloud. "That sounds just like a French exercise, Bertie. I
don't see what being honourable has to do with it, except that the people
who preen themselves on being honourable are just the ones who can't make
allowances for those who are not. You would think, wouldn't you, that
being good would make people extra kind and forgiving? But it doesn't,
you know. Look at Aunt Philippa!"
Bertrand's grimace was expressive. "And Aunt Philippa is good, yes?"
"Frightfully good," said Chris. "I don't suppose she ever told a story in
her life."
His quick eyes sought hers. "And that--that is to be good?"
Chris paused an instant, her attention caught by the question. "Why, I
suppose so," she said slowly. "Don't you call that goodness?"
He spread out his hands. "Me, I think it is the smallest kind of
goodness. One does not lie, one does not steal; but what of that? One
does not roll oneself in the mud. And that is a virtue, that?"
Chris became keenly interested. "Do go on, Bertie! I had no idea you
thought such a lot. I don't myself--often."
He laughed, his sudden pleasant laugh that he uttered now so rarely. "But
I am no philosopher," he said. "Simply I think--a little--sometimes. And
to me--to be honourable is no more a virtue than to wash the hands. One
cannot do otherwise and respect oneself."
"No?" said Chris, a little dubiously. "Then, Bertie, if honour is not
goodness, what is?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Goodness? Bah! There is no goodness without
love."
"Oh!" Chris's eyes opened wide. "You think--that?"
He nodded with vehemence. "_Si, chérie_! I think--that; more, I know it.
I know that 'Love is the fulfilling of the law.' One does not need to go
further than that. It is enough, no?" His eyes looked straight into hers;
they were shining with the light that only friendship can kindle.
She smiled back at him. "I should almost think it is, Bertie. It is
enough for you anyhow, since you believe it."
"Ah, yes," he said very earnestly. "I believe it, Christine. I should not
be here now--if I did not believe it."
She puckered her brows a little. "I don't quite know what you mean," she
said.
He turned from her questioning eyes, pulling his hat down over his own.
"No," he said. "But--you know enough, _ma petite_, you know enough."
"I sometimes think I don't know anything," she said restlessly.
He stretched out a hand to her, as one who guides a child. "Ah,
Christine," he said sadly, "but it is better to know the little than the
much."
"You all say that," said Chris. "I think it is rather a horrid world for
some things, don't you?"
"But the world is that which we make it," said Bertrand.
CHAPTER II
ONE OF THE FAMILY
"But, my dear chap, what bally rot! Anyone would think I'd never smoked a
pipe or handled a gun before, when I've done both for years."
Noel Wyndham's smile was the most engaging part of him; it had the knack
of disarming the most wrathful. It had served him many a time in the hour
of retribution, and he never scrupled to make use of it. It was quite his
most valuable asset.
"Don't be waxy, old chap," he pleaded, slipping an affectionate hand
inside his brother-in-law's unresponsive arm. "I've been having such a
high old time. And I'm not a bloomin' kid. I know what I'm about."
"All very well," Mordaunt said. "I don't object to anything in reason.
But you are too fond of taking French leave with other people's property.
That gun, for instance--"
"Oh, that's all right," the boy assured him eagerly. "It kicks most
infernally, but I soon got the trick of it after a bruise or two. I say,
you haven't seen anything of that little devil Cinders? He's gone down a
rabbit-hole. Won't Chris be in a stew?"
Mordaunt possessed himself of the gun without further argument. "Then
you'd better set to work and find him. Chris is going out this
afternoon."
"In the motor?" Noel's eyes shone. "I'll go, too. You needn't bother
about Cinders. He always turns up sooner or later. Don't tell Chris, or
she'll spend the rest of the day hunting for him."
"She will probably want to know," observed Mordaunt.
"I shall say I never had him," said Noel unconcernedly. "He won't come to
any harm, but you can turn that secretary fellow of yours on to the job
if you're feeling anxious. I say, Trevor, we shan't want the chauffeur.
Tell them, will you?"
"You certainly won't go without him," Mordaunt rejoined. "And look here,
Noel, you're not to tell lies. Understand?"
Noel looked up with a flicker of temper in his Irish eyes, "Oh, rats!" he
said.
"Understand?" Mordaunt repeated. "It's the one thing I won't put up with,
so make up your mind to that."
He spoke quite temperately, but with unswerving decision. His eyes looked
hard into Noel's, and the boy's spark of resentment went out like an
extinguished match.
"I say, I like you!" he said with enthusiasm. "You're a regular sport!"
"Thank you," Mordaunt returned gravely.
"And what about Chris?" Noel proceeded mischievously. "Isn't she allowed
to tell lies, either?"
Mordaunt stiffened. "Chris knows better."
"Oh, does she?" Noel yelled derision. "My dear chap, you'll kill me! Why,
she--she's about the worst of us. I never knew anyone lie quite like
Chris when occasion arises."
He broke off. Mordaunt had shaken his arm free with an abruptness not far
removed from violence.
"That's enough," he said sternly. "I don't advise you to say any more
upon that subject."
"But I assure you it's the truth," Noel protested. "She can look you
straight in the face and swear that black is white till you actually
believe it. I assure you she can."
He spoke with such naïve admiration of the achievement that Trevor
Mordaunt, on the verge of anger, found himself checked suddenly by an
irrepressible desire to laugh.
Noel saw and seized upon his advantage. "But I daresay she wouldn't to
you. She gets everything she wants without. I must say you're jolly
decent to all of us. I'm sorry I took your gun--didn't know it was one
you particularly valued. I'd get one of my own only I'm so beastly hard
up. I suppose you couldn't lend me a fiver now, could you?"
He tucked his hand back into Mordaunt's arm persuasively, and smiled his
winning smile. "I'll pay you back--with interest--when I come of age.
That'll be in five years. I wouldn't ask you if I couldn't. But I daresay
Chris can let me have it if you would rather not."
"No!" Mordaunt said very decidedly. "There must be no borrowing from
Chris. I will give you five pounds if you are wanting it, but not to buy
a gun with, and only on the understanding that for the future you come to
me--and never to Chris--if you chance to be in difficulties."
"Oh yes, I'll promise that," said Noel readily. "But I don't want you to
make me a present, old chap. I shall pay up some day. You shall have an
I O U."
"Many thanks! I don't want one." Mordaunt began to smile. "Just keep
straight and tell the truth," he said. "That's all the return I want."
"Really?" Noel's smile became a grin. "That's awfully decent of you. As a
matter of fact, I don't believe even Chris could manage to deceive you.
You're so beastly shrewd. But we'll call it a bargain if you like. You
won't catch me trying to jockey you after this."
"Very well," Mordaunt said. "Then, on the strength of that, I want to
know if you have ever had any money from Chris before."
"Why, of course I have!" Noel seemed surprised by the question. He spoke
with the utmost frankness.
"How much?"
Mordaunt's smile had departed. He did not look altogether pleased, but
Noel was quite unimpressed.
"Oh, goodness knows!" he said lightly. "She has my I O U's."
"Which she must find very satisfying," remarked Mordaunt. "Now look here,
boy! There must be no more of this. You will have to keep within your
allowance in future."
"My dear chap, it's all jolly fine--I can't!" protested Noel. "Why, I
only get about twopence-halfpenny a term. It isn't enough to pay a cat's
expenses, besides being always up to the eyes in debt."
Mordaunt heaved a sigh of resignation. "I suppose I had better look into
your affairs. Write down as clear a statement of your debts as you can,
and let me have it."
"I say--really?" Noel looked up eagerly. "You're not in earnest?"
"Yes, I am. And afterwards--you are to keep within your means, or if you
don't I must know the reason why."
Noel grinned with cheery impudence. "You'll swish me, I suppose, to
improve my morals? Wish I had as many sovereigns as I've had swishings.
They would keep me in clover for a year."
Mordaunt laughed rather grimly. "I don't waste my time licking hardened
sinners like you. I've something better to do."
Noel echoed his laugh with keen enjoyment. "You're rather a beast, but I
like you. Have you paid Rupert's debts, too? He is always on the verge of
bankruptcy. Shouldn't wonder if Max is as well, but he keeps his affairs
so dark. I expect he is in the hands of the money-lenders--I know Rupert
was years ago."
"I don't think he is now," Mordaunt said.
"Don't you? What's the betting on that? He could no more keep out of
their clutches than he could fly over the moon. I say"--he suddenly burst
into a peal of boyish laughter--"it's the funniest thing on earth to see
you shouldering the family burdens. How you will wish you hadn't! And
that French beggar you've adopted, too, who is safe to rob you sooner or
later! Why don't you start a home for waifs and strays at once? I'll help
you run it. I'll do the accounts."
Mordaunt laughed, in spite of himself. "Very kind of you! But I think
there are enough of you for the present."
"All highly satisfactory," grinned Noel. "What a pity you didn't marry
Aunt Philippa, I say! She would have been much more useful to you than
Chris. Never thought of that, I suppose?"
"Never!" said Mordaunt.
"Poor old Aunt Phil!" Noel chuckled afresh. "She would have been in her
element if you had only given her the chance. She hates us all like
poison. I suppose you know why?"
"Haven't an idea," Mordaunt spoke repressively, "unless your general
behaviour has something to do with it."
"Oh, very likely it has," Noel conceded. "But the chief reason was that
our father diddled her out of a lot of money. He was hard up, and she was
rolling. So he--borrowed a little." He glanced at Mordaunt with a queer
grimace. "Most unfortunately he didn't live to pay it back. I shouldn't
tell anyone this, but I don't mind telling you, as you are one of the
family."
"And who told you?" Mordaunt inquired.
"Me? I overheard it."
"How?"
The question came sternly, but Noel was sublimely unabashed.
"The usual way. How does one generally overhear things? I hid behind a
shutter once when Aunt Phil and Murdoch, our man of business, were having
a talk. She pitched it pretty strong, I can tell you. I should have felt
quite sorry for the old girl if I hadn't known that her husband had left
her more than she could possibly know what to do with. As it was, I was
rather glad than otherwise, for she's disgustingly mean over trifles. And
people who can shell out and won't should be made to."
Mordaunt received this axiom in silence. As a matter of fact he was
somewhat staggered by the information thus airily imparted. But he did
not question the truth of it. He only wondered that he had never
considered such a possibility before.
Another shout of merriment from the boy at his side made him look round.
"Well? What's the joke?"
"You!" yelled the youngster, between his paroxysms. "I'm awfully sorry.
You're such a good sort. But I can't help it. I say, Trevor--aren't you
glad just--that you're one of the family?"
Mordaunt aimed a blow at him that he evaded with ease. "If you don't
behave yourself I shall use the privilege in a fashion you won't care
for," he said, "even if it is a waste of time."
At which threat Noel confidingly hooked his arm once more through that of
his brother-in-law and begged him in a voice hoarse with laughter to stop
rotting.
CHAPTER III
DISASTER
Chris and Noel set off in the motor that afternoon in excellent spirits
to pay the projected call upon Mrs. Pouncefort.
They found the lady of the house at home, and spent an animated hour with
her; for although she never appeared to welcome her visitors or to exert
herself in any degree to entertain them, most of them seemed to find it
difficult to get away.
When they departed at length they carried with them an invitation to a
garden _fête_ which had been arranged for the following week. It included
the whole party, to Chris's great satisfaction.
"It will be the very thing for Bertie," she said. "It is just what he
needs."
Noel, who entertained a sweeping prejudice against all foreigners, was
inclined to dispute this, and a lively argument ensued in consequence,
which lasted during the greater part of the run home.
Chris was at the wheel, being a fairly experienced driver by that time,
though Mordaunt was very insistent that she should always have someone
responsible by her side. On this occasion, however, Holmes, who was
acting as chauffeur, had been imperiously relegated to the back seat by
Noel, who intended to have his turn before the end of the ride. He had
driven twice before under his brother-in-law's supervision, and he
considered himself an expert.
As soon as they were through the lodge-gates, therefore, he began to
clamour to change places with Chris. The worried Holmes protested in
vain. Chris, though firmly refusing to sit behind, was quite willing to
give her place at the wheel to her brother; and the change was speedily
effected, remonstrance notwithstanding.
"We can't come to any harm on our own drive," was the careless
consolation she threw to the perturbed man behind her, who then and there
solemnly swore to his inner soul that whatever the outcome of the venture
he would never again trust himself or the car to the tender mercies of
the Wyndham family.
Finding himself thus ignored, he stood up and leaned over the boy's
shoulder to give directions in the face of any sudden emergency that
might arise, though Noel was obviously in no mood to pay any attention to
them. As he remarked later, when recounting the adventure, he knew in his
bones that there was going to be an accident; but the nature of it he
could hardly be expected to foresee.
In fact, for a brief space all went well. The motor buzzed merrily along
the drive, and it almost seemed as if the escapade would end without
mishap, when, as they rounded the bend that led to the house, Noel
unexpectedly put on speed. They shot forward at a great pace under the
arching trees, and forthwith suddenly came disaster. Swift as a lightning
flash it came--too swift for realization, almost too swift for sight. It
was only a tiny, racing figure that darted for the fraction of a second
in front of the car, and then--with a squeal half-choked--was lost in the
rush of the wheels. It was only Cinders chasing a rabbit which he was
destined never to catch.
Chris's shriek of agony rang as far as the house. In another moment she
would have thrown herself headlong from the car, but Holmes was too quick
for her. Not in vain had Holmes been through a three-years' war; not in
vain did he hold himself responsible for the young wife of the master
whom that war had taught him to love. Almost before she had sprung from
her seat he had caught her, forcing her down again, holding her by grim
strength from her mad purpose. She struggled with him fiercely,
hysterically; but Holmes's grip never relaxed. She bore the marks of it
upon her arms for weeks after.
And while he held her, baffling her utmost efforts to free herself, he
was giving directions to Noel, whose nerve had departed completely with
the shock of the catastrophe, giving them over and over again--steadily,
insistently, and very distinctly, till they took effect at last, though
only just in time.
They were dangerously near the house before, in response to the boy's
frantic efforts, the car slackened and finally, under Holmes's reiterated
directions, ran to a standstill.
Chris, in a perfect frenzy by that time, wrenched herself free and sprang
down. Her husband, who had rushed from the house at her cry, was close to
her as she reached the ground, but she sped away without so much as
seeing him.
Back up the drive she tore, back to the shadowing trees, back to the
piteous little blot in the shadow that was the only thing her world
contained in that hour of anguish.
When they reached her she was sunk on the ground beside her favourite,
crying his name, while he, whimpering, strove to drag his mangled body
into her lap. She tried to lift him, but he yelped so terribly at her
touch that she was forced to let him lie.
"Oh, Cinders, Cinders!" she cried, in an agony. "My little darling, what
shall I do?"
Someone stooped over her; a quiet hand lay upon her shoulder. "Chris," it
was her husband's voice, very grave and tender, "come away, dear. You
can't do anything. The poor little chap is past our help."
She lifted a dazed face, staring uncomprehendingly.
"Come away," he repeated.
But when he tried to raise her she resisted him. "And leave him like
this? No, never, never! Oh, Trevor, look--look! He is dying! Can't we do
something--anything? Oh, he never cried like that before!"
"My dear, there is nothing that you can do." Very gently he made answer.
"He can't possibly live. There is only one thing to be done, and that is
to put him out of his pain as quickly as possible. But I can't do it
with you here. So come away, dear! It's the kindest--in fact, it's the
only--thing you can do."
"Are you going to--kill him?" gasped Chris in horror.
He nodded, with compressed lips. "There is no alternative. We can't let
him suffer like this."
"Oh no, no, no!" Chris cried.
She would have thrown her arms about her darling, but he stopped her. He
caught her wrists and held her back.
"Chris, you must not! When animals are hurt they will bite without
knowing what they are doing. Chris, do you hear me? You must go."
But she would not. "Do you think I would leave him now--when he wants me
most? And as if he would bite me--Cinders--Cinders--who never even
growled at me!"
She bent over him again, beside herself with grief. Cinders, in the midst
of his pain, tried gently to wag his tail. His brown eyes, faithful,
appealing, full of love, gazed up at her. He had never seen his mistress
in such trouble before, and the instinct to comfort her urged him even
then, in the midst of his own. Again he made piteous efforts to crawl
into her arms, but again he failed, and fell back, whimpering.
Chris covered her face. It was more than she could bear, and yet she
could not--could not--leave him.
For a space that might have been minutes or only seconds she was left
alone, tortured but impotent. A dreadful darkness had fallen upon her, a
numbness in which Cinders, suffering and slowly dying, was the only
reality.
Then again she became conscious of another presence. A quick hand touched
her. A soft voice spoke.
"Ah, the poor Cinders! And he lives yet! _Chérie_, we will be
kind to him, yes? We cannot make him live, but we will let him die
quick--quick, so that he suffer no more. That is kind, that is merciful,
_n'est-ce-pas_?"
She turned instinctively in answer to that voice. She held up her hands
to the speaker like a child. "Oh, Bertie," she cried piteously, "is there
nothing to be done? Nothing?"
"Only that, _chérie_," he made answer, very gently.
"Then"--she was sobbing terribly, but she suffered his hands to raise
her--"don't let them--send me away, Bertie. I can't go--while he lives.
It--it would hurt him more, if I went."
"No, no, _chérie_," he answered her reassuringly. "You will be brave,
yes? See, I will hold your hand. We will go just across the road, but
not beyond his sight. He will see you. He will know that you are near.
There--there, _chérie_! Shut your eyes! It will be finished soon."
He put his arm around her, for she stumbled blindly. They went across the
road as he had said, and halted under the trees on the farther side.
There followed a pause--an interval that was terrible--during which only
the low crying of an animal in pain was audible.
Bertrand stood like a rock, still holding her. "But you will not look,
_chérie_," he whispered to her softly. "It is deliverance--this death.
Soon--soon he will not cry any more."
She pressed her face against his shoulder, wrapped in the close security
of his arms, and waited, drawing each breath with difficulty, saying no
word.
She did not know what was happening, and she dared not look. She could
only wait in anguish for the whimpering that tore her heart to cease.
"Now, _chérie_!" whispered Bertrand at last, and she stiffened in his
arms, preparing for she knew not what.
His hold tightened. For that instant he pressed her hard against his
heart, so that she heard its quick beating.
The next there came a loud report--a sound that violently rent her
stretched nerves, shattering them as glass is shattered by a stone. She
drooped without sound like a broken flower, and the young Frenchman
gathered her up, just as he had done on the occasion of their first
meeting at Valpré, and bore her away.
CHAPTER IV
GOOD-BYE TO CHILDHOOD
Out of the dreadful darkness Chris groped her halting way, saw light,
and, shuddering, closed her eyes again. But at once a voice spoke to her,
soothingly, tenderly, calling her back.
Reluctantly she responded, reluctantly she returned to full
consciousness, and knew that she was lying fully dressed upon a couch in
the drawing-room. But at sight of her husband's face bending above her
she shuddered again--a painful, convulsive shudder that shook her from
head to foot.
He laid a quiet hand on her head, but she shrank away. "Please,
Trevor"--she faltered--"please, I want to be alone."
"Yes, dear," he made gentle reply. "Just drink this first, and I will
leave you."
But she withdrew herself almost violently; she buried her face deep in
the cushion. "I can't! I can't! Please don't ask me to. I am quite all
right. I only want--to be alone."
She was shaking all over as one with an ague, and her words were hardly
articulate. He waited a little for her trembling to pass, but it only
increased till her whole body seemed to twitch uncontrollably. At last
with the utmost quietness he stooped and deliberately raised her.
"Chris, my dear little girl, you mustn't let yourself go like this. I
want you to take this stuff to steady you. Afterwards you will have a
sleep and be better."
She did not absolutely resist him, but he felt her nervous contraction at
his touch. The face she turned to his was ghastly in its pallor.
"I--I don't think I can, Trevor," she said, speaking very rapidly. "My
throat won't swallow. It would only choke me. Please--please, if you
don't mind--go away. I shall be all right if--if you will only go."
"I can't leave you like this," he said.
"Yes, yes, you can," she answered feverishly. "Oh, what does it matter?
Trevor, I must be alone. I must! I must! Please go!"
Her agitation was growing with every second, and he saw that he must
yield. He laid her back again without a word, smoothed the cushions,
touched her hair, and softly departed.
She listened tensely for the closing of the door, relaxing instantly the
moment she heard it. A great darkness descended upon her soul. She lay
motionless, face downwards, too stunned for thought.
A long time passed. It was growing late. Over the quiet garden the summer
dusk was falling. The swallows were swooping through it in their
multitudes--the swallows that Cinders loved to chase. To-night no cheery,
impudent bark pursued their flight. To-night all was still.
Did they miss him? she began to wonder dully. Did they ask each other
where he had gone? And then, half-consciously, she began to listen for
him, the scamper of the light feet, the gay jingle of his collar, till in
a moment she almost fancied that she heard him scratching at the door.
She was half off the sofa before realization stabbed her, and she sank
back numbly into her desolation.
Again a long time passed--an interval not to be measured by hours or
minutes. The swallows ceased to circle and went to roost. It began to be
dark. And still Chris lay alone, a huddled, motionless figure, prostrate,
crushed, inanimate. Her hands and feet were like ice, but she did not
know it. She was past caring for such trifles. All her abounding vitality
seemed to be arrested, as if her very blood had ceased to circulate.
It was growing late when the door opened at last. A figure stood a moment
upon the threshold, then entered, moving with a quick, light tread that
might have been the tread of a woman. In the darkness it reached her,
bent over her.
"_Ah, pauvre petite_!" said a soft voice, a voice so full of compassion
that it thrilled straight to her silent heart and made it beat again.
"All alone with your grief! You permit me to intrude myself, no?"
She turned and felt up towards him with an icy hand. "Bertie!" she said.
"You--might have come before!"
He knelt swiftly down beside her, pressing the little trembling fingers
against his neck to give them warmth. "But you are so cold!" he said.
"You must not lie here any more."
"Why not?" she said dully. "I don't think it matters, does it?"
"But of course!" he made quick rejoinder. "When you suffer we suffer
also. Also"--he paused an instant--"Mr. Mordaunt awaits you, _petite_.
Will you not go to him?"
She shivered. "Need I, Bertie? I don't want to."
It was the cry of a child--a child in distress--plunged for the first
time in the bitter waters of grief, turning instinctively to the friend
of childhood for comfort. "I don't want anyone but you," she said
piteously. "You understand. You loved him--and Trevor didn't."
"Oh, but, Christine--" Bertrand began.
"No, he didn't!" she maintained, with sudden vehemence. "I always knew he
didn't. He put up with him for my sake; but he never loved him. He never
noticed his pretty little ways. Once--once"--she began to sob--"it was on
our wedding-day--he slapped him--for chasing a cat! My sweet wee
Cinders!"
She broke down utterly upon the words, and there followed such a storm of
tears that Bertrand was forced to abandon all attempts to reason with
her, and could only kneel and whisper soft endearments in his own
language, soothing her, comforting her, as though she were indeed the
child she seemed.
But it was long before she even heard him, not until the paroxysm had
spent itself and she lay passive and utterly exhausted, with her hands
fast clasped in his.
"You are good to me," she murmured then, and in a moment, "Why, Bertie,
you're crying too!"
"Ah, pardon me!" he whispered, under his breath. "But to see you in pain,
my little one, my bird of Paradise--"
"No," she said, a strange note of conviction in her voice, "I shall never
be that any more now that Cinders is gone. I shan't be young like that
any more. I--I shall grow up now, Bertie. I daresay Trevor will like me
the better for it. But you won't, dear. You will be sorry, I know. We've
been playfellows always, haven't we, even though you grew up and I
didn't? Well"--there came a sharp catch in her voice--"we shall both be
grown-up now."
And then, all in a moment, as if some panic urged her, she started up,
drawing his hands close. "But we'll be friends still, won't we, Bertie?
You won't talk of going away any more, will you? Promise me! Promise me,
Bertie!"
He hesitated. "It might be better that I should go," he said slowly. "It
is possible that--"
She interrupted him almost hysterically. "Oh no, no, no! I want you here.
I want you, Bertie, Don't you understand?"
"But yes," he said. "Only, _petite_--"
"You will promise, then?" she broke in, as though she had not heard the
last words. "Bertie, I'm so miserable. You--you--wouldn't add to it all!"
"No, _chérie_, by Heaven, no!" he said, with vehemence.
"Then you'll stay, Bertie? You will stay?" Very earnestly she besought
him. Her tears were dropping on his hands. "Say you will!"
For a moment longer he hesitated; he tried to resist her, he tried to
take a sane and temperate view. But those tears were too much for him.
They were the one torture he could not endure. With a sharp gesture he
flung his hesitation from him. Yet even then he left himself a way of
escape lest the temptation should be more than he could bear.
"I will stay," he made grave reply, "as long as it would make you happy
to have me with you--that is"--he checked himself--"if Mr. Mordaunt
desire it also."
"But of course he does," said Chris. "He likes you. And I--I can't do
without you, Bertie--not now."
He heard the desolate note in her voice, and he did not contradict her.
Had he not sworn that while she needed him he would be at hand?
"_Eh bien_," he said soothingly. "I stay."
That comforted her somewhat, and presently, at his persuasion, she sat up
and dried her eyes. It was too dark for them to see each other, but she
held his hand very tightly; and there was comfort also in that.
"Now you will come away from here," he said. "Mr. Mordaunt is very
troubled about you. He would not come to you himself because he thought
that you did not desire him. But that was not true, no?"
Again that hard shudder went through Chris. She was silent for a little,
them "Oh, Bertie," she whispered, "I wish--I wish--it hadn't been he
who--who--" she broke off--"you know what I mean. You--saw!"
Yes, he knew. It was what Mordaunt himself had suspected, and loyally he
entered the breach on his friend's behalf.
"_Chérie_--pardon me--that is not a good wish--not worthy of you. That
which he did was most merciful, most brave, and he did it himself because
he would not trust another. I wish it had been my hand--not his. Then you
would have understood."
"I almost wish it had been!" whispered Chris; and then, her words
scarcely audible, "But--but do you think--he--knew?"
"_Le pauvre Cinders_?" Very softly Bertrand spoke the dog's name. "No,
Christine. He did not know. His head was turned the other way. His eyes
regarded only you. And Mr. Mordaunt was so quiet, so steady. He aim his
revolver quite straight, and his hand tremble--no, not once. Oh, believe
me, _petite_, it was better to end it so."
"Yes, I know, only--only"--convulsively her hands closed upon
his--"Bertie--Bertie--dogs do go to heaven, don't they?"
"I believe it, Christine."
"You do really--not just because I want you to?"
He drew her gently to her feet. "_Chérie_, I believe it, because I know
that all love is eternal, and death is only an incident in eternity.
Where there is love there is no death. Nothing that loves can die. It is
the Divine Spark that nothing can ever quench."
He spoke with absolute conviction, almost with exultation; and the words
went straight to Chris's heart and stayed there.
"You do comfort me," she said.
"I only tell you the truth," he made answer, "as I see it. We do not yet
know the power of Love. We only know that it is the greatest of all. It
is _le bon Dieu_ in the world. And we meet Him everywhere--even in the
heart of a dog."
"I shall remember that," she said.
Her hand still clung to his as they groped their way across the room. At
the door for a moment she stayed him.
"I shall never forget your goodness to me, Bertie, never--never!" she
said, very earnestly.
"Ah, bah!" he answered quickly. "But we are--pals!"
And with that he opened the door, almost as if impatient, and made her
pass before him into the hall.
The lamplight dazzled Chris, and she stood for a moment uncertain. Then,
as her eyes became accustomed to the change, she discovered her husband,
standing a few yards away, looking at her.
He did not speak, merely held out his hand to her; and she went to him
with a vagrant feeling of reluctance.
He put his arm about her, looking gravely into her wan face; but she
turned from his scrutiny and leaned her head against his shoulder with a
piteous little murmur of protest.
"Do you mind if I go to bed, Trevor?" she said, after a moment. "I--I'm
very tired, and I don't want any dinner."
"You must have something, dear," he made answer, "but have it in bed by
all means. I will bring it up to you in half an hour."
She made a slight movement which might have meant dissent, but which
remained unexplained. For a little she stood passive, leaning against him
as though she lacked the energy to go, but at length she made a move.
Glancing round, she saw that Bertrand had departed.
"Where is Noel?" she asked.
"In his room."
She looked up sharply, detecting a hint of grimness in his voice.
"Trevor"--she halted a little--"are you--vexed with anybody?"
His face softened at her tone. "Never mind now, dear," he said. "You are
worn out. Get to bed."
She put her hand to her head with a weary gesture. "But why--why is Noel
in his room?"
"Because I sent him there."
"You!" She stared at him, fully roused from her lethargy. "Trevor! Why?"
"I will tell you tomorrow," he said, frowning slightly. "I can't have you
upset any more tonight."
"But, Trevor--"
"Chris, dear, go to bed," he said firmly. "If I don't find you there in
half an hour, I shall put you there myself."
"Oh no!" she broke in. "Please don't come up. I shall get on better
alone. And I have to say goodnight to Noel first."
"I am sorry, dear," he said, "but you can't. Noel is in disgrace, and I
would rather you did not see him to-night."
"In disgrace! Trevor--why?"
He put his arm deliberately round her again, and led her to the stairs.
"Tell me why," she said.
"I will tell you tomorrow," he repeated.
But she would not be satisfied. She turned upon the first stair,
confronting him. "Tell me now, please, Trevor."
He raised his brows at her insistence.
"Yes," she said in answer, "but I want to know. You don't--you
can't--blame him for--for--" she faltered and bit her lip
desperately--"you know what," she ended under her breath.
"I do blame him," he answered quietly. "I forbade him strictly to attempt
to drive without someone of experience beside him."
"Oh!" A sharp note of misgiving sounded in Chris's voice. "You said that
to me too!" she said.
He looked at her very gravely. "I did."
"Then--then"--she stretched a hand to the bannisters--"you are angry with
me too?"
"No, I am not angry with you," he said, and she was conscious of a subtle
softening in his tone. "I am never angry with you, Chris," he said
emphatically.
"And yet you are angry with Noel," she said.
"That is different."
"How--different?"
He took her hand into his. "Do you know he nearly killed you?"
She started a little. "Me?"
He nodded grimly. "Yes. If it had been only himself, it wouldn't have
mattered. But you--you!"
His arms went out to her suddenly; he caught her to him, held her
passionately close for a moment, then lifted her and began to carry her
upstairs.
She lay against his breast in quivering silence. It seemed that Cinders
did not matter either so long as she was safe; and though she knew beyond
all question that he was not angry with her, she was none the less
afraid.
CHAPTER V
THE LOOKER-ON
"I think that it should be remembered that he is young," said Bertrand,
"also that he has been punished enough severely already."
He leaned back in an easy-chair with a cigarette which he had suffered to
go out between his fingers, and watched Mordaunt pacing up and down.
Mordaunt made no pretence of smoking. He walked to and fro with his hands
behind him, his brows drawn in thought, his mouth very grim.
"My good fellow, he will have forgotten all that by to-morrow," he said,
with a faint, hard smile. "I know these Wyndhams."
"I also," said Bertrand quietly.
Mordaunt glanced at him. "Well?"
The Frenchman hesitated momentarily. "I think," he said, "that you will
find them more easy to lead than to drive."
Mordaunt's frown deepened. "They are all so hopelessly lawless, so
utterly unprincipled. As for lying, this boy at least thinks nothing of
it."
"Ah, that is detestable, that!" Bertrand said. "But he would not lie to
you unless you made him afraid, _hein_?"
"He lies whenever it suits his purpose," Mordaunt said. "He would have
lied about the speed of the motor if I would have listened to him. But it
is his disobedience I am dealing with now. If I don't give that boy the
sound thrashing he deserves for defying my orders, he will never obey me
again."
Bertrand's eyes, very bright and vigilant, opened a little. "But
Christine!" he said.
"Yes, I know." Mordaunt came to a sudden halt. "Chris also must learn
that when I say a thing I mean it," he said.
"Without doubt," the Frenchman conceded gravely. "But that is not all
that you want. And surely it would be better to be a little lenient to
her brother than to alienate her confidence from yourself."
He spoke impressively, so impressively that Mordaunt turned and looked at
him with close attention. Several seconds passed before, very quietly, he
spoke.
"What makes you say this to me, Bertrand?"
"Because you are my friend," Bertrand answered.
"And you think my wife is afraid of me?"
Bertrand's eyes met his with the utmost directness. "I think that she
might very easily become afraid."
Mordaunt looked at him for several seconds longer, then deliberately
pulled up a chair, and sat facing him.
"In Heaven's name, Bertrand, why?" he said.
Bertrand made a quick gesture, almost as if he would have checked the
question, but when it was uttered he sat in silence.
"You can't tell me?" Mordaunt said at last.
He shrugged his shoulders. "If you desire it, I will tell you what I
think."
"Tell me, then."
A faint flush rose in Bertrand's face. He contemplated the end of his
cigarette as if he were studying something of interest. "I think,
monsieur," he said at last, "that if you asked more of her, you would
obtain more. She is afraid of you because she does not know you. You
regard her as a child. You are never on a level with her. You are not
enough her friend. Therefore you do not understand her. Therefore she
does not know you. Therefore she is--afraid."
His eyes darted up to Mordaunt's grave face for an instant, and returned
to the cigarette.
There followed a silence of some duration. At last very quietly Mordaunt
rose, went to the mantelpiece, helped himself to a cigarette, and began
to search for matches.
Bertrand sprang up to proffer one of his own. They stood close together
while the flame kindled between them. After a moment their eyes met
through a cloud of smoke. Bertrand's held a tinge of anxiety.
"I have displeased you, no?" he asked abruptly.
Mordaunt leaned a friendly hand upon his shoulder. "On the contrary, I am
grateful to you. I believe there is something in what you say. I never
gave you credit for so much perception."
Bertrand's face cleared. He began to smile--the smile of the rider who
has just cleared a difficult obstacle.
"You have a proverb in England," he said, "concerning those who watch the
game, that they see more than those who play. Shall we say that it is
thus with me? You and Christine are my very good friends, and I know you
both better than you know each other."
"I believe you do," Mordaunt said, smiling faintly himself. "Well, I
suppose I must let the youngster off his thrashing for her sake. I wonder
if he has gone to bed." He glanced at the clock. "It's time you went,
anyhow. You are looking fagged to death. Go and sleep as long as you
can."
He gripped the Frenchman's hand, looking at him with a kindly scrutiny
which Bertrand refused to meet. He never encouraged any reference to his
health.
"I am all right," he said with emphasis, but he returned the hand-grip
with a warmth that left no doubt as to the cordiality of his feelings. He
was ever too polished a gentleman to be discourteous.
Left alone, Mordaunt sat down at his writing-table to clear off some work
which he had taken out of his secretary's hands earlier in the day. It
was midnight before he finished, and even then he sat on for a long time
deep in thought.
It was probably true, what Bertrand had said. Tenderly as he loved his
young wife, he had not succeeded in winning her confidence. There was no
friendship between them in the most intimate sense of the word, and so
she feared him. His love was to her a consuming flame from which she
shrank. Bitterly he admitted the fact, since there was no ignoring it.
She was frightened at the very existence of his passion, restrain it how
he would. She was his and yet not his. She eluded him, even when he held
her in his arms.
His thoughts travelled backwards, recalling incident after incident, all
pointing to the same thing. And yet he knew that he had been patient with
her. He had held himself in check perpetually. And here again Bertrand's
words recurred to him. If he had asked more, might he not have obtained
more? Was it possible that he had failed to win her because he had not
let her feel the compulsion of his love? Was it perchance his very
restraint that frightened her? Had he indeed asked too little?
Again his thoughts went back and dwelt upon their wedding-night. He had
kindled some answering flame within her then. She had not attempted to
withhold herself. The memory of her shy surrender swept over him, setting
the blood leaping in his veins anew. She had been his that night, and his
throughout the brief fortnight that followed. They had been very intent
upon the renovations, and no cloud had even shadowed their horizon. How
was it she had slipped away from him since? Was it the advent of that
tempestuous youngster that had caused the change? Undoubtedly Chris was
less a Wyndham when alone with him. Or was there some other cause,
arising possibly from some hidden fluctuation of mood, some restlessness
of the spirit, of which he had had no warning? Her aunt's declaration
that they were all lacking in stability recurred to him. Was it so with
her? Was she fickle, was she changeable, his little Chris?
Her own words came back to him, uttered with tears upon her wedding-day:
"Don't you often think me silly and fickle? You'll find it more and more,
the more you see of me. You'll be horribly disappointed in me some day."
He rose abruptly. No, that day had not dawned yet. If she had slipped
away from him, he, and he alone, was to blame. He had not won the
friendship which alone brings trust, and he knew now that he could not
hold her without it. As Bertrand had said, he had not been enough her
friend. Even now she was probably crying herself ill in solitude over the
loss of Cinders.
The thought quickened him to action. He turned out the light, and went
swiftly from the room.
Upstairs, outside her door, he stopped to listen, but he heard no sound.
She had cried herself to sleep, then, and he had not been there to
comfort her. His heart smote him. Had she deemed him unsympathetic? She
had seemed to wish to be alone, and for that reason he had left her as
soon as he had satisfied himself that she had all she needed in a
physical sense. She had not wanted him. She had shrunk from his touch.
She had probably seen him go with relief. But--he asked himself the
question with sudden misgiving--would it have been better if he had
ignored her evident desire and stayed? He had feared exhaustion for her
and had avoided any word or action that might have led to a renewal of
her grief. Had he seemed to think too lightly of her sorrow? Had she been
repelled by his very forbearance?
He passed on softly to his own room. The door that led from this into
hers was ajar. He pushed it a little wider, and looked in.
It was lighted only by the moon, which threw a flood of radiance through
the wide-flung windows. Every object in the room stood out in strong
relief. Standing motionless in the doorway, Trevor Mordaunt sought and
found his wife.
She was lying with her face to the moonlight, her hair streaming loose,
the bedclothes pushed off her shoulders.
And there beside her, curled up in a big easy-chair, his black head
lodged against her pillow, one hand clasped close in hers, lay Noel. Both
had been crying, both were asleep.
For many seconds Mordaunt stood upon the threshold, gravely watching
them, but he made no movement to draw nearer. At last noiselessly he
withdrew, and closed the door.
The grimness had all gone from his face. He even smiled a little as he
resigned himself to spending the night in his own room. The idea of
disturbing the brother and sister never crossed his mind. It was enough
for him that Chris had found comfort.
CHAPTER VI
A BARGAIN
"Luck!" said Rupert gloomily. "There never is any where I am concerned."
This in response to a question from his brother-in-law as to the general
progress of his affairs. He sat in Mordaunt's writing-room, with one of
Mordaunt's cigars between his lips, and a decidedly sullen expression on
his good-looking face.
"I'm sick of everything," he declared. "I'm going to chuck the Army. It's
never done anything for me. There's no chance of active service, and I
loathe garrison work."
"The only question being, what else are you fit for?" said Mordaunt.
Rupert threw him a quick look. "I'll be your bailiff, if you like," he
said. "I could do that."
Mordaunt raised his brows at the suggestion. "That is an idea that never
occurred to me," he remarked.
"Why not? You want a bailiff, don't you?"
"A reliable one," said Mordaunt.
Rupert jumped in his chair as if he had been stung. "What the devil do
you mean?"
"I mean"--Mordaunt regarded him steadily--"that I shouldn't care to trust
my affairs to a man who can't look after his own."
Rupert's eyes flashed. "I am not to be trusted, then?"
Mordaunt continued to regard him, quite unmoved.
"You had better ask yourself that question, my dear fellow," he said.
"You are better qualified to answer it than I am."
Rupert relaxed again, dropping back listlessly. "I suppose you are right.
I certainly don't make a great success of things. I believe I should get
on better with you than with anyone else. But if you feel like that about
it, there is no more to be said."
"You really want to be taken seriously, do you?" Mordaunt said.
"Of course I do!" Rupert turned towards him again with the lightning
change of mood characteristic of him. "You must forgive me for being a
bit touchy, old chap. It's this infernal thundery weather. May I have
another drink?" He helped himself without waiting for permission. "Of
course I want to be taken seriously. It's a billet that would suit me
down to the ground. I know the place, every inch of it, and, as you know,
I'm fond of it. I would look after your interests as though they were my
own."
Mordaunt smiled. "But do you look after your own?"
Rupert clinked some ice into his tumbler, and thoughtfully watched it
float.
"You've been so jolly decent to me," he said at length, "that I haven't
the face to bother you with my affairs again."
"I suppose that means you are in difficulties," his brother-in-law
remarked.
He nodded without looking up. "I'm never out of 'em. It's not my fault.
It's my beastly bad luck."
"Of course," said Mordaunt dryly.
Rupert bobbed the ice against his glass and spilt some whisky-and-water
in so doing. He looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"I can't help it," he said. "I was born in Queer Street, and I've lived
there all my life. You fellows who are simply rolling in wealth haven't
the smallest notion what it means."
"What is the good of saying that?" Mordaunt sounded impatient for the
first time. "You know as well as I do that if you had twenty thousand a
year you would spend twice the amount."
Rupert glanced at him sideways. "Hullo!" he said softly. "Beginning to
size us up, are you?"
"I'm beginning to think"--Mordaunt spoke with force--"that your sense of
honour is as much a minus quantity as your wealth."
"Honour!" Rupert looked up in genuine astonishment.
"Yes, honour," Mordaunt repeated grimly. "Do you call it honourable to
run up debts that you have no possibility of paying?"
Rupert turned crimson. "Look here! I'm not going to stay here to be
insulted," he said hotly. "I haven't asked for your help, and I'm damned
if I'd take it if you offered it--after that."
He was on his feet with the words, but Mordaunt remained seated. "You can
do as you like," he said quietly. "If you choose to take offence, that is
your affair. I helped you before because I knew you were hard up and I
was sorry for you. But there is no occasion for you to be hard up now.
And I am not sorry for you this time. I think you deserve to be kicked."
"You be damned!" said Rupert fiercely.
Mordaunt's brows went up. He looked full into the boy's heated face, and
though he said no word Rupert turned slowly white under the look. In the
dead silence that followed he stood as tense as though he expected a
blow. Yet Mordaunt made no movement, spoke no word.
It was Rupert who broke the silence finally, broke it hurriedly,
stammeringly, as though it had become unbearable. "All right, old chap. I
didn't mean quite that. But you--you shouldn't badger me. I'm not used to
it."
"Sit down," Mordaunt said.
He obeyed awkwardly, and to cover his discomfiture took up his glass to
drink. But before it reached his lips Mordaunt spoke again.
"Rupert!"
He started a little, and again the liquid splashed over.
"Put that down!" Mordaunt said.
Again dumbly he obeyed.
Mordaunt leaned forward and drew the glass out of his reach. "It has
never been my intention to badger you," he said. "But I reserve to myself
the privilege of telling you the truth. That is the fourth drink I have
seen you mix this afternoon."
"I'm perfectly sober," Rupert asserted quickly.
"Yes, I know. But you are not as cool as you might be." Very keenly
Mordaunt's eyes surveyed him, but they were not without a hint of
kindness notwithstanding. "I mustn't call you a young fool, I suppose,"
he said, "but really you are not overwise. Now, what about these affairs
of yours? Shall we go into them now or after tea?"
Rupert shrugged his shoulders sullenly. "I don't know that I care to go
into them at all."
The kindliness went out of Mordaunt's eyes and a certain steeliness took
its place. "As you like," he said. "Only let it be clearly understood
that I will have no borrowing from Chris. I have forbidden her to lend
money to any one of you. If you want it, you must come direct to me."
Rupert shifted his position, and looked out of the window. Down in the
garden Chris was dispensing tea to three of his brother-subalterns,
assisted by Noel. Bertrand was seated by her side, alert and watchful,
ready at a moment's notice to come to her aid. It was his customary
attitude, and it had been so more than ever since the death of Cinders.
There was a protecting brotherliness about him that Chris found
infinitely comforting: He understood her so perfectly.
She had not wanted to emerge from her seclusion to entertain her
brother's friends on that sunny Sunday afternoon, but he had gently
persuaded her. A change had come over Chris during the past four days.
The violence of her grief had spent itself on the night that she and Noel
had mingled their tears over the loss of their favourite, and she had not
alluded to it since. She accepted her husband's sympathy with gratitude,
but she shrank so visibly from the smallest allusion to her trouble that
he found no opportunity for expressing it. He would not intrude it upon
her. It was not his way, and she made him aware that for this also she
was grateful.
But it was plainly from Bertrand that she drew her chief comfort. His
very presence seemed to soothe her. He was just the friend she needed to
help her through her dark hour.
That she fretted secretly Mordaunt could not doubt, but she was so
zealous to hide all traces of it from him that he never detected them. He
only missed her gay wilfulness and the sunshine of her smile. She
responded to his tenderness even more readily than usual, but she did not
open her heart to him. There seemed to be a barrier intervening that she
could not bring herself to pass.
In his own mind he set this fact down to a certain feminine
unreasonableness, imagining that she could not forget his share in the
tragedy that had affected her so deeply. He trusted to time to soften the
painful impression, and meanwhile, with his habitual patience, he set
himself to wait till the physical strain had passed and the very
sweetness of her nature should bring her back to him. He knew that all
Bertrand's influence would be exercised in this direction, and his faith
in his young secretary's discretion was considerable. Their brief
conversation on the night of the disaster had rooted it more firmly than
ever. Bertrand was so essentially a man of honour that he trusted him in
all things as he trusted himself. Their code was the same, and their
friendship of the kind that endures for life. If there were one thing on
earth before all others upon which Trevor Mordaunt would have staked his
all, it was this Frenchman's loyalty to himself. He was as staunch as
Chris's brothers were unstable. He believed him to be utterly incapable
of so much as an underhand impulse. And he was content that Chris should
have for friend this man who was so close a friend of his own, upon whose
nobility of character he had come to rely as a power for good that could
not fail to raise her ideals and deepen in her that sense of honour which
was still scarcely more than an undeveloped instinct in her soul.
His eyes followed Rupert's to the open window. The sound of chaffing
voices rose clearly on the summer air, mingled with the chink of
tea-cups.
"Shall we go?" Mordaunt said.
Rupert looked round with a laugh. "Did you see that ass Murphy stand on
his head to drink his tea? It's his pet accomplishment. Yes, all right;
let's go."
He got up, glanced at the whisky-and-soda on the table, then impulsively
linked his arm in that of his brother-in-law, all his sullenness gone
like a storm-cloud.
"You're quite right, old fellow. I have had as much of that stuff as is
good for me. Forgive me for being such a bear. I didn't mean it."
Mordaunt paused. He had never dealt with anyone quite so bewilderingly
changeable before. "I wish I knew how to treat you," he said, after a
moment.
"Oh, pitch into me! It's the only way." Rupert's smile flashed suddenly
upon him. "I've been an ungrateful brute, and I'm ashamed of myself.
Seriously, Trevor, I'm sorry. I sometimes think to myself it's downright
disgusting the way we all sponge on you. It's deuced good of you to put
up with it."
Mordaunt still regarded him with close attention. But there was no doubt
in his mind as to the boy's sincerity: he only wondered how long this
contrite mood would last.
"I am always willing to help you to the best of my ability," he said.
"But I think you might play the game. I can't keep pouring water into a
sieve."
"It's not to be expected," Rupert agreed. "And I hate asking you for more
money. I'm an absolute cur to do it. But--" he broke off, and pulled his
hand free--"for goodness' sake, man, if you can--just this once--"
Mordaunt crossed the room to his writing-table, unlocked a drawer, took
out a cheque-book.
"How much?"
"I say, you are a good chap!" Rupert protested. "Can you make it a
hundred?"
"Will that settle everything?" Mordaunt asked.
"Oh, well--practically everything."
Mordaunt wrote the cheque in silence. He handed it over his shoulder
finally to the boy behind him.
"It's for a hundred and fifty. I hope that will see you through. And look
here, Rupert, do for Heaven's sake pull up and keep within bounds. I am
quite willing to help you to a reasonable extent, but you must do your
part, too. You are living at an insane rate. Do you keep an account of
your expenditure?"
"Of course I don't!" Rupert seemed astonished at the question. "What on
earth would be the good of that? It wouldn't reduce my expenses."
Mordaunt laid his cheque-book back in the drawer. "And you think you
would make a good bailiff?" he said.
"Oh, that's different. Of course, you must have accounts for the
management of an estate. You would have no cause to complain of me there.
Are you going to think it over, I say?"
Mordaunt turned in his chair. "You really wish me to do so?"
"Rather!" Rupert spoke with enthusiasm. "If you knew how deadly sick I am
of the life I live now!" he added, with strong disgust. "It's beastly
hard work, too, in a sense, and nothing to show for it."
"I should work you hard myself," Mordaunt observed.
"I shouldn't mind that. I'd work like a horse here. It's what I've always
wanted to do."
"And kick like a horse, too, if I ventured to find fault," said Mordaunt,
smiling a little.
"No, I shouldn't. I'd take it like a lamb. Come, man, I've apologized."
There was a note of reproach in Rupert's voice. Mordaunt left his
writing-table and faced him squarely.
"I'll make a bargain with you," he said. "If you can manage to keep
straight between now and Christmas, and you are of the same mind then, I
will take you on. Is it done?"
Rupert thrust out a hand with a beaming countenance. "Done, old fellow!
And a thousand thanks! I'll do my part somehow if it kills me. Hullo, I
say! There's Chris calling! Hadn't we better go?"
He was plainly desirous to end the interview, and Mordaunt did not seek
to prolong it. "Come along, then!" he said. And they went out together
arm-in-arm to join the group upon the lawn.
Two hours later, just before Rupert and his friends started upon their
return journey, Bertrand happened to enter Mordaunt's writing-room, and
was surprised to find the eldest Wyndham standing by the table with a
glass of whisky-and-soda to his lips.
The surprise was mutual, and on Rupert's side so violent that he dropped
the glass, which shivered upon the floor. He uttered a fierce exclamation
as he recognized the intruder.
Bertrand was profuse in his apologies. "But I had no idea that there was
anyone here! A thousand pardons, Mr. Wyndham! It was unfortunate--but
very unfortunate. I am come only for Mr. Mordaunt's keys, which he left
here by accident. I will ring for Holmes. He will remove this _débris_.
And you will have another drink, yes?"
"I can't wait," Rupert said, almost inarticulately.
He remained standing at the table trying to compose himself, but he was
white to the lips.
Bertrand regarded him with quick concern. "Ah, but how I have alarmed
you!" he said. "My shoes are of canvas, and they make no sound. Will you,
then, sit down for a moment, while I pour out another glass of whisky?"
He drew forward a chair with much solicitude, and took up a fresh glass.
But Rupert swung away, turning his back upon him.
Prom the front of the house came the hoot of the waiting motor. Plainly
his comrades were waxing impatient.
"But you will drink before you go?" urged the courteous Frenchman. "I am
desolated to have deprived you--"
Rupert turned his face for an instant over his shoulder. It was no longer
white, but crimson and convulsed with anger. His hands were clenched.
"Oh, go to the devil!" he cried violently, and with the words stamped
furiously from the room.
Bertrand was left staring after him, petrified with amazement--too
astounded to be angry.
At the end of a lengthy pause he turned and pocketed Mordaunt's keys, and
rang the bell for Holmes to clear up the mess on the floor.
"_Mais ces anglais_!" he murmured to himself, with a whimsical shrug of
the shoulders. "_Comme ils sont drôles_!"
CHAPTER VII
THE ENEMY
Mrs. Pouncefort's garden-party was an annual affair of some importance to
which everyone, from the County downwards, was bidden, and from which
very few absented themselves.
The Pouncefort entertainments were generally upon a lavish scale, were
also largely attended by the military element of Sandacre society, and
were invariably described in the local journals as "very smart affairs."
Had Chris been in her normal spirits she would have hailed the occasion
with delight. She knew a good many people in the neighbourhood, and she
was sure to meet all her friends there. It was, moreover, for this that
she had successfully angled for an invitation for Bertrand. But when the
day came she would have given a good deal for a legitimate excuse for
remaining at home. The weather was hot, and she felt weary and
disinclined for gaiety.
She said no word of her reluctance, however, for Bertrand had accepted
his inclusion in the invitation with docility, and since she had decided
that a little social change would be good for him, she would not draw
back herself lest he should be tempted to do likewise.
Bertrand was her chief thought just then. She knew that her husband was
dissatisfied with regard to his health, and undoubtedly he looked far
from well, though he himself invariably declared that it was only the
heat, and persistently refused to see a doctor. Not even Chris could
shake this resolution of his, and he was so distressed when Mordaunt
would not let him work that to keep him quiet Mordaunt was obliged to let
him do a little. He made it as little as he could, however, and Bertrand
spent a good deal of his time in the garden with Chris in consequence.
It certainly cheered her to have him, and for that reason he was the less
inclined to rebel against the edict that sent him there. They had begun
to read French together, Chris having developed a sudden keenness for the
language which he was delighted to encourage. That the original idea had
been devised for his pleasure he shrewdly suspected, but the carrying out
of it contributed undoubtedly to her own. It occupied her thoughts and
energies, and that was what she needed just then.
He knew perfectly well that she was as disinclined for social amusements
as he was himself, but the same motive that prompted her urged him also.
Each went with reluctance, but without protest.
Noel, who had achieved the most saintlike behaviour during the past week,
went also. He made an ingratiating attempt at the last moment to persuade
Mordaunt to let him drive. But Mordaunt was as adamant upon that point.
He had issued a decree that Noel should drive no more during the summer
holidays, and he meant to keep to it.
The prohibition did not extend to Chris, but she had shuddered at the
bare mention of the motor ever since the accident, and he knew that she
had not the faintest desire left to enlarge her experience in driving.
She was the last to leave the house on that sultry August afternoon, and
Mordaunt saw at once that the ordeal of entering the car was a severe
one. She even turned so white at the sight of it that he feared a
breakdown.
"Come and sit with me," he said kindly.
She looked at him with a quick shake of the head. "No, I'll sit behind
with Bertie if I may. Noel can sit with you."
Noel, who was already in the back seat, climbed over like a monkey, and
Bertrand handed her in.
She sat very rigid until they were out of the avenue, and Bertrand was
silent also. But as they turned into the road he began to talk, gently
and persuasively, upon indifferent things, resolutely passing by her
silence until with a wan little smile she managed to respond.
Long before they reached Sandacre she had quite recovered her
self-command, and the flash of the sea upon the horizon brought from her
a quick exclamation of pleasure.
"Ah, yes, it is beautiful, that!" he agreed with enthusiasm. "And there
is the sand there, yes?"
She nodded. "I used to think we'd go and picnic there. But I don't think
I want to now."
"Next year," suggested Mordaunt, without turning his head.
"Perhaps," she said, a little dubiously.
Bertrand said nothing. He was looking out to the wide horizon with a far
look in his eyes, almost as though he saw beyond that sparkling sky-line,
even beyond the sea itself.
The strains of the military band from Sandacre reached them as they
turned in at the wide-flung gates. Chris's eyes kindled almost in spite
of her. She loved all things military.
As for Bertrand, he sat bolt upright, with his head back, like a horse
scenting battle. Glancing at him, Chris wondered at his attitude, till
suddenly she recognized the strains of the Marseillaise.
She squeezed his hand in sympathy as he helped her to alight, and he
looked at her with his quick smile of understanding. He was ever swift to
catch her meaning.
They crossed a lawn that was crowded with people to a great cedar-tree,
beneath which their hostess was receiving her guests. A large woman with
a lazy smile was Mrs. Pouncefort, and wonderful dark eyes that were
seldom wholly revealed--a woman who took no pains to please and yet whose
charm was undeniable. Her monarchy was absolute and her courtiers many,
but other women looked at her askance, half-conscious of a veiled
antagonism. They were a little afraid of her also, though not one could
have said why, since no bitter word was ever heard to pass her lips.
She greeted Chris with a cold, limp hand. "So nice of you to come. I hope
you won't be bored. Ah, Mr. Mordaunt, how is Kellerton Old Park by this
time? I hardly recognized it the day I called. Rupert tells me you have
worked wonders inside as well as out."
"May I introduce our friend Monsieur Bertrand?" said Chris.
Bertrand brought his heels together and bowed low over the limp hand
transferred to his. Mrs. Pouncefort smiled.
"There is a fellow-countryman of yours here. Where has he gone? Ah, there
you are! Captain Rodolphe, let me introduce you to Mrs. Mordaunt and her
French friend Monsieur Bertrand."
She extended one finger to Noel while making the introduction, and at
once turned her attention elsewhere.
Chris found herself face to face with a heavy-browed man with an
overbearing demeanour and a mouth and chin that sneered perpetually
behind a waxed moustache and imperial. She stared at him for an instant
with a bewildered feeling of having seen him somewhere before. Then, as
she returned his bow, a stab of recognition pierced her, and she
remembered where.
It flashed into her mind like a picture thrown upon a screen--that scene
upon the sands of Valpré long, long ago, two men fighting with swords
that gleamed in the sunlight, a child drawing near with wondering eyes to
behold the conflict, and an unruly black terrier scampering to end it!
"I am delighted to make your acquaintance," declared Captain Rodolphe,
"and that of your friend--M. Bertrand?"
He uttered the name interrogatively. Bertrand bowed very slightly, very
stiffly, and was instantly erect again. "That is my name," he said, as he
looked the other straight in the eyes.
Captain Rodolphe was smiling. "I think we have not met before? It is
always a pleasure to meet a fellow-countryman in a strange land. That is
well understood, is it not, Mrs. Mordaunt?"
His smooth speech brought her back to a situation that was not without
serious difficulties, difficulties which he for one was apparently
determined to ignore. Had he recognized her, she wondered? It seemed
probable that he had not. But then there was nothing in his manner to
indicate that he had recognized Bertrand either; yet of that there could
be no doubt.
She heard her husband speaking to an acquaintance behind her, and
instinctively she began to move away from him. She did not feel equal to
effecting an introduction. She murmured something conventional about the
gardens, and Captain Rodolphe at once accompanied her.
Bertrand walked in silence on her other side till, with an obvious
effort, Chris included him in the conversation, when he responded
instantly, with that ready ease of manner which had first drawn her to
rely upon him. But though he showed himself quite willing, as ever, to
help her, he did not once on his own initiative address the man who had
been introduced for his benefit; and Chris, aware of an atmosphere that
was highly charged with electricity, notwithstanding its apparent calm,
began to cast about for a means of escape therefrom.
To rid herself of Captain Rodolphe was her first idea, but this was
easier of thought than accomplishment. He was chatting serenely, in
perfect English, and seemed to have taken upon himself the congenial task
of entertaining her for some time to come. He also did not directly
address her companion, unless she brought them into contact, and her
efforts in this direction very speedily flagged. She could not expect two
men, however courteous, to forget all in a moment the bitter enmity of
years merely to oblige her. They were quite ready to ignore it in her
presence, but the consciousness of it was more than Chris could endure
with equanimity. It disconcerted her at every turn. She felt as if she
trod the edge of a volcano, and her nerves, which had been so severely
strained for the past week, could not face this fresh ordeal.
She turned at last in desperation, almost appealingly, to Bertrand. She
knew he would understand. Had he ever failed her in this respect or in
any other?
"Do you mind going to see if I have dropped my handkerchief in the car?"
she asked him, with a nervous smile.
His smile answered hers. Yes, he understood. "I shall go with pleasure,"
he said, and with a quick bow was gone.
Chris breathed a little sigh of relief, and moved on with her escort into
the rose-garden.
He seemed scarcely aware of Bertrand's departure. He was plainly
engrossed in the pleasant pastime of conversing with her. Chris began to
give him more of her attention. No, she certainly did not like the man.
His sneer and his self-assurance disturbed her. He made her uncomfortably
conscious of her own youth and inexperience. She almost felt as if he
were playing with her.
He talked at some length upon roses, a subject upon which he seemed to be
well informed, listened tolerantly to any remarks she made, and finally
conducted her to a long shrubbery that led back to the lawn.
As they entered this, he lightly wound up the thread of his discourse and
broke it off. "I have been wondering for long," he said, "where it was
that I had seen you before. Now I remember."
She turned a startled face towards him. He was smiling with extreme
complacence, but there was to her something sinister, something even
threatening, about the bushy brows that shadowed his gleaming eyes. He
put her in mind of a carrion-crow searching for treasures on a heap of
refuse.
The impulse to deny all knowledge of him seized her--a blind impulse,
blindly followed. "I think you must be mistaken," she said.
"How?" he ejaculated. "You do not remember Valpré--and what happened
there?"
She saw her mistake on the instant, and hastened to cover it. "Valpré!"
she said, frowning a little. "Yes, I remember Valpré, though it is years
since I was there. But you--did I meet you at Valpré, Captain Rodolphe?"
He bowed with a gallantry that seemed to her exaggerated. "Only once,
madame, but that once was enough to stamp you ineffaceably upon my
memory. It was, in fact, a memorable occasion. And I forget--never!"
Again with _empressement_ he bowed. "And still you do not remember me?"
he said.
There was a mocking glint in his eyes. It was as though with a smile he
weighed her resistance, displaying it to herself as a quantity wholly
negligible.
"I think you begin to remember now," he suggested.
And quite suddenly Chris saw what he had with subtlety set about teaching
her, that to attempt to fence with him was useless.
"Yes, I remember," she said, and there was a hint of most unwonted malice
in her capitulation. "Didn't I see you wounded in a duel?"
He smiled, and she saw his teeth. "If my memory be correct it was to
madame herself that I owed that wound."
She felt the quick blood rush to her face. He had spoken with _double
entendre_, but she did not perceive it until too late. She only
remembered suddenly and overwhelmingly that the duel had been fought on
her account, because of some evil word which this man had spoken of her
in Bertrand's hearing. She could well believe it of him--the sneering
laugh, the light allusion, the hateful insinuation underlying it. She
was beginning to look upon the evil of the world with comprehending
eyes--she, Chris, the gay of heart, the happy bird of Bertrand's paradise
whom no evil had ever touched. And though she shrank from it as one
dreading pollution, she dared not turn her back.
He went on with more daring mockery, still with lips that smiled. "Ah! I
see you remember. That duel was an affair of interest to you, _hein_? You
were--the woman in the case."
He leered at her intolerably, twisting his moustache.
But that was more than Chris could endure. He had taken her by surprise
indeed, but he should not see her routed thus easily. She lifted her
dainty head and confronted him with pride.
"Whatever the cause of the duel," she said very distinctly, "it was no
concern of mine, and it was by the merest accident that I witnessed it.
But in any case it is not a matter of sufficient importance to discuss
now. Shall we go on?"
She put the question abruptly, with a little inward tremor, for the path
was narrow and he had come to a stand immediately in front of her. He
made a slight movement as if deprecating the obligation to detain her.
His eyes were suddenly very evil and so intent that she could not avoid
them. Yet still he smiled as though the situation amused him.
"But you joke!" he protested, with a snap of the fingers. "I did not
suggest that it could be a matter of importance. It was all a
_bagatelle_, a fairy-tale, that should not have had so serious an end.
And your husband--he has heard the fairy-tale also? Or was it not of
sufficient importance to recount to him?"
She would have turned from him at that, even though it had meant
ignominious flight, but his eyes held her, and she dared not. She could
only stand motionless, feeling her very heart grow cold.
Softly, jeeringly, he went on, still toying with the moustache that did
not hide his smiling lips. "You have not told him yet? Ah! but it would
amuse him. That night you passed with the fairies, a siren among the
sirens, has he never heard of that? But you should tell him that! Or was
it perhaps only a joke _à deux_, and not _à trois_? I have heard that the
English husband can be strict, and you have found it so to your cost,
_hein_?"
Her eyes blazed at the insult. For the first time in her life Chris was
so possessed by fury as to be actually sublime. She drew herself to her
full height. She met his mockery fearlessly, and, with a royal disregard
of consequences, she trod it underfoot.
"Captain Rodolphe, be good enough to let me pass!"
He stood aside instantly. He was even momentarily abashed. He had not
expected his game to end thus. She had seemed such an easy prey, this
English girl. Her discomfiture had been almost too obvious. He certainly
had not deemed her capable of this display of spirit.
Yet in a moment, even as, erect and disdainful, she passed him by, he was
smiling again, a secret, subtle smile which she felt rather than saw.
Emerging into the hot sunshine that beat upon the crowded lawn, she knew
herself to be cold from head to foot.
CHAPTER VIII
THE THIN END
"Good-bye!" said Mrs. Pouncefort. "So glad you came. I hope you haven't
been bored."
"Bored to extinction," murmured Noel. "Hi, Trevor! Let me drive, like a
good chap. Do!"
"Certainly not," said Mordaunt, with decision. "You are going to sit
behind. We shall meet the wind now, and Chris must come in front; it is
more sheltered."
Chris submitted to this arrangement in silence. She was looking very
tired. Her husband regarded her keenly as he tucked her in, but he said
nothing.
"What do you think of Mrs. Pouncefort's latest?" grinned Noel, as they
spun along the high-road. "I never met such a facetious brute in my life.
How did you like him, Bertrand?"
"Who?" said Bertrand somewhat curtly.
"What did they call him--Rodolphe, wasn't it? That French chap with the
beastly little beard."
"I did not like him," said Bertrand, with precision.
"That's all right," said Noel approvingly. "But he's reigning favourite
with Mrs. Pouncefort, anyone can see with half an eye. Rum, isn't it?
And little Pouncefort puts up with it like a lamb. But they say he's
just as bad. Daresay he is, though he's quite a decent little beggar to
talk to. I can't stand Mrs. Pouncefort at any price, while as for that
Frenchman"--he made a hideous grimace--"I'm glad you are not all alike,
Bertrand!"
Bertrand responded to the compliment without elation. He seemed
preoccupied, and Noel, finding him uninteresting, turned his cheerful
attention elsewhere.
Letters awaited them upon their return. Chris took up hers with scarcely
a glance, and went up to her room.
Her husband, following a little later, found her sitting on a couch by
the window, perusing them. She glanced up at his entrance.
"I have a letter from Aunt Philippa. She thinks we must be quite settled
by this time, and she wants to spend a day or two here next week, before
she goes to Scotland."
"I suppose we can put up with her for a day or two," said Mordaunt.
Her smile was slightly strained as she returned to the letter. "I suppose
we shall have to."
He came and stood beside her, looking down at her bent head. The
burnished hair shone warmly golden in the evening sunlight. He laid a
quiet hand upon it. She started at his touch, and then sat very still.
"I have heard from Hilda too," she said, after a moment. "They are
staying at Graysdale. Percy fishes all day and she sketches, when they
are not motoring. It was very sweet of her to write by return."
A tear fell suddenly upon the open page. She covered it hastily with her
hand. Her husband's pressed her head very tenderly.
"Chris," he said gently, "I wonder if you would like to go away for a
little?"
She glanced up quickly, eagerly, with wet lashes. "Oh, Trevor!" she
breathed.
He sat down beside her on the couch. "We will go to-morrow if you like,"
he said.
She slipped her hand into his. "I should love it!"
"Would you?" he said. "I have been thinking of it for some days, but I
wasn't sure you would care for the idea."
"But your work?" she said. "Those articles you wanted to finish? And that
political book of yours? And the alterations in the north wing, will they
be able to get on with those with you away?"
"The literary work must stand over for a week or two," he said. "I shall
leave Bertrand in charge of the rest."
"Bertrand!" She opened her blue eyes wide. "But--but he would be away,
wouldn't he?" Then quickly: "He would go with us, of course? You didn't
mean to leave him behind?"
He raised his brows ever so slightly. "I meant just us two, dear," he
said. "Wouldn't you care for that?"
"Oh!" said Chris blankly. "But, Trevor, we couldn't possibly leave him.
He isn't well. I--I shouldn't be happy about him. Besides--besides--" Her
words faltered under his straight look; she made a little appealing
gesture towards him. "Please understand," she said.
He took both her hands into his. "My dear, I do understand," he said,
with the utmost kindness. "But I think he can be trusted to take care of
himself for a little while. If you have any doubts upon the subject, ask
him."
She shook her head. "No, it wouldn't do. I--I'd really rather not go away
if it means--that. Besides, there is Noel. And next week there will be
Aunt Philippa. I think we had better give up the idea, Trevor; I do
really, anyhow for the present." She leaned nearer to him; her eyes
looked pleadingly into his. "Say you don't mind," she begged him, a
little tremulously.
"I am only thinking of you, dear," he answered.
She smiled with lips that quivered. "Well, don't think of me--at least,
not too much. I only want you just to be kind to me, that's all. I--I
shall be myself presently. You're very good to be so patient."
Her lips were lifted to his. He bent and kissed her. But as he went
gravely away she had a feeling that she had disappointed him, and her
heart grew a little heavier in consequence.
The sound of the piano in the drawing-room brought her down earlier than
usual for dinner, and she found Bertrand playing softly to himself in the
twilight. He had a delicate touch, and she always loved to hear him.
She had with difficulty trained him not to spring up at her entrance, but
to-day he turned sharply round.
"Christine, what did that _scélérat_ say to you?"
The abruptness of his speech did not disconcert her. She was never ill at
ease with Bertrand, however sudden his mood. She came to the piano, and
stood facing him in the dusk.
"He recognized me," she said.
"Ah!" Bertrand's exclamation was deep in his throat, like the growl of an
angry dog. "And he said--?"
Chris hesitated.
Instantly his manner changed. He stretched out a quick hand. "Pardon my
impatience! You will tell me what he said?"
Yet still she hesitated. His impetuosity had warned her to go warily if
she would not have him embroiling himself in another quarrel for her
sake.
"It doesn't matter much, does it?" she said, rather wearily. "I wasn't
with him very long--no longer than I could help. He was objectionable, of
course, but that sort of man couldn't be anything else, could he?"
"Tell me what he said," insisted Bertrand inexorably.
But still she hedged, trying to temper his wrath. "He didn't tell me
anything new. I have known--for some time now--why you fought that duel."
"Ah! You know that? But how?"
She smiled wanly. "You forget I'm growing up, Bertie."
He winced at that suddenly and sharply, but he made no verbal protest.
Only in the silence that followed there was something passionate,
something which she never remembered to have encountered before in her
dealings with him.
At the end of a long pause he spoke, with obvious constraint. "And you
will not tell me what he said?"
"Is it worth while?" said Chris. "I daresay we shall never see him
again."
"He insulted you, no?" said Bertrand.
She yielded, half-involuntarily, to his persistence. "He made
some--rather horrid--insinuations. He spoke of the duel and of what
happened at Valpré. And he asked--he asked if--Trevor knew."
A fierce oath burst headlong from Bertrand, the first she had ever heard
him utter. He apologized for it instantly, almost in the same breath, but
she was startled by the violence of it none the less, so startled that
she decided then and there that, if she would keep the peace between him
and his enemy, she must confide in him no further.
"But that was really all," she hastened to assure him. "I left him then,
and--and I think we had better forget it, Bertie. Promise me you will."
He took the persuasive hand she laid upon his arm, but for several
seconds he did not speak. It seemed as if he could not trust himself to
do so.
At last, "Christine," he said, "I think that your husband ought to know."
She started at the words, almost snatching her hand from him. "Bertie!
What do you mean? Know of what?"
He answered her with great steadiness; his eyes met hers unwaveringly.
"Of that which happened at Valpré," he said.
She gazed at him in growing consternation. "Bertie, how--are you
mad?--how could I tell him that?"
"With your permission, I will tell him," he said resolutely.
But she cried out at that, almost as if he had hurt her: "Oh no, no,
never! Why should he know now? Don't you see how impossible it is? If I
had ever meant to tell him, it ought to have been long ago."
"Yes," said Bertrand.
The quietness of his tone only agitated her still further. His evident
determination terrified her. In that moment all her fear of her husband
rose to towering proportions, a monster she dared not even contemplate.
She clasped Bertrand's arm between her hands in wild, unreasoning
supplication.
"Oh, you must not--you shall not! Bertie, you won't, will you? Promise
me you won't--promise me! He wouldn't understand. He would want to know
why I had never told him before. He would--he would--"
"Ah! but I would explain," Bertrand protested gently.
"But you couldn't! He would ask questions--questions I couldn't possibly
answer. If he didn't say them he would look them. And his eyes are so
terribly keen. They frighten me. They see--everything."
"But, _chérie_," he reasoned, "they could not see what is not there. You
have nothing to hide from him. You have no shame. Why, then, have you
fear?"
"I don't know," gasped Chris. "Only I know that he would never
understand. He would think--he would think--"
"He would think that we have been--pals--for as long as we have known
each other," said Bertrand soothingly. "He knows it already. It is true,
is it not?"
But Chris's eyes had been opened too suddenly and tragically. Her sense
of proportion was still undeveloped. "Yes, but he would never see it. You
could never explain to him so that he would understand. He would think I
had been deceiving him. He would think--Bertie, he would think"--her eyes
dilated, and she drew in her breath sharply--"that--that you and I ought
not to be friends any longer. Oh, don't tell him--please don't tell him.
Indeed I am right. He trusts you, and--and he trusts me. But he wouldn't
trust either of us any longer if he knew."
"Christine! Christine!"
"It is true," she asserted feverishly. "You don't know him as I do. Oh
no, he has never been hard to me. But he could be hard. And he wouldn't
forgive me--if he thought I had been hiding anything. Bertie, Bertie, you
won't do it? Say you won't do it!"
"I do nothing without your consent," Bertrand answered quietly. "But I
think that it is a mistake. I think--"
"Oh, thank you!" she broke in earnestly. "I know I can rely upon you to
keep your word. I can, can't I?"
He smiled at a question which he would have borne from no other. "Until
death, Christine," he said.
Her hands fell away from his arm. She was shaking all over. "I know I'm
foolish," she said. "I can't help it. I was made so. And when Trevor
begins to ask questions--" She broke off nervously. "What is that?"
A leisurely footfall sounded in the hall, a quiet hand pressed the
electric switch by the door, and the room was flooded with light.
"Oh, don't!" Chris cried out sharply. "Don't!"
She put her hands over her face as if dazzled, and so stood quivering.
"What is it?" Mordaunt asked. "Did I startle you?"
He came to her. He drew her hands gently down. But she almost cowered
before him, and he let her go.
"I think that she is tired," Bertrand said, his voice very low.
"Is that all?" Mordaunt asked, looking at him.
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. But Chris turned
at the question, turned and confronted her husband with wide, scared
eyes.
"Yes, I am tired," she said, speaking jerkily, breathlessly. "But--but I
was startled too. I--I thought I heard Cinders--barking."
It was the first time she had ever deliberately lied to him, and her eyes
met his full as she did it in desperate self-defence.
He looked at her very steadily for the space of several seconds after she
had spoken, and in the silence Bertrand's hands clenched hard.
Quietly at length Mordaunt turned round to him. "Don't let me interrupt
you," he said. "You were playing, weren't you? Chris and I are good
listeners."
He took his wife's cold hand, and drew her to the sofa; and Bertrand,
seeing there was nothing else to be done, turned back to the piano and
resumed his playing.
Not another word was spoken by any of them until Noel came upon the
scene, and airily dispelled the silence before he was aware of it.
CHAPTER IX
THE ENEMY MOVES
"And you mean to say that this French secretary of Trevor's actually
lives in the house?" said Aunt Philippa.
"But of course he does," said Chris, opening her eyes wide.
"And is Trevor never away?" demanded Aunt Philippa.
"He hasn't been, but he talks of spending a night in town next week."
"And you will go with him?"
"No, I don't think so. It's too hot."
"Then I presume M. Bertrand will?"
Chris flushed a little. "I don't suppose so. He is feeling the heat too."
She stretched up her hands above her head. "How I wish it would rain!"
Aunt Philippa continued her knitting severely in silence. They were
sitting on the terrace awaiting the luncheon-hour. Across the garden came
Noel's shrill whistle, and instinctively, before she remembered her
aunt's presence, Chris answered it. The boy appeared at the farther end
of the long lawn, and came racing towards them.
"Just seen the postman, Chris. Here's a letter for you--such a horrible
fist, Sandacre post-mark, and sealed. Wonder who it's from?"
He leaned against her chair to recover his breath and regarded the
envelope he held with frank interest.
Chris stretched up her hand for it. "I expect it's from Mrs. Pouncefort."
"Mrs. Pouncefort doesn't write like that!" protested Noel. "No woman
could."
"May I have it?" said Chris.
He put it into her hand, but he still leaned against her chair. "Be quick
and open it, I say! It looks important."
"I don't suppose it is," said Chris; but she opened it notwithstanding
with some curiosity.
Aunt Philippa had arrived only the night before, but she was already very
tired of her society, and any diversion was welcome.
"You don't mind?" she murmured to her aunt.
Her eyes were already upon the first page as she spoke. She frowned over
the unfamiliar handwriting.
Noel studied it also over her shoulder. "What on earth--" he began.
She looked up suddenly, and crumpled the paper in her hand. "Noel, go
away! How dare you!"
He stared at her in amazement. A sharp word from Chris was most unusual.
Aunt Philippa looked up also.
"My dear girl, it isn't private, is it?" said Noel.
Chris was scarlet. She seemed to breathe with difficulty. "Of course it's
private! All my letters are private!"
"But it comes from the Pounceforts," objected Noel. "I saw 'Sandacre
Court' at the top of the page."
Chris sprang to her feet impetuously with blazing eyes. "And what if it
does? You had no right to look over me. It was a hateful thing to do.
What if it does come from Mrs. Pouncefort? Is it mine any the less for
that?"