think you had got the palsy. But you needn't pretend it's from Mrs.
Pouncefort, because I know better."
"It--it is from Mrs. Pouncefort!" declared Chris.
"Which is a lie," rejoined Noel, with the utmost calmness. "I know you,
my dear girl, I know you. You've told 'em before."
"Noel!" Aunt Philippa interposed her voice with extreme dignity. "You
forget yourself. If you cannot speak with ordinary courtesy, be good
enough to leave us."
Noel heeded the remonstrance no more than if it had been the buzzing of a
fly. Chris's spark of temper had kindled his.
"Oh, you can swear it's the truth till all's blue," he declared, raising
his voice recklessly. "But that doesn't make it so. In fact, it only
makes the contrary all the more likely. Besides, you know you do lie,
Chris, so you needn't deny it."
"Noel!"
It was not Aunt Philippa's voice this time, and it had in it so firm a
note of authority that instinctively Noel turned.
Mordaunt, just returned from a ride, was standing in his shirt-sleeves at
an open window above them. All the colour went out of Chris's face at
sight of him, but he did not look at her.
"Come up here," he said to Noel. "I want to speak to you."
"Not coming," said Noel promptly.
"Come up here," Mordaunt repeated.
"What for?" Noel looked up at him, hands in pockets. "You'll be late for
lunch if you don't buck up," he remarked, with a smile of cheery
impudence.
His brother-in-law's face did not reflect his smile. It was grimly
determined. "Come up here," he said again.
"Do go, Noel," Chris murmured uneasily.
"I won't," said Noel doggedly. "I'm not going to be pitched into for
nothing. It was you who told the lie, not me."
"Oh, don't be absurd!" exclaimed Chris, in a fever of impatience. "Surely
you're not afraid of him!"
"Anyone can see you are," retorted Noel. "I'll bet you daren't go
yourself!"
She turned from him sharply without another word, and entered the house.
She met her husband on the threshold of his room, and pushed him
impulsively back, her hands against his breast.
"Trevor, please don't be angry with him. He--we often go on like that.
There is nothing to be angry about--indeed."
He took her hands and held them. She was panting a little; he waited
while she recovered herself. Then, "Chris," he said very gently, "don't
you think it is time you left off being afraid of me?"
"But when you are angry--" murmured Chris.
"You have never seen me angry yet."
"You are not angry with Noel?" she asked quickly.
He smiled a little. "My dear child, Noel is no more capable of making me
angry than that fly on the ceiling. But I am not going to have him
behaving badly for all that."
"But he didn't," she urged, in distress. "It was all my fault.
Trevor--Trevor, please don't say any more! He was quite right. I--I
didn't tell the truth."
She made the confession in a broken whisper, with her face hidden against
him. But a moment later she had sprung away in haste, for there came the
clatter of careless feet upon the stairs, and Noel dashed suddenly upon
the scene.
"Oh, I say, do stop jawing and come down," he said as he presented
himself. "Poor Aunt Phil is ravenous for her lunch. What do you want me
for, Trevor?"
But Mordaunt turned his back abruptly. "I don't want you now," he said.
"You can go."
"Dash it!" Noel said. "What a rotter you are!" He flung himself full
length upon the window-seat with elaborate nonchalance. "Run along,
Chris," he said. "We're going to talk politics. Shut the door after you.
That's right. Now, my good brother-in-law, what can I do for you?"
He sat up to slay a wasp on the window-pane, flicked the corpse in
Mordaunt's direction with airy adroitness, and lay down again.
"Are you in a wax over anything?" he inquired, with a yawn.
Mordaunt turned quietly round. "Get up!" he said.
Noel laughed up at him engagingly. "You can't kick me so easily lying
down, can you? But what do you want to kick me for? I'm quite harmless."
"I am not going to kick you," Mordaunt said. "It is not my way."
"All right, then. Why didn't you say so before?" Noel sat up and regarded
him with interest. "Well?" he said at the end of an expectant pause.
"Let's have it, man, and have done!"
"I have nothing to give you," Mordaunt returned. "I told you you could
go."
Something in the tone rather than the words caught Noel's attention. He
bounced suddenly from his lounging attitude to Mordaunt's side, and
thrust an affectionate arm about his shoulders.
"What's the matter, old chap? You look as if you had found sixpence and
lost half a crown."
"Perhaps I have," Mordaunt returned grimly.
He did not repulse the friendly overture; that also was not his way. But
neither did he respond to it. He stood passive, looking out over the park
with unobservant eyes.
"Cheer up, I say," urged Noel. "You're such a rattling good chap, you
know. I'm getting awfully fond of you."
"Much obliged," said Mordaunt; but he did not seem highly gratified. In
fact, his thoughts were plainly elsewhere.
Noel, however, would not be satisfied with this. "What are you grizzling
about?" he said. "Tell a fellow!"
Mordaunt's eyes came down to him. "I wish you Wyndhams had a little sense
of honour," he said.
"Oh, is that it?" said Noel. "Well, we are not top-heavy in that respect,
I own. But, after all, it's not worth worrying about. We get on very
nicely without it. And we wouldn't any of us sell a friend."
"I'm glad to know you draw the line somewhere," Mordaunt observed.
"Oh, rather! I wouldn't chouse you for the world. Chris wouldn't either.
But we're both shy of you, you know, because you're so beastly moral." He
gave his brother-in-law a warm hug to soften the effect of his words.
"You may as well tell me what you wanted to say to me just now," he
remarked.
"I was going to request you to behave like a gentleman," Mordaunt
returned. "But as you don't seem to know what that means--" He paused,
looking straight into the Irish eyes that met his with such sublime
assurance. "Do you know what it means, Noel?" he asked.
Noel grinned. "You can take me in hand and teach me if it isn't too much
trouble. I suppose you didn't like me to tell Chris she was lying about
that letter. But she was, you know. There's no getting away from that
fact, even if she is your wife."
"I'm not trying to get away from facts," Mordaunt said. "But I do
object--strongly--to discourtesy. You may be her brother, but that
doesn't entitle you to insult her. Plainly, I won't have it from you or
anyone."
"I didn't insult her," declared Noel. "I only said I knew she was telling
a cram. She knew it too."
"I know what you said," Mordaunt returned with brevity. "And you are not
to say it again. Also, I must ask you to bear in mind that when I say a
thing I mean it--invariably. I've had more than enough disobedience from
you lately."
"Oh, I say," said Noel, winking gaily, "you don't want much, do you?"
Mordaunt relaxed a little. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder for a
moment. "You can be quite a good chap if you try," he said.
Noel responded like a dog to a caress. "The mischief is to keep it up,"
he said. "But we won't quarrel anyhow. I'll make every allowance for you,
old boy, for you're in a beastly unhealthy position; and you'll have to
do the same--savvy? But for all that, that letter was no more written by
Mrs. Pouncefort than by the man in the moon."
"That letter," Mordaunt said very deliberately, "is neither your affair
nor mine."
Could he have seen Chris at that moment he might have changed his mind
upon that point, but her young brother's careless chatter kept him from
seeking her; nor would he very readily have found her had he done so.
For Chris was securely locked in a little room at the top of the house
that had been her childhood's bedroom, and here with blanched face and
hands that shook she was reading and reading again the letter that had
given rise to so much discussion.
The handwriting was cramped and erratic, wholly unfamiliar, barely
decipherable; but she had mastered the contents with tragic dexterity.
Her understanding had leaped to the words.
* * * * *
"MY DEAR MRS. MORDAUNT," so went the letter, "You have probably forgotten
my existence by this time, and it is with the utmost humility that I
venture to recall it to your memory. For myself, it will always be a
lasting pleasure to have met you again, and the fact that I share with
you a secret of other days cannot but prove a bond between us. That
secret I am prepared to guard faithfully, since--apparently--it is of
value, if you on your part are ready to purchase my discretion with that
of which all have need, but of which I temporarily am unhappily
deficient. Briefly, madame, for the sum of five hundred pounds I will
undertake that the episode of Valpré shall be consigned to oblivion so
far as I am concerned. Otherwise, the strict husband may hear more than
you have considered it convenient to tell him.
"Yours, with many compliments,
GUILLAUME RODOLPHE."
CHAPTER X
A WARNING VOICE
Five hundred pounds! Five hundred pounds! It represented her year's
income to Chris.
All night long she lay wide-eyed and still, facing her problem with a
quaking heart. It was like a suffocating weight upon her, crushing her
down. Five hundred pounds! And the need thereof so urgent that it must be
dealt with at once! But how to obtain it? How? How?
All through the dark hours she lay revolving the matter, questioning this
way and that, bound hand and foot, yet not daring to contemplate the only
sane means at her disposal of obtaining freedom. To tell her husband the
simple truth, to throw herself unreservedly upon his generosity, to beg
his forgiveness and his help--these were the things she could not do. As
a matter of fact the truth had been so magnified by her fevered fancy
that it had begun to appear monstrous even in her own eyes. Those far-off
happenings at Valpré had become a dream with a nightmare ending. Not even
Aunt Philippa could have distorted them to a more exaggerated semblance
of evil. And to go to her husband now with such a story was utterly
beyond Chris's powers of accomplishment. She lacked the courage to speak
with simplicity and candour, and she was painfully aware that to give a
halting account of the matter would be infinitely more dangerous than to
keep silence. Already her husband's faith in her veracity had been
shaken. Was it likely that he would accept unquestioning her assurance
that this matter, which she had rigorously suppressed for so long and
which she only imparted to him now under compulsion, was in reality one
of trivial importance? Would he believe her? Had she ever fostered his
belief in her? Could he in reason do so even if he desired?
Moreover, there was another obstacle. There was Bertrand. Though he had
offered to speak for her, though he had desired to explain all, and
though she knew that Trevor's faith in him was absolute, yet the presence
of Bertrand in itself made candour impossible. Why this should be she did
not know. It was a problem which she had not attempted to solve. But the
fact remained. She dreaded unspeakably the possibility of having to
describe the intimacy that had existed between herself and Bertrand in
the old, free, Valpré days. She dreaded the keen searching of the grey
eyes that, if they sought long enough, were bound to find her soul, and
not only to find, but to enter it, to penetrate to its most hidden
corner, and to draw out into the full light of day one of her most sacred
possessions. She felt that she could not bear this probing. The very
thought of it was horrible to her, and in connection with it the steady
scrutiny of her husband's eyes became almost a thing abhorrent. Vaguely
she knew, without realizing, that she cherished deep in that inmost
shrine something which he must never see, something that it would be
agony to show him, something that even now gnawed secretly at her
quivering heart. She always shrank from his direct look, though she would
not have him know it. The calm, level gaze frightened her, she knew not
why. Perhaps the secret of all her fear of him lay hidden in this problem
that she dared not face.
No, she could not endure a full revelation of the truth. Bertrand had
declared that Mordaunt could not discover what was non-existent, but it
was not this that Chris feared. It was something infinitely more
terrible, a floating suspicion that might harden into actual fact at any
moment.
And so her whole being was concentrated upon avoiding the catastrophe
that instinct warned her to be impending. Everything hung upon the
keeping of that secret which once had seemed to her so small a thing. It
had grown to mighty proportions of late. She did not ask herself
wherefore; but once in the night she smiled a piteous little smile at the
recollection of Manon, the maid-of-all-work, and her story of the spell
that bound all who entered the Magic Cave. She remembered how she had
laughed over it; but Bertrand had not laughed. He had been quite grave;
she remembered that also. He had even spoken as if he believed in it. For
a little her thoughts dwelt upon that night, on the quick confidences he
had poured out, on her own consternation over the nature of his
enterprise, on the words he had uttered then to comfort her. She had
never given them much thought before. To-night, lying by her husband's
side, they returned to her, and for the first time she pondered them
seriously. He had dismissed ambition and success, even the strife of
nations, at a breath. He had been able to do so even then, when he was
nearing the summit of his aspirations. "What are they?" he had said.
"Only a procession that marches under the windows, only a dream in the
midst of a great Reality."
What had he meant by that? she asked herself, and searched her memory
for more. It came with a curious vividness, a winged message, straight
and sure as an arrow. "We look out above them," he had said, "you and
I"--suddenly she heard the very thrill of his voice, and it pierced her
through and through--"to the great heaven and the sun; and we know that
that is life--the Spark Eternal that nothing can ever quench." Chris did
not ask herself the meaning of that. She hid it away in her heart,
quickly, quickly, lest seeing she should also understand.
It was very early in the morning when she slipped out of bed, and crept
to the open window to watch the stars fade into the dawning. She would
have liked to pray, but no prayer occurred to her. And so she knelt quite
passive, gazing forth over the dim garden, too tired to think any longer,
yet too miserable to sleep. She did not know that her husband's eyes
gravely watched her throughout her vigil, and when presently she lay down
again she still believed him to be sleeping.
In the morning inspiration came to Chris. She believed Rupert to be out
of debt, thanks to Trevor's generosity. She would get him to raise the
money for her. She knew he must have ways and means of so doing which
were quite beyond her reach. At least, it seemed her only resource, and
she would try it.
"Are you quite well, Chris?" her husband asked her when he rose at an
early hour, as was his custom.
"Quite," said Chris. "Why?"
She looked at him nervously with heavy-lidded eyes.
He bent to kiss her before leaving the room. "Don't get up yet," he said
kindly. "Stay in bed and have a sleep."
"But I--I have slept," she stammered.
He put the hair gently back from her forehead. "I know all about it," he
said.
She started away from him in sheer panic. "About what?" she gasped, in a
whisper; then, seeing his brows go up, "Oh, Trevor, I--I'm sorry. No, I
haven't slept very well. But--"
"I thought not," he interposed quietly. "Well, sleep now, dear."
He turned to go, but impulsively she caught his hand, held it a moment,
then suddenly put it to her lips. But she would not look at him, would
not even raise her eyes again; and he, after the briefest pause, withdrew
his hand, touched her cheek with it lightly, and so left her.
When they met again at the breakfast-table she was discussing with Aunt
Philippa the best means of spending the day. Bertrand was not present. He
usually took chocolate at that hour in Mordaunt's room, where he could
continue his secretarial work uninterrupted. Noel was not yet down.
Chris turned at once to address her husband. "I have had a line
from Max. He is coming down for a few days I think he hasn't been
well--overworking, he says."
"I can scarcely believe," said Aunt Philippa, with her acid smile, "that
a Wyndham could ever suffer from that complaint."
"They don't over-rest, anyhow," said Mordaunt, with a glance at his
wife's tired face. "I shall be very pleased to see him, Chris. Write and
tell him so."
"I don't think I need write," she said. "He will be here this
afternoon. Shall I ask Rupert to come over and dine, so that we can all
be together--that is, if Aunt Philippa doesn't mind?"
"Pray do not consider me," said Aunt Philippa.
"Do exactly as you like," said Mordaunt quietly. "Rupert is always
welcome so far as I am concerned."
Chris rose from the table as he sat down. "I will send him a note at once
if I may, or I shall miss the post."
"Have you had any breakfast?" he asked, detaining her as she passed his
chair.
"None at all," said Aunt Philippa.
"Oh, Aunt Philippa, I have, indeed!" protested Chris, colouring vividly.
"Besides, I'm not hungry."
"Besides!" echoed Mordaunt, faintly smiling. "Drink a cup of hot milk
before you go."
She made a wry face. "I can't. I hate it. Please don't keep me!"
"Then do as you are told," he said. "I thought I ordered you to stay in
bed."
"Oh, don't be absurd!" said Chris; but she went back to her place and
poured out the milk as he desired.
"Now drink it," he said, with his eyes upon her.
She obeyed him without further protest, finally setting the cup down with
a sigh of relief.
Mordaunt rose to open the door. "You are not to do anything energetic
to-day," he said.
She threw him a smile, half-shy, half-wistful, and departed without
replying.
He turned back into the room and sat down. "I am not quite satisfied
about Chris," he said.
"Neither am I," said Aunt Philippa, with unexpected severity.
He looked at her with awakened attention. "No?" he said courteously.
"No." Very decidedly came Aunt Philippa's reply. "I intended to speak to
you upon the subject, my dear Trevor, and I am glad that an early
opportunity for so doing has presented itself."
"You think she looks ill?" Mordaunt asked.
"Not at all," said Aunt Philippa. "The intense heat we have had lately is
quite sufficient to account for her jaded looks. She has probably also
been fretting unreasonably over the death of her dog. I believe that
animal was the only thing in the world she ever really cared for."
Mordaunt rested his chin on his hand, and looked at her thoughtfully.
"Indeed!" he said.
Neither his voice nor his face expressed anything whatever beyond a
decorous gravity. Aunt Philippa began to feel slightly exasperated.
"She will get over that," she said, with a confidence that held more of
contempt than tolerance. "None of the Wyndhams are fundamentally capable
of taking anything seriously for long. You must have discovered their
instability for yourself by this time."
"Not with respect to Chris." Was there a hint of sternness underlying the
placidity of the rejoinder? There might have been, but Aunt Philippa was
too intent upon the matter she had taken in hand to notice it.
"Oh, well," she said, "you haven't been married six weeks yet, have you?
You will see what I mean sooner or later. But you may take it from me
that all of them--Chris included--are without an atom of solidity in
their composition. I warn you, Trevor, very seriously; they are not to be
depended upon."
Mordaunt heard her without changing his position. His eyes looked
straight at her from under lids that never stirred. "Is that what you
have to say to me?" he asked, after a moment.
"It leads to what I have to say," returned Aunt Philippa with dignity.
She was quite in her element now, and enjoying herself far too thoroughly
to be lightly disconcerted.
"Pray finish!" he said.
That gave her momentary pause. "I am speaking solely for your welfare,"
she told him.
"I do not question it," he returned.
Yet even she was aware that his stillness was not all the outcome of
courteous attention. There was about it a restraint which made itself
felt, as it were, in spite of him, a dominance which she set down to his
forceful personality.
"The subject upon which I chiefly desire to speak a word of warning," she
said, "is the presence in the house--the constant presence--of your young
French secretary."
"Yes?" said Mordaunt.
He betrayed no surprise, but the word fell curtly, as if he found himself
face to face with an unpleasant task and desired to be through with it as
quickly as possible.
Aunt Philippa proceeded with just a hint of caution. "My dear Trevor,
surely you are aware of the danger!"
"What danger?"
A difficult question, which Aunt Philippa answered with diplomacy. "Chris
was always something of a flirt."
"Indeed!" said Mordaunt again.
His manner was so non-committal that Aunt Philippa began to lose her
patience. "I should have thought that fact was patent to everyone."
"Never to me," said Chris's husband very deliberately.
Aunt Philippa smiled. "Then you are remarkably blind, my dear Trevor.
Flightiness has been her chief characteristic all her life. If you have
not yet found that out, I fear she must be deceitful as well."
"I am not discussing my wife's character," Mordaunt made answer very
steadily.
"You prefer to shut your eyes to the obvious," said Aunt Philippa,
beginning to be aware of something formidable in her path but not quite
grasping its magnitude.
"I prefer my own estimate of her to that of anyone else," he made quiet
reply.
Aunt Philippa made a slight gesture of uneasiness. The steady gaze was
becoming a hard thing to meet. Had the man been less phlegmatic, she
could almost have imagined him to be in a white heat of anger. He was so
unnaturally quiet, his whole being concentrated, as it were, in a
composure that she could not but feel to be ominous.
It was with an effort that the woman who sat facing him resumed her
self-appointed task. "That I can well understand," she said. "But even
so, I think you should bear in mind that Chris is young--and frail. You
are not justified in exposing her to temptation."
"As how?"
Aunt Philippa hesitated for the first time in actual perturbation.
Mordaunt waited immovably.
"I think," she said at length, "that you would be very ill-advised if you
went to town and left her here--thrown entirely upon her own resources."
"May I ask if you are still referring to my secretary?" he said.
She bent her head. "I have never approved of her being upon such intimate
terms with him. She treats him as if--as if--"
"As if he were her brother," said Mordaunt quietly. "I do the same. I
have many friends, but he is the one man in the world who possesses my
entire confidence. For that reason I foster their friendship, for I know
it to be a good thing. For that reason, if I were dying, I would
confidently leave her in his care."
"My dear Trevor, the man has bewitched you!" protested Aunt Philippa.
His eyes fell away from her at last, and she was conscious of distinct
relief, mingled with a most unwonted tinge of humiliation.
"I am obliged to you," he said formally, "for taking the trouble to warn
me. But you need never do so again. Believe me, I am not blind; and Chris
is safe in my care."
He rose with the words, and went to the sideboard for his breakfast. Here
he remained for some time with his back turned, but when he finally came
back to the table there was no trace of even suppressed agitation about
him.
He sat down and began to eat with a perfectly normal demeanour. The
silence, however, remained unbroken until Noel burst tempestuously into
the room. No silence ever outlasted his appearance.
He flung his arms round his brother-in-law and embraced him warmly, with
a friendly, "Hullo, you greedy beggar! Hope you haven't gobbled up
everything! I'm confoundedly hungry. Morning, Aunt Philippa! I suppose
you fed long ago? It's a disgusting habit, isn't it? But one we can't
dispense with at present. Where's Chris?"
"Chris," said Aunt Philippa icily, "has already breakfasted, and so have
I."
She moved towards the door as she spoke. Noel sprang with alacrity to
open it, and bowed to the floor behind her retreating form.
"She looks like a dying duck in a thunderstorm," he observed, as he
returned to the table. "What have you been doing to her? Has there been a
thunderstorm?"
Mordaunt met his inquiring eyes without a smile. "Noel," he said, "if you
can't be courteous to your aunt and your sister, I won't have you at the
table at all--or in the house for that matter."
Noel uttered a long whistle. "I thought I smelt the reek of battle in the
air! What's up? Anything exciting?"
"Do you understand me?" Mordaunt said, sticking to his point.
Noel broke into smiles. "Oh, perfectly, my dear chap! You're as simple as
the Book of Common Prayer. But it would be a pity to kick me out of the
house, you know. You'd miss me--horribly."
Mordaunt leaned back in his chair. "Then I'll give you a sound caning
instead."
Noel nodded vigorous approval. "Much more suitable. I like you better
every day. So does Chris. I believe she'll be in love with you before
long."
"Really?" said Mordaunt.
"Yes, really." Noel was munching complacently between his words. "I never
thought you'd do it. The odds were dead against you. She only married you
to get away from Aunt Philippa. Of course you know that?"
"Really?" Mordaunt said again. He was not apparently paying much
attention to the boy's chatter.
"Yes, really," Noel reiterated, with a grin. "It's solid, simple, sordid
fact. The only chap she ever seriously cared about was a little beast of
a Frenchman she chummed up with years ago at Valpré. I never met the
beggar myself, but I'm sure he was a beast. But I'll bet she'd have
married him if she'd had the chance. They were as thick as thieves."
At this point Mordaunt opened the morning paper with a bored expression,
and straightway immersed himself in its contents.
Noel turned his attention to his breakfast, which he dispatched with
astonishing rapidity, finally remarking, as he rose: "But you never can
tell what a woman will do when it comes to the point--unless she's a
suffragette, in which case she may be safely relied on to make a howling
donkey of herself for all time."
CHAPTER XI
A BROKEN REED
"But, my good girl, five hundred pounds!" Rupert looked down at his
sister with an expression half-humorous, half-dismayed. "What do you
think I'm made of?" he inquired.
She stood before him, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands. "I
must have it! I must have it!" she said piteously. "I thought you might
be able to raise it on something."
"But not on nothing," said Rupert.
"I would pay it back," she urged. "I could begin to pay back almost at
once."
"Why on earth don't you ask Trevor for it?" he said. "He's the proper
person to go to."
"Oh, I know," she answered. "And so I would for anything else, but not
for this--not for this! He would ask questions, questions I couldn't
possibly answer. And--oh, I couldn't--I couldn't!"
"What have you been up to?" said Rupert curiously.
"Nothing--nothing whatever. I've done nothing wrong." Chris almost wrung
her hands in her agitation. "But I can't tell you or anyone what I want
it for. Oh, Rupert, you will help me! I know you will!"
"Steady!" said Rupert. "Don't get hysterical, my child. That won't serve
anybody's turn. I suppose you've been extravagant, and daren't own up.
Trevor is a bit of a Tartar, I own. But five hundred pounds! It's utterly
beyond my reach."
"Couldn't you borrow it from someone?" pleaded Chris. "Rupert, it's only
for a time. I'll pay back a little every month. And you have so many
friends."
Rupert made a grimace. "All of whom know me far too well to lend me
money. No, that cock won't fight. I've a hundred debts of my own waiting
to be settled. Trevor wasn't disposed to be over-generous the last time I
approached him. At least, he was generous, but he wasn't particularly
encouraging. He's such a rum beggar, and I have my own reasons for not
wanting to go to him again at present."
"Of course you couldn't go to him for this," said Chris. "But--Rupert, if
you could only help me in this matter, I would do all I could for you. I
would give you every farthing I could spare, indeed--indeed. I might even
ask him for a little later on--not yet, of course, but by and bye, if I
saw an opportunity. Oh, you don't know what it means to me--how much
depends upon it."
"Why don't you tell me?" Rupert asked.
"Because I can't--I daren't!" Chris laid imploring hands upon his
shoulders; her eyes besought him. "Dear Rupert, it isn't that I don't
trust you. Don't think that! But it wouldn't do any good if you knew, and
I simply can't talk about it. I've shown how much I trust you by asking
you to help me out of my trouble. There is no one else in the world that
I could ask--not even Max. He would make me tell him everything. But you
won't, dear; I know you won't, will you?"
It was impossible not to be moved by her earnest pleading. Rupert slipped
an arm around her. "You needn't be afraid of me," he said.
"I know I needn't," she answered, laying her cheek against him with a
quick gesture of confidence. "And I am of everyone else--even of Bertie.
It's absurd, isn't it? Fancy being afraid of Bertie!" She smiled through
tears.
"He doesn't know, then?" said Rupert.
"Bertie? No, no, of course not! I wouldn't have him know for the world.
He would go and do--something desperate." Chris's startled eyes testified
to her dread of this contingency. "No, I haven't dared to tell anyone,
except you. If you can't help me, there's no one left. I--I shall run
away and drown myself."
"Oh, nonsense!" said Rupert. "There's a way out of every difficulty if
one has the wit to find it. Keep cool, my dear girl! If you let yourself
go, you will give your own show away."
"I know! I know!" gasped Chris. "But what can I do? It would kill me if
Trevor knew!"
Rupert's arm tightened protectingly about her. At least they stood by
each other, these Wyndhams. "Then Trevor mustn't know," he rejoined.
"I'll manage it somehow if it's humanly possible. You must let me think
it over. And in the meantime, for goodness' sake, keep cool. If Trevor
were to see you now, he would know there was something up directly."
As a matter of fact, he himself had never seen his sister so agitated
before. She was like a terrified bird in a trap. What on earth had she
been doing? he wondered. What made her go in such abject fear of her
husband that the very mention of his name was enough to send every
vestige of colour from her face?
He grasped her trembling fingers reassuringly. "There! Leave it to me,"
he said. "I'll find a way out, never fear. I've been in a good many tight
corners in my time, but I've always wriggled out somehow. I suppose you
want the money soon?"
"At once," said Chris.
He made a grimace, as of one swallowing a nauseous draught. "All right,
you shall have it. Now, don't worry any more. It's going to be all
right." He patted her shoulder kindly. "Only, for Heaven's sake, don't do
it again!"
She shivered, and turned away to hide her quivering lips. "If--if you can
get me the money this once," she said, "I--I'll never ask you again, and
I'll give you every farthing--every farthing--"
"My dear child, I don't want your farthings," responded Rupert cheerily.
"If you can make it fifty pounds now, I shall be quite grateful. But I'll
get you yours first, never mind how. Now, hadn't we better go back to the
rest? Aunt Philippa will be wondering what we are conspiring about. By
the way, when does she depart?"
"Soon, I hope," said Chris fervently.
He grinned. "Had enough of her, eh? So, I should imagine, has Trevor. He
is keener on giving advice than taking it, if I know anything about him."
"She wouldn't dare to give Trevor advice," protested Chris.
"Ho! wouldn't she?" He laughed derisively, as they turned to leave the
little room in the roof that was her refuge, but paused at the door to
slip his arm through hers. "You're not to worry, young 'un," he said,
with a patronage that did not veil concern. "Do you know you're looking
downright ill?"
She smiled up at him wistfully. "Things have been pretty horrid lately.
But I won't worry any more if--if you tell me I needn't."
"You needn't," he said, and impulsively he stooped and kissed her. He had
always had a protecting tenderness for his little sister.
They descended to the drawing-room to find Aunt Philippa writing letters
in solitary state. The rest of the company, with the exception of
Mordaunt, who was at work in his own room, were in the billiard-room just
beyond, and Chris and Rupert repaired thither, relieved to make their
escape so easily.
They found Bertrand, who was an expert player, making a long break. He
was playing against Max, whose opinion of him was obviously rising with
this display of skill.
He was engaged upon a most difficult stroke when Chris entered, and she
stopped behind him lest she should disturb his aim. But he turned round
at once to her, leaving the balls untouched.
"_Mais non_!" he declared lightly. "I cannot play with my back to my
hostess. It is an affair _très difficile_, and I must have everything in
my favour."
"Oh, don't let me spoil your luck!" she said.
She came and stood at the end of the table to watch him.
"That would not be possible," he protested, as he applied himself again
to the ball.
He achieved the stroke with that finish and dexterity that marked all he
did.
"Oh, I say!" said Noel disgustedly. "You haven't a look-in, Max. He plays
like a machine."
"You like not to be beaten by a Frenchman, no?" laughed Bertrand. "_Il
faut que les anglais soient toujours, toujours les premiers, hein_?" He
stopped suddenly, for Chris had made the faintest movement, as if his
words had touched some chord of memory. He flashed her a swift look, and
the smile died out of his face. He moved round the table, and again
stooped to his stroke. "But what is success after all," he said, "and
what is failure?"
"You ought to know," Max observed dryly, as again he made his point.
The Frenchman straightened himself. There was something of kinship
between these two, a tacit sympathy that had taken root on the night of
Chris's birthday, an understanding that called for no explanation.
"Yes," he said, with a quick nod, "I know them both. They are worth
just--that." He snapped his fingers in the air. "They pass like"--he
hesitated a moment, then ended with deliberation--"like pictures in the
sand."
"The same remark applies to most things," said Rupert.
Bertrand glanced at him. "To all but one, monsieur," he said, in a queer
tone that was almost tinged with irony.
Again he bent himself to a stroke with a quick, light grace, as though he
regarded success as a foregone conclusion.
"Look at that!" said Noel in dejection, as the ball cannoned triumphantly
down the table. "The gods are all on his side."
The stroke was a brilliant one, but Bertrand did not immediately
straighten himself as before. He remained leaning across the table, as if
he watched the effect of his skill.
There was a brief pause before very carefully he laid his cue upon the
cloth and began to raise himself, slowly, with infinite caution, using
both hands.
"No," he said, speaking jerkily, in a rapid undertone, as if to himself.
"The gods--are no more--on my side."
A sharp gasp escaped him. He stood up, and they saw the sweat running
down his forehead. "Will you--excuse me for a moment?" he said. "I
have--forgotten _quelque chose_."
He turned towards Chris with punctilious courtesy, clicked his heels
together, bowed, and walked stiffly from the room.
CHAPTER XII
A MAN OF HONOUR
An amazed silence followed his exit; then, in a quick whisper, Chris
spoke.
"He isn't well. I'm sure he isn't well. Did you see--his face--when he
stood up?"
She turned with the words as if she would go after him, but Max checked
her sharply. "No, you stay here. I'm going."
She paused irresolute. "Let me come too."
"Don't be silly," said Max. He frowned at her scared face for a moment,
then smiled abruptly. "Don't be silly!" he said again. He passed down the
room with what seemed to her maddening deliberation, opened the door, and
went quietly out.
Aunt Philippa was still busy with her correspondence in the drawing-room.
She glanced up as he went through. "Can you tell me what time the evening
post goes out? I have just asked M. Bertrand, but he did not see fit to
answer me."
"Then he couldn't have heard you," said Max. "The post goes out at
nine-thirty."
"Ah! Then perhaps you would wait a moment while I direct this envelope,
and you can then give it to a servant with orders to take it to the
post-office at once."
Max drew his red brows together and waited.
The scratching of Aunt Philippa's pen filled in the pause. She directed
her envelope, blotted it with care, stamped it with precision, finally
handed it to her nephew with the request, "Please remember that it is
important."
Max received it with reverence. "I shall treat it with the utmost
veneration," he said. He knew that his aunt had a strong dislike for him,
and he fostered it with much enjoyment upon every possible occasion.
He slipped the letter into his pocket as he left the room and promptly
dismissed it from his mind.
He turned aside into the dining-room, rummaged for brandy and found it,
and went with noiseless speed upstairs.
The door of Bertrand's room was unlatched, and he pushed it open without
ceremony. Blank darkness met him on the threshold, but a sound within
told him the room was tenanted. He switched on the light without delay,
entered, and shut the door.
He found Bertrand seated huddled on the edge of his bed, gasping horribly
for breath. He did not apparently hear Max enter. His close-cropped head
was bowed upon his arms. His hands were opening and closing convulsively.
He rocked to and fro almost with violence, but no sound beyond his
spasmodic breathing escaped him.
Max set down the brandy and took him by the shoulders. "Look here," he
said, "lie down. I'll help you."
Bertrand started a little at his touch, and Max had a glimpse of his
tortured face as he glanced up. "_Fermez la porte_!" he said, in a choked
whisper.
The door was already shut. Max wheeled and turned the key. "Now!" he
said.
He stooped over the Frenchman, and with the utmost care lifted him back
on to the pillows, unfastened his collar, then turned to fling the
windows as wide as they would go. The night air, fragrant with rain, blew
in, rustling the curtains. Bertrand turned his face towards it
instinctively. His lips were blue; they worked painfully, as if, between
his gasping, he were still trying to speak.
"Keep still!" Max said.
He mixed some brandy and water, and returning, slipped his arm under the
pillow. "Don't exert yourself," he said. "I'll do it all."
Very steadily he held the glass for Bertrand to drink. He could take but
very little at a time, so agonized was his struggle for breath. Max
waited through each pause, closely watching the drawn face, never missing
his opportunity. And gradually that little took effect. The anguish died
out of Bertrand's eyes, and he lay still.
Max slipped his arm from beneath the pillow and stood up. "Don't move,"
he said. "You're getting better."
"You--will stay--with me?" whispered Bertrand.
"Yes."
He drew up a chair, and sat down, took the Frenchman's wrist between his
fingers, and so remained for a long time.
Bertrand lay with closed eyes, his breathing still short and occasionally
difficult, but no longer agonized.
There came the sound of flying feet along the corridor, and an impatient
hand hammered on the door.
"Hullo, Bertrand! Are you all right? Chris wants to know," shouted a
boyish voice.
Bertrand started violently, and a quiver of pain went through him. He
fixed his eyes imploringly on Max, who instantly rose to the occasion.
"Of course he's all right. You clear out! We're busy."
"What are you doing?" Keen curiosity sounded in Noel's voice.
"Never mind! We don't want you," came the brotherly rejoinder.
"But I say--"
"Clear out!" ordered Max. "Go and tell Chris that Bertrand is writing a
letter to catch the post; which reminds me," he added grimly, "you can
also tell Holmes to come and fetch it in a quarter of an hour. Don't
forget now. It's important."
He pulled the letter entrusted to his keeping from his pocket and tossed
it on to the table.
Noel departed, and with an effort Bertrand spoke.
"But that was not the truth."
"Near enough," responded the second Wyndham complacently. "That is, if
you don't want everyone to know."
Bertrand's brows contracted. "No--no! I would not that your sister should
know, or Mr. Mordaunt."
"They will have to sooner or later," observed Max.
"Then--let it be later," murmured Bertrand.
Again there fell a silence, during which he seemed to be collecting his
strength, for when he spoke again it was with more firmness.
"Mr. Wyndham!"
"All right, you can call me Max. I'm listening," said Max.
Bertrand faintly smiled. That touch of good-fellowship pleased him. Young
as he was, this boy somehow made him feel that he understood many things.
"Then, Max," he said, "I think that you know already that which I am
going to say to you. However, it is better to say it. It is not possible
that I shall live very long."
He paused, but Max said nothing. He sat, still holding Bertrand's wrist,
his gaze upon the opposite wall.
"You knew it, no?" Bertrand questioned.
"I suspected it," Max said. He turned slightly and looked at the man upon
the bed. "This isn't your first attack," he said.
Bertrand shuddered irrepressibly. "Nor my second," he said.
"I can give you something to ease the pain," Max said. "But if you're
wise you will consult a doctor."
Again a faint smile flickered over Bertrand's face. "I am not enough
wise," he said, "to desire to prolong my life under these conditions."
"I should say the same myself," observed Max somewhat curtly.
He offered no further advice, but sat on, waiting apparently for further
developments.
After a little Bertrand proceeded. "I have known now for some time that
this malady was incurable. I think that I would not have it otherwise,
for I am very tired. I am old too--much older than even you can
comprehend. I have undergone the suffering of a lifetime, and I am too
tired to suffer much more. But--look you, Max--I do not want to make
suffer those my friends whom I shall leave behind. That is why I pray
that the end may come quick--quick. And, till then--I will bear my pain
alone."
"And if you can't?" said Max. "If it gets too much for you?"
"The good God will give me strength," the Frenchman said steadfastly.
Max shrugged his shoulders. "It's your affair, not mine. But I don't see
why you shouldn't tell Trevor. He will be hurt by and bye if you don't."
But Bertrand instantly negatived the suggestion. "He is already
much--much too good to me. I cannot--I will not--be further indebted to
him. My services are almost nominal now. Also"--he paused--"if I tell
him, I cannot remain here longer, and--I have made a promise that for the
present I will remain."
Max's shrewd eyes took another quick look at him. "For Chris's benefit, I
suppose?" he said, and though his tone was a question, it scarcely
sounded as if he expected an answer.
Bertrand's eyes met his for an instant in a single lightning glance of
interrogation. They fell again immediately, and there followed a
considerable pause before he made reply: "I do not abandon my friends
when they are troubled and they have need of me."
"Does Chris need you?" Max asked ruthlessly.
Again that swift glance shooting upwards; again a lengthy pause. Then,
"_Vous avez la vue perçante_," Bertrand remarked in a low tone.
"I can't help seeing things," Max returned. "I suppose it's my
speciality. I knew you were in love with her from the first moment I saw
you."
Bertrand made a slight movement, as if the crude statement hurt him; but
he answered quite quietly, "You have divined a secret which is known to
none other. I confide it to your honourable keeping."
The corners of Max's mouth went down. He looked as if he were on the
verge of making some ironical rejoinder, but he restrained it, merely
asking, "Are you sure that no one else knows it?"
"You mean--?" The words came sharply this time; Bertrand's eyes searched
his face with keen anxiety.
"Chris herself," Max said.
"_La petite Christine! Ma foi, no_! She has never known!" Bertrand's
reply was instant and held unshaken conviction.
"You seem very sure of that," Max observed.
"I am sure. Also"--a queer little smile of tenderness touched Bertrand's
drawn face--"she never will know now."
"Meaning you will never tell her?" Max said.
"Me, I will die first!" Bertrand answered simply.
Max grunted. "Women have an awkward knack of finding things out without
being told," he observed.
"She will never discover this while I live," Bertrand answered. "I am her
friend--the friend of her childhood--nothing more than that."
"But if she did find out?" Max said.
"She will not."
"But--suppose it for a moment--if she did?" He stuck to his point
doggedly, plainly determined to get an answer.
"In that case I should depart at once," Bertrand answered.
"Yes, and where would you go to?"
Bertrand was silent.
"You would go back to London and starve?" Max persisted.
"Perhaps." Bertrand spoke as though the matter were one of indifference
to him. "It would not be for long," he said rather dreamily.
"Oh, rot!" Max's rejoinder was intentionally vehement. "Look here," he
said, as Bertrand looked at him in surprise, "you can't go on like that.
It's too damned foolish. If, for any reason, you do leave this place, you
must have some plan of action. You can't let yourself drift."
"No?" Bertrand still looked surprised.
"No," Max returned vigorously. "Now listen to me, Bertrand. If I am to
keep quiet about this illness of yours, you have got to make me a
promise."
Bertrand raised his brows interrogatively.
"Just this," Max said, "that if you find yourself at a loose end, you
will come to me."
Bertrand looked quizzical. "A loose end?" he questioned.
"You know what it means all right," Max returned sternly. "Is it a
promise?"
"That I come to you if I need a friend?" amended Bertrand. "But--why
should I do that?"
"Because I am a friend if you like," said Max bluntly.
Bertrand's hand closed hard upon his. "I have--no words," he said, in a
voice from which all banter had departed.
Max gripped the hand. "Then it's a promise?"
Bertrand hesitated.
"You have no choice," Max reminded him. "And if you will come to me I can
find a way to help you. It wouldn't even be difficult. And you would have
skilled nursing and attention. Come, it's either that or Trevor will have
to be told. He'll see that you don't go back to starve in the streets."
"I will not have Mr. Mordaunt told," Bertrand said quickly and firmly.
"Then you will give me this promise," Max returned immovably.
With a gesture of helplessness the Frenchman yielded. "_Eh bien_, I
promise."
"Good!" said Max. He laid Bertrand's hand down and rose.
Yet a moment he stood above him, looking downwards. "You keep your
promises, eh?" he asked abruptly.
Bertrand flushed. "I am a man of honour," he said proudly.
"Yes, I know you are." Max touched his shoulder with a boyish,
propitiatory movement. "I beg your pardon, old chap. I'd be one myself if
I could."
"But you--but you--" Bertrand protested in confusion.
"I am a Wyndham," said Max, with a bitter smile. "It doesn't run in our
family, that. But I'll play the game with you, man, just because you're
straight."
He patted Bertrand's shoulder lightly, and turned away. There were not
many who knew Max Wyndham intimately, and of those not one who would have
credited the fact that the innate honour of a French castaway had somehow
made him feel ashamed.
CHAPTER XIII
WOMANHOOD
"A thousand thanks, _chère Madame_, for the generous favour which you
have bestowed upon me! I shall make it my business to see that no rumour
of your droll secret of Valpré ever reach the ear of the strict husband,
lest he should imagine that among the rocks of that paradise there lies
entombed something more precious to him than the gay romance of your
youth.
"To this undertaking I subscribe my signature, with many compliments to
the good secretary; and to you, _chère Madame_, my ever constant
devotion.
"_Toujours à vous_,
GUILLAUME RODOLPHE.
"P.S.--It is with profound regret that I find myself unable to visit you,
but my duty recalls me to my regiment in Paris."
A faint sigh escaped Chris, the first breath she had drawn for many
seconds. She stood by her dressing-table in the full glare of the
electric light, dressed in white, her wonderful hair shining like
burnished copper. She was to give her first dinner-party that night. It
was not to be a very large affair, yet it was something of an ordeal in
her estimation. She would probably have faced it more easily away from
Aunt Philippa's critical eyes. But this was a condition not obtainable.
Aunt Philippa had decided to remain some little time longer at Kellerton
Old Park in consequence of an engagement having fallen through, a state
of affairs that Noel regarded with a disgust too forcible to be expressed
in words, and which had driven Max away within three days of his arrival.
Upon Chris had devolved the main burden of her aunt's society, and a
heavy burden she had begun to find it. Aunt Philippa had apparently
determined to spend her time in transforming her young niece into a
practical housewife--a gigantic task which she tackled with praiseworthy
zeal. She had already instituted several reforms in the household, and
her thrifty mind contemplated several more. Chris's attitude, which had
at first been one of indifference, had gradually developed into one of
passive resistance. She was, as a matter of fact, too preoccupied just
then to turn her attention to active opposition; but she did not pretend
to enjoy the tutelage thus ruthlessly pressed upon her. She had been
compelled to relinquish her readings with Bertrand, of whom she now saw
very little; for, though rigidly courteous at all times, he consistently
avoided Aunt Philippa whenever possible. She on her part treated him with
disdainful sufferance, much as she had treated Cinders in the old days.
She resented his presence, but endured it perforce.
Under these circumstances it was not surprising that there should occur
moments of occasional friction between her niece and herself, especially
since, under the most favourable conditions, they had never yet managed
to discover a single point in common.
This constant jarring in the background of the ceaseless anxiety that
consumed her night and day had worn Chris's nerves to a very thin edge,
and now that relief had come at last in the form of the letter she held
in her hand she was almost too spent to feel it. The tension had endured
for so long that it seemed impossible that it could have relaxed all in a
moment. She had received a roll of banknotes from her brother two days
before, but that had in a fashion but added to her fever of unrest. Now
that she knew them to be safe in the pocket of the blackguard for whom
they were intended, now surely was the time for peace to return.
But had it? Standing there, still reading and re-reading those gibing
words, she asked herself dully if ever peace could return to her--the
thoughtless, happy peace of her childhood that she had valued so
lightly--the careless security of a mind at rest. Had it gone from her
for ever? Was that also buried among the rocks at Valpré? She
wondered--she wondered!
There came a low knock at the door between her room and her husband's.
She started violently. He had been in town for a few hours. She had not
expected him back for another quarter of an hour at least.
"Oh no," she called out quickly, "you can't come in!"
Yet she stood as she was under the glaring light, the letter still
clutched stiffly in her hand, her eyes still staring widely at the
irregular, un-English writing. The letters seemed to writhe and squirm
into life before her distorted vision, to wriggle like a procession of
monstrous insects across the page. Were they insects or were they
reptiles? She asked herself the question dazedly.
"Chris!" Her husband's voice came to her softly through the closed door.
"Let me come in for a moment. I have something to show you."
"Wait!" she called back desperately. "Wait!"
Yet it was as if iron chains were loaded upon her. She could speak, but
she could not move. Were they reptiles she was watching so intently? Or
stay! Were they crabs? They were certainly rather like the funny little
crabs that she and Cinders used to hunt for in the shallow pools of
Valpré. She gave a little laugh. Surely it was the sort of thing that
might have happened to Alice in Wonderland!
And then quite suddenly her brain flashed back to understanding, to
vivid, appalling consciousness; and she knew that her husband was waiting
to enter, while she held in her hand the one thing which she would have
sacrificed her life sooner than let him see. The awfulness of the
realization spurred her back to action. Her limbs were free again,
though horribly--so horribly--unsteady. The letter seemed to burn her
fingers. She dropped it into the small drawer in which she kept her
trinkets, turned the key with feverish haste, and, withdrawing it, thrust
it down inside her dress. The cold steel sent a shiver to her very heart,
but it stilled the wild fever of her fear. When she turned from the
dressing-table she had nerved herself; she was calm.
She crossed the room to the door at which Trevor stood waiting, and
quietly opened it.
"How impatient you are!" she said, with a smile.
For a woman who held her fate at bay it was admirably done; but for
Chris--little Chris of the sunny eyes and eager, impetuous actions--it
was so overwhelming a failure that Mordaunt, standing on the threshold,
made no movement to enter, but stood, and looked and looked, as though
he had never seen her before.
She met the look as a duellist meets his opponent's blade, instantly but
warily, summoning all the craft of her newly awakened womanhood to her
aid. She was not conscious of agitation. Her heart felt as if it were
turned to stone; it did not seem to be beating at all.
"Well," she said, as he did not speak, "have you got through your
business in town?"
He did not answer her, but came straight forward into the room, took her
by the shoulders, and drew her round so that she faced the light. "What
have you been doing?" he said.
She faced him unshrinking, undismayed. The Chris of a few hours before
would have drawn back in open fear from the piercing scrutiny of those
grey eyes, but this Chris was different. This Chris was a woman with pale
lips that smiled a baffling smile and eyes that barred the way to her
soul, a woman who had found in her womanhood a weapon of defence that no
man could thrust aside.
"I haven't been doing anything," she said indifferently, "except run
round after Aunt Philippa--oh yes, and write up to town for some things I
wanted. Aunt Philippa is really going to leave us to-day week. I can't
think what we shall do without her, can you? Now tell me about your
doings."
She lifted her face suddenly for his kiss, ignoring the fact that he was
still holding her as if for inquisition.
He drew her sharply into his arms and held her fast. "You are very cold,
sweetheart," he said.
She flushed a little at his action, though the lips he kissed were like
ice. "I am tired," she said.
She expected him to set her free, but he did not. He held her closer
still. Not till afterwards did she realize that it was the first time he
had ever held her thus and she had not quivered like a frightened bird
against his breast. She was scarcely thinking of him now. She was as one
who stands before a scorching fire too rapt in reverie to feel the heat.
Yet after a little he did succeed in infusing a certain degree of warmth
into her. Her arms went round his neck, though hardly of her own
volition, and her lips returned his kiss. But there was no spirit in her.
She leaned against him as if spent.
"Are you quite well, dear?" he asked her tenderly.
"Oh, quite! I am always well." She uttered a little tremulous laugh and
raised her head from his shoulder. "Trevor," she said, "I am afraid you
will think me very extravagant, but, do you know, I haven't any money to
go on with. I had a notice from the bank to-day to say my account was
overdrawn."
Again it was not the Chris he knew who uttered the words. It was a woman
of the world to whom his passing displeasure had become a matter almost
of indifference.
"Chris," he said abruptly, "what is the matter with you, child? Are you
bewitched?"
That roused her. She suddenly realized that she was on dangerous ground,
that to blind him she must recall the child who had vanished so
inexplicably. And so for the first time she deliberately set herself to
deceive this man who till now had ever impelled her to a certain measure
of honesty. She did it with a sick heart--but she did it.
She laid her hands on the front of his coat, grasping it nervously,
lifting pleading eyes to his.
"No, I'm not bewitched. I'm only pretending not to be frightened. Trevor,
don't be vexed. I'm very sorry about it. Really I couldn't help it."
"It's all right, dear," he said at once, and his hands closed instantly
and reassuringly upon hers. He smiled into her eyes. "It's very naughty,
of course, but I'm glad you have told me. How much do you want?"
She hesitated momentarily. "I--I'm afraid rather a lot, Trevor."
"How much?" he repeated; and then, as she still hesitated, his hold
tightened and his face grew grave. He looked straight down into her eyes.
"Chris," he said, "you haven't forgotten, have you, that it is against my
wish that you should let your brothers have money?"
She met the look unflinching. "No, Trevor."
He released her without further question. "Then you need not be afraid to
tell me how much."
She made a little grimace. The part was getting easier to play. She was
beginning to feel almost natural. But the other woman--the woman of the
world who surely had never been Chris Wyndham--was still there in the
background watching the farce and smiling cynically. Chris was beginning
to be afraid of this new personality of hers. It was infinitely more
formidable than her husband had ever been.
"How much, dear?" Mordaunt asked quietly.
She started slightly. "Thirty pounds," she said.
"Your account is overdrawn to that amount?"
"Yes." She glanced at him nervously. "I am very sorry," she said again.
He remained grave, but perfectly kind. "I will pay in fifty pounds
to-morrow," he said. "That will take you to the end of the month."
"Oh, thank you, Trevor!" She threw him a quick smile of gratitude. "I
will pay you back as soon as ever I can."
"No, it isn't a loan," he said.
"Oh, don't give it me!" Impulsively she broke in upon his words. It was
growing strangely easy, this part she had to play. Or had she indeed been
bewitched for those few dreadful seconds? Was she in reality herself
again, the quick-hearted Chris he knew, and that other woman but a
phantom born of the horrible strain she had undergone? She told herself
that this was the true explanation, even while in her heart she knew
otherwise.
"Don't give it me," she said again. "I would really rather you didn't."
"Why?" he asked.
She put out her hand to him with a little movement of entreaty. "I can't
explain. But--I would like to pay it back if you don't mind."
He smiled at her persistence. "No, I don't mind, if you particularly wish
it. Now come into my room for a moment. I want to show you something."
She went with him, her hand in his, not willingly but because she could
not do otherwise.
He led her to the table, and pointed out a box upon it. "That is for you,
Chris."
"For me!" She looked at him as if startled. "What is it, Trevor?"
"Open it and see," he said.
She hesitated. She seemed almost afraid. "I hope it isn't anything
very--very--"
"Open it and see," he repeated.
She obeyed him with hands that had begun to tremble, took out an
object wrapped in tissue-paper, unfolded the coverings, and disclosed a
jewel-case.
Then again she hesitated, standing as one in doubt. "Trevor, I--I--"
"Open it, dear," he said gently.
And mutely she obeyed.
Diamonds flashed before her dazzled eyes, a myriad sparkling colours shot
spinning through her brain. She stood gazing, gazing, as one beneath a
spell. For the passage of many seconds there was no sound in the room.
Then with a sudden movement she closed the case. It shut with a sharp
snap, and she raised a haggard face.
"Trevor, it's lovely--lovely! But I can't take it--anyhow, not yet--not
till I have paid you back."
"My dear little wife, what nonsense!" he said.
"No, no, it isn't! I am in earnest." Her voice quivered; she held out the
case to him beseechingly. "I can't take it--yet," she said. "I thank you
with all my heart. But I can't--I can't!"
Her words ended upon a sudden sob; she laid the case down again among its
wrappings, and stood before him silent, with bent head. It was not easy
to refuse this gift of his, but for some reason to accept it was a
monstrous impossibility. He would not understand, of course, but
yet--whatever he thought--she could not take it.
A long pause followed her last words. She shed no tears, but another sob
was struggling for utterance. She put her hand to her throat to strangle
it there.
And then at last Mordaunt spoke. "Chris, have you been doing something
that you are afraid to tell me of?"
She was silent. Silence was her only refuge now.
He put his arm round her. "Because," he said very tenderly, "you needn't
be afraid, dear, Heaven knows."
That pierced her unbearably. Woman though she was, she almost cried out
under the pain of it.
She drew herself away from him. "Don't! please don't!" she said rather
breathlessly. "You--you must take things for granted sometimes. I can't
always be explaining my feelings. They won't stand it."
She tried to laugh, but could not. Again desperately she pressed her hand
to her throat. How would he take it? She wondered. Would he regard it as
a mere childish whim? Or would he see that he was dealing with a woman,
and a desperate woman at that?
She scarcely knew what she expected of him, but most assuredly she did
not anticipate his next move.
Quite quietly he picked up the jewel-case, and re-entered her room.
"It may as well go among your other treasures," he said. "You needn't
wear it--unless you wish--until you have paid me back."
His tone was perfectly ordinary. She wondered what was in his mind, how
he regarded her behaviour, why he treated her thus; not guessing that he
had set himself resolutely, with infinite patience, to show her how small
was her cause for fear.
He laid his hand upon the drawer that contained her trinkets, tried it,
turned round to her, faintly smiling.
"May I have the key?"
She had followed him in silence, and now she stood still, The key! The
key! It seemed to be searing her flesh, burning through to her very
heart. She suddenly felt as if all the Fates were arrayed against her.
Why--why--why had she chosen that drawer to guard her secret? Yet how
could she have foreseen this? A mist swam before her eyes. Her new-found
composure tottered.
"I--have lost it," she murmured.
"Lost it!" he echoed.
"I mean--I mean--" She was stammering now in open confusion--"I must have
laid it down somewhere. I--I shall find it again, no doubt."
He turned fully round and looked at her. She clasped her hands to still
her quivering nerves. This fresh ordeal was proving too much for her.
"I can't help it," she said, with white lips. "I often mislay things. I
am careless, I know. But I always find them again sooner or later. I will
have a look for it while you are dressing."
Her words ran on almost meaninglessly. She was speaking for the sake of
speaking, because silence would have been too terrible to be borne,
because if she had ceased to speak she must have screamed. Even as it
was, the fact that her husband said nothing whatever was driving her
almost to distraction.
Suddenly she realized that he was waiting for her to stop, that her words
were making no impression, that he was not so much as listening to them,
his attention being focussed upon her and her alone.
She broke off in desperation. She met his steady eyes. "Don't you--don't
you believe me, Trevor?"
He did not instantly reply. For one dreadful moment she thought that he
was going to answer in the negative. And then very deliberately he
declined her direct challenge.
"I think," he said quietly, "that you don't know what you are saying."
And with that he went slowly back to his own room, taking the jewel-case
with him. The door closed softly and she was left alone.
For many seconds thereafter Chris made no movement of any sort. It was as
if she were afraid to stir. Her eyes were wide, gazing straight before
her, as though fascinated by some scene of terror.
She moved at last stiffly, went to the window, drew a long, deep breath.
She asked herself no questions of any sort. There was no need. For the
first time in her life she was face to face with her own soul, beyond all
possibility of self-deception.
The child Chris was gone for ever, the woman Chris remained, a woman with
a tragic secret that must never be revealed. She knew now why she had
fought so desperately to keep that episode of Valpré from her husband's
knowledge. She only marvelled that the reason had never come home to her
before. She knew now why she had always shrunk inwardly from the
searching of his eyes. She had always dreaded that he might see too much,
even that same secret of which she herself must have been vaguely
conscious for years.
It was all clear to her now, so clear that she could never shut her eyes
to it again. All her life long she must carry it in her heart, and no one
must ever know. Sleeping and waking, she must keep it safely hidden. She
must go on living a lie all her life, all her life.
She flung out her arms with a sudden gesture of fierce rebellion. Oh, why
had she married? Why? Why? Why? Had she not always known in her heart
that she was making a terrible, an irrevocable, mistake? How was it she
had been so blind? Why had there been no one to warn her of the snare
into which she was walking? Why had no hand held her back?
Trevor himself--but no, Trevor did not so much as know that she had left
her childhood behind her yet. He was still wondering what childish
peccadillo was troubling her, keeping her from accepting his gift. At
least, he was very far from suspecting her actual reason; nor must he
ever suspect.
Never, as long as they lived, must he know that she had refused the first
thing of value that he had offered her since their wedding because in an
instant of overwhelming revelation she had just recognized the fact that
she loved--had loved for years--another man.
PART III
CHAPTER I
WAR
Two days before that on which Aunt Philippa had decided to take her
departure Mordaunt went again to town. Noel, whose holidays were drawing
to a close, accompanied him to the station in a state of high jubilation,
albeit Holmes was in charge of the motor and there was not the faintest
chance of his being allowed to take the wheel.
"I hope you're going to behave yourself," were Mordaunt's last words.
And the youngster's cheery grin and impudent "You bet, old chap!" ought
to have warned him not to hope for behaviour too exemplary.
Noel, in fact, had been anticipating his brother-in-law's departure with
considerable eagerness. Though he liked him thoroughly, he was an
undoubted check upon his enjoyment. He kept him within bounds after a
fashion which had at first amused but had of late begun somewhat to pall
upon him; and Noel was only awaiting a suitable opportunity to kick over
the traces and gallop free. On this occasion Mordaunt had decided to
spend the night in town, so circumstances were propitious.
As for Mordaunt, he had dismissed Noel from his mind almost before the
train was out of the station. But for her aunt's presence, he would have
persuaded Chris to go with him, even though he knew that she had not the
smallest wish to do so. He was growing very anxious with regard to her,
and he was firmly determined that she should have a change of scene as
soon as Noel's holidays and Aunt Philippa's protracted stay came to an
end. It was not that she seemed ill, but she was very far from being
herself, and there were times when he even fancied that she simulated
gaiety for the deliberate purpose of deceiving him. He knew, too, that
her sleep was often broken and troubled, but he never commented upon
this; she was so plainly averse to any criticism from him or anyone. A
shrewd suspicion had begun to take root in Mordaunt's mind to account for
this unwonted reticence; and because of it he treated her with the utmost
patience and consideration, asking no question, giving no sign that he so
much as noticed the change in her. He invariably turned from any subject
she seemed to find distasteful. If she seemed unusually nervous or
unreasonable, he passed it over, bearing with her with a tenderness that
sometimes moved her in secret to passionate tears the while she asked
herself what she had ever done that he should love her so.
For if she had ever doubted the quality of his love, she could not do so
now. It surrounded her whichever way she turned, asking nothing of her,
never intruding upon her, content simply to shelter her. And though the
very fact of it hurt her, it comforted her subtly as well, lulling her
fear of him, giving her a certain measure of confidence.
Of Bertrand, in those days, she saw less and less. In the first shock of
realization she had instinctively avoided him, possessed by a haunting
dread that he might guess her secret. But upon this point she was very
soon reassured. The consistent and unwavering friendliness of his
attitude quieted her misgivings, and nerved her to treat him, if with
less intimacy, at least without visible awkwardness. Whether he noticed
her avoidance or not she did not know, but he certainly seemed to be
withdrawing himself more and more out of her life. His work with her
husband apparently occupied all his thoughts, and then there was Aunt
Philippa also to keep him at a distance. How it would be when her aunt
departed Chris had no notion, but she was looking forward to that event
with an eagerness almost feverish. All her natural sweetness
notwithstanding, there were occasions upon which she actively disliked
this domineering relative of hers. Aunt Philippa, on her part, who had
never taken so much trouble with her niece before, openly marvelled at
her intractability, which even the fact that Chris was one of those
headstrong Wyndhams did not, in her opinion, wholly justify. No open
rupture had occurred, but a very decided animosity had begun to smoulder
between them, which a very little provocation might at any moment fan
into open hostility.
Chris was leaning against a pillar of the porch when her brother
returned. There was very decided dejection in her attitude.
"Cheer up!" Noel exhorted her, as he sprang from the car. "I've got a
ripping plan."
He came and twined his arm in hers, and Chris smiled with a hint of
wistfulness. She felt as if she had left Noel and his boyish pleasures
very far behind of late.
"What do you want to do?" she said.
"Come into the gun-room and I'll tell you." Noel was all eagerness.
"Coast clear?" he questioned. "Where's Aunt Phil?"
"Waiting for me to go and help her find fault with the gardeners." Chris
was still smiling a little, but there was not much humour in her voice.
"Oh, rats! Don't go!" said Noel. "Come along into the gun-room, and help
me make some fireworks. It will be much more fun."
A spark of the old ardour kindled in Chris's eyes. "Oh, are you going to
make fireworks?" she said. "Have you got the ingredients?"
He nodded. "Nearly all. Come and see. What we haven't got we must
manufacture. I know where there are plenty of cartridges."
Chris yielded to the eager pulling of his arm. "I suppose Trevor wouldn't
mind for once," she said. She had grown unaccountably scrupulous in this
respect.
But Noel jeered at the notion. "Who cares? It'll be all over long
before he comes home to-morrow. We will have a regular jollification
to-night. You and I will run the show, and Aunt Phil and Bertrand can
look on and admire. I say, Chris, I've got a ripping receipt for
Catherine wheels--not the big ones, those little things you hold and buzz
round. You know!"
His enthusiasm was infectious. It drew her almost in spite of herself.
Besides, it meant a temporary respite from the continual burden that
weighed her down, and brief though it must be, she could not bring
herself to refuse it. She went with him, therefore, with the feeling of
one who has signed a truce with the enemy, and in a couple of minutes
they were securely closeted in the gun-room, with the door locked against
all intruders, and all thoughts of Aunt Philippa and any other troublous
problems as resolutely excluded from their minds.
The hours of the morning literally flew. Luncheon-time found them
absorbed in a most critical process.
"Bust lunch!" said Noel. "We can't possibly leave this now."
But Chris's sense of duty proved too strong for her inclination at this
juncture, and she sallied forth from their retreat to rescue Bertrand
from a _tête-à-tête_ meal with her aunt.
There was a sparkle of merriment in her eyes when she entered the
dining-room. The engrossing work of the morning had done her good. She
was fully five minutes late, and Bertrand, who had presented himself
sharp on the hour with military punctuality, was waiting by the window.
He came swiftly to meet her. She had not seen him before that day.
"You are looking well this morning," he said, in his quick, friendly way.
"You have been busy, yes?"
His soft eyes interrogated her, as for an instant he held her hand. Never
once had she found those eyes impossible to meet. They held the fidelity
of unswerving friendship.
"Oh yes," she said, "busy in a fashion--a very childish fashion, Bertie.
Noel and I are making fireworks!"
"Fireworks!" he echoed.
"Yes, we are going to have a grand display tonight. Will you come and
look on?"
He smiled. "But yes," he said. "I think that I will come and take care of
you."
She nodded. "Do! But they are not dangerous, not very. Where is Aunt
Philippa?"
He spread out his hands whimsically. "She has not given me her
confidence."
Chris laughed. Actually she was feeling almost lighthearted. Till that
moment she had had a morbid dread of being alone with him, and now behold
her dread vanishing in mirth! Surely she had been very foolish, like a
child frightened at shadows!
"I wonder where she is," she said. "I am afraid I have been playing
truant this morning. I shall have to apologize, though it was all Noel's
fault. Do see if you can find Mrs. Forest," she added to a servant just
entering. "Ask her if she is ready for luncheon."
"Mrs. Forest is out in the motor, and has not yet returned," was the
information this elicited.
"How odd!" said Chris. "What had we better do?"
Bertrand shrugged his shoulders, still looking quizzical. "We must not
lunch without her, _bien sûr_. Let us go into the garden."
They went into the garden, and walked for a space in the September
sunshine.
They talked at first upon commonplace topics, and Chris was wholly at her
ease. But presently Bertrand turned the conversation with an abrupt
question.
"Christine, tell me, you have never seen that scoundrel Rodolphe again?"
She started a little, and was conscious that she changed colour, but she
answered him instantly. "No, never. But--why do you ask?"
Very gravely he made reply. "I have feared lately that there was
something that troubled you. I was wrong, yes?"
He looked at her anxiously.
She did not answer him, she could not.
"_Eh bien_," he said gently, after a moment. "It was not that. You have
heard that he has been recalled to France--that there is a rumour that
there have been revelations that may lead to a court-martial?"
"No!" said Chris in amazement. "Do you mean--"
He bent his head. "It is possible."
"That you may be vindicated?" she questioned eagerly. "Oh, Bertie!"
"It is possible," he repeated. "Yet I will not permit myself to hope. It
is no more than a rumour. It is also possible that it may not even touch
the old _affaire_, since he made no appearance at my trial."
"But if it did!" said Chris.
He gave her an odd look. "If it did, Christine?" he questioned.
"You would go back with flying colours," she said. "You would be
reinstated surely!"
He shook his head. "I do not think it."
"You mean you wouldn't go?" she asked.
He turned his face up to the sun with a peculiar gesture. "Who can say?"
he said, with closed eyes. "Me, I think that the good God has other plans
for me. I may be justified--I do not know. But I shall wear the uniform
of the French Army--never again."
He spoke perfectly calmly, with absolute conviction; but there was that
in his face that startled her, something she had never seen before.
She put out a hesitating hand, and touched his sleeve. "Bertie!"
Instantly he looked at her, saw the scared expression in her eyes, and,
smiling, pressed her hand.
"_Mais_, Christine, these things--what are they? Ambition, success,
honour--loss, failure, shame; they seem so great in this little life of
mortality. But, after all, they are no more than the tools with which the
good God shapes us to His destiny. He uses them, and when His work is
done He throws them aside. We leave them behind us; we pass on to that
which is greater." He paused a moment, and his eyes kindled as though he
were on the verge of something further; then suddenly they went beyond
her, and he relinquished her hand. "Madame has returned," he said. "Let
us go!"
Looking up, Chris saw Aunt Philippa upon the terrace above them.
The expression on her relative's face was one of severe and undisguised
disapproval, as her gaze rested upon the two in the garden. Chris, as she
moved to meet her, felt a sudden flame of indignation at her heart. How
dared Aunt Philippa look at them so?
"We have been waiting for you," she said, speaking in some haste to
conceal her resentment. "Has anything happened?"
Aunt Philippa replied in the measured accents habitual to her. "Nothing
has happened. I have been to Sandacre Court, at Mrs. Pouncefort's
invitation, to see the gardens. I waited for you, Chris, for nearly an
hour this morning, but you did not see fit either to come to me or to
send any word of explanation to account for your absence. Therefore I
started late. Hence my late return."
Chris coloured. "I am sorry, Aunt Philippa. Noel wanted me. I am afraid I
forgot you were waiting."
"It seems to me," said Aunt Philippa, with cutting emphasis, "that you
are apt to forget every obligation when in Mr. Bertrand's society."
"Aunt Philippa!"
Furious indignation rang in Chris's voice. In a second--in less--it would
have been open war, but swift as an arrow Bertrand intervened.
"Ah! but pardon me," he said, in his soft voice. "I am not responsible
for Mrs. Mordaunt's negligence. She has been occupied with her affairs,
and I with mine. Had she been in my society"--he smiled with a flash of
the teeth--"she would not have forgotten her duties so easily. I am an
excellent monitor, madame. Acquit me, I beg, of being accessory to the
crime, and accept my sympathies the most sincere."
Aunt Philippa ignored them in icy silence, but he had accomplished his
end. The evil moment was averted. Whatever Chris might have to endure
later, at least she would be spared the added mortification of his
presence during the infliction. Airily he turned the subject. He could
overlook a snub more adroitly than Aunt Philippa could administer one.
They went into the house, and during the meal that followed Bertrand made
himself gracefully agreeable to both ladies. So delicate were his
attentions that Chris found herself more than once on the verge of
hysterical laughter.
But when he left them at length, with many apologies, to resume his
interrupted labours, her sense of humour ceased to vibrate. Never before
had she desired her husband's presence as she desired it then.
Her hope that Aunt Philippa might retire to her room to rest was a very
slender one, and destined almost from the outset to disappointment. Aunt
Philippa was on the war trail, and she would not rest until she had
tracked down her quarry.
She began at once to speak of her morning's visit to Mrs. Pouncefort,
whom she knew as a London hostess. Personally, she disapproved of her,
but she could not afford to pass her over, since her status in society
was by no means inconsiderable, being, in fact, almost capable of
rivalling her own.
"I should have remained to luncheon," she said, "but for the fact that
you were here quite unchaperoned. Had you accompanied me, as I had hoped
you would, I should not have had to hasten back in the heat."
"But I wasn't invited," said Chris, "and I know every inch of those
gardens. I knew them long ago, before the Pounceforts came."
"The invitation," said Aunt Philippa, not to be diverted from her
purpose, "was quite casual. You could quite well have accompanied me. In
fact, I think Mrs. Pouncefort was surprised not to see you. However, we
need not discuss that further. Doubtless you had your own reasons for
desiring to remain at home, and I shall not ask you what those reasons
were. What I do ask, and what I think I have a right to know, is whether
you have had the proper feeling to tell your husband that the Captain
Rodolphe you met at Pouncefort Court a little while ago is the man with
whom you were so deplorably intimate at Valpré in your girlhood, or
whether you have had the audacity to pretend that he was a total stranger
to you."
Chris almost gasped at this unexpected attack, but its directness
compelled an instant reply without pausing to consider the position.
"I was never intimate with Captain Rodolphe," she said quickly. "I never
spoke to him before the other day."
And there she stopped suddenly short, arrested by the look of open
incredulity with which her aunt received her hasty statement.
There was a moment's silence. Then, "Really!" said Aunt Philippa. "He
gave Mrs. Pouncefort to understand otherwise."
Chris felt the blood rush to her face. This was intolerable. "What did he
give Mrs. Pouncefort to understand?" she demanded.
"Merely that you were old friends," said Aunt Philippa, with the calm
superiority of one not to be shaken in her belief.
"Then he lied!" said Chris fiercely.
Aunt Philippa said "Indeed!" with raised eyebrows.
Chris's hands clenched unconsciously. "He lied!" she repeated. "We are
not friends! We never could be! I--I hate the man!"
"Then you know him well enough for that?" said Aunt Philippa.
Chris sprang to her feet with hot cheeks and blazing eyes. "Aunt
Philippa, you have no right--you and Mrs. Pouncefort--to--to talk me over
and discuss my acquaintances!"
"My dear child," said Aunt Philippa, "all that passed between us was a
remark made by Mrs. Pouncefort to the effect that one of her guests,
Captain Rodolphe--an old friend of yours whom she believed you had
originally met at Valpré--had just returned to Paris. What led to the
remark I do not remember. But naturally the name recalled certain
regrettable circumstances to my mind, and I felt it my duty to ask if you
had been quite candid with Trevor upon the subject. I am sincerely
grieved to know that my suspicion in this respect was but too well
founded."
"He was not the man I knew at Valpré" burst forth Chris, with passionate
vehemence. "You may believe it or not; it is the truth!"
"Then, my dear," said Aunt Philippa, with the calmness of unalterable
conviction, "there must have been two men who enjoyed that privilege."
Chris broke into a wild laugh--a laugh that had been struggling for
utterance for the past hour.
"Two! Why, there were a dozen at least, some soldiers, some fishermen!
Ask Trevor! He can tell you all about them--if he thinks it worth while!"
"And yet you have not mentioned Captain Rodolphe to him?" said Aunt
Philippa. Her eyes were fixed unsparingly upon the girl's face, and she
saw the colour dying away as swiftly as it had risen. "That is strange,"
she remarked, with emphasis.
"It is not strange!" flashed back Chris. The laugh had gone from her
lips, leaving them white, but she faced her adversary unflinchingly. It
was open war now--a fierce and bitter struggle for the mastery, for which
she knew herself to be ill-equipped, but in which she must fight to the
last. She knew that Aunt Philippa had always regarded her with cold
dislike, and it dawned upon her in that moment that now--now that her
position was assured, now that she was rich and popular and the wife of a
man who was universally honoured in that great world of society in which
her aunt had always striven for a leading place--the dislike had turned
to a cruel jealousy that demanded her downfall. And she was horribly at
her mercy; deep in her heart she knew that also, but she would not own
it, even to herself. Aunt Philippa had not yet unmasked the truth. Until
she succeeded in doing so, all was not lost.
"It is not strange," she repeated, and this time she spoke quietly,
summoning all her strength to the unequal contest. "Captain Rodolphe was
not of sufficient importance to mention to Trevor. Besides--"
"Although you hate him so bitterly!" Aunt Philippa reminded her.
Chris pressed on, ignoring the thrust. "Besides, Trevor does not need,
does not so much as wish to be told of every little incident that ever
happened in my life. He prefers to trust me."
"And have you never abused his confidence?" asked Aunt Philippa.
It was inevitable. She flinched ever so slightly, but she covered it with
instant defiance. "What do you mean, Aunt Philippa?"
Aunt Philippa made no direct reply. She knew the value of insinuation in
such a battle as this. "Ask yourself that question," she said
impressively.
It might have provided a way of escape, at least temporarily, but Chris
was too far goaded to see it. "Tell me what you mean," she said.
Aunt Philippa's thin lips smiled ironically. "My dear, are you really so
blind, or is deceit the very air you breathe? Can you look me in the face
and assure me that nothing has ever passed between you and your husband's
secretary of which you would not wish him to know?"
That went home, straight to her quivering heart. For a moment the pain of
it held her dumb. Then, with a gasp, she turned from the pitiless eyes
that watched her.
"Oh, how dare you, Aunt Philippa! How dare you!" she cried in impotence.
"I trust that I am not afraid to do my duty," said Aunt Philippa, very
gravely.
But Chris had already turned, completely routed, and fled from the scene
of her defeat; nor did she pause until she had reached her haven at the
top of the house, where, like a wounded bird, she crouched down in
solitude and so remained for a long, long time.
Not till the afternoon was far advanced did any measure of comfort come
to her stricken soul, and then at last she remembered that, after all,
she was comparatively safe. Her husband's trust was still hers, implicit
and unwavering, and she knew that he would not so much as notice a single
hint from Aunt Philippa, however adroitly offered. That was her one and
only safeguard, and as she realized it the bitterness of her heart gave
place to a sudden burst of anguished shame. What had she ever done to
deserve the generous, unquestioning trust he thus reposed in her?
Nothing--less than nothing!
CHAPTER II
FIREWORKS
When Chris emerged from her seclusion, she found that her aunt had
decided to suspend hostilities, and to treat her with the majestic
condescension of the conqueror. It was something of a relief, for Chris
was not fashioned upon fighting lines, and long-sustained animosity was
beyond her. She was thankful for Noel's plans for the evening's
entertainment as a topic of conversation, even though Aunt Philippa
openly disapproved of the enterprise. She had begun feverishly to count
the hours to her aunt's departure. She would not feel really safe,
reassure herself how she might, until she was finally gone.
It was not until after dinner that Noel emerged from his lair in the
gun-room and announced everything to be in readiness. He called Chris out
on to the terrace to assist him, and Aunt Philippa and Bertrand were
left--an ill-assorted couple--to watch and admire the result of his
efforts. Aunt Philippa invariably maintained a demeanour of haughty
reserve if she found herself alone with her host's French secretary, an
attitude in which he as invariably acquiesced with an impenetrable
silence which she resented without knowing why. He was always courteous,
but he never tried to be agreeable to her, and this also Aunt Philippa
resented, though she would have mercilessly snubbed any efforts in that
direction had he exerted himself to make them.
The night was dark and still, an ideal night for fireworks. Noel began
with the failures which he had not the heart to waste. He was keeping the
choicest of his collection till the last. Consequently there were a good
many crackling explosions on the ground with nothing but a few sparks to
compensate for the noise, and Aunt Philippa very speedily tired of the
din.
"This is childish as well as dangerous," she said. "I shall go to the
library. There will at least be peace and quietness there."
"Without doubt," said Bertrand.
He accompanied her thither with a polite regard for her comfort for which
he received no gratitude, and then returned to smoke his cigarette in
comfort by the open French window that overlooked the terrace.
A ruddy glare lit up the scene as he took up his stand. The failures were
apparently exhausted, and Noel had begun upon the masterpieces. Chris's
quick laugh came to him, as he stood there watching. Yet he frowned a
little to himself as he heard it, missing the gay, spontaneous, childish
ring that he had been wont to hear. What had come to her of late? Was it
true that she had told him on the night of Cinders' death? Was she indeed
grown-up? If so--he changed his position slightly, trying to catch a
glimpse of her in the fitful glare of one of Noel's Roman candles--had
the time come for him to go? He had always faced the fact that she would
not need him when her childhood was left behind. And certainly of late
she had not seemed to need him. She had even--he fancied--avoided him at
times. He wondered wherefore. Could it have been at her aunt's
instigation? Surely not. She was too staunch for that.
There remained another possibility, and, after a little, reluctantly,
with clenched teeth, he faced it. Had she by some means discovered that
which he had so studiously hidden from her all this time? He cast his
mind back. Had he ever inadvertently betrayed himself? He knew he had
not. Never since her marriage had he given the faintest sign; no, not
even on that fateful afternoon when she had clung to him in anguish of
soul and he had held her fast pressed against his heart. He had been
strictly honourable, resolutely loyal, all through. He had always held
himself in check. He had never forgotten, never relaxed his vigilance,
never once been other than faithful, even in thought, to the friend who
trusted him. Yet--Max's words recurred to him, piercing him as with a
stab of physical pain--without doubt women had a genius _incroyable_ for
discovering secrets. And if Chris were indeed a woman--was it not
possible--
Again her laugh broke in upon his thoughts, and he turned swiftly in the
direction whence it came. She was standing not more than a dozen yards
from him, a red whirl of fire all about her, in her hand a whizzing,
spitting-aureole of flame. The light flared upwards on her face and
gleaming hair. She looked like some fire-goddess, exulting over the
radiant element she had created. And, like a sword-thrust to his heart,
there went through him the memory of her standing poised like a bird on
the prow of a boat. Just so had she stood then; just so, goddess-like,
had she exulted in the morning sunshine and the sparkling water; just so
had her bare arms shone on the day that first he had consciously
worshipped her, on the day that she had told him of her desire to find
out all the secrets that there were. Ah! how much had she found out since
then--his bird of Paradise with the restless, ever-fluttering wings? How
much? How much?
A sudden cry banished his speculations--a cry uttered by her voice, sharp
with dismay. "Oh, Noel! My sleeve!"
Before the words were past her lips Bertrand had leaped forth to the
rescue. He traversed the distance between them as a meteor hurling
through space. But even so, ere he reached her, the filmy lace that hung
down from her elbow had blazed into flame. She had dropped the firework,
and it lay hissing on the ground like a glittering snake. He sprang over
it and caught her in his arms.
She cried out again as he crushed her to him, cried out, and tried to
push him from her; but he held her fast, gripping the flaming material
with his naked hands, rending it, and gripping afresh. Something white
which neither noticed fluttered upon the ground between them. It must
have actually passed through that frantic grip. It lay unheeded, while
Bertrand beat out the last spark and ripped the last charred rag away
from the soft arm.
"You are hurt, no?" he queried rather breathlessly.
"You, Bertie! What of you?" she cried hysterically, clinging to him.
"Your hands--let me see them!"
"By Jove, that was a near thing!" ejaculated Noel, who had followed close
upon Bertrand's heels. "I thought you were done for that time, Chris. How
on earth did you manage it? You must have been jolly careless."
Chris did not attempt to answer. Now that the emergency had passed, she
was hanging upon Bertrand almost in a state of collapse.
"Let us go in," the latter said gently.
"Yes, run along," said Noel, who had a wholesome dread of hysterics.
"Don't be silly, Chris; there's no harm done. But if it hadn't been for
this chap here you'd have been in flames in another second. I
congratulate you, Bertrand, on your presence of mind. Not hurt yourself,
I suppose?"
"I am not hurt," the Frenchman answered; but his words sounded as if
speech were an effort to him, almost as if he spoke them through clenched
teeth.
Chris straightened herself swiftly. "Yes, let us go in," she said.
She leaned upon Bertrand no longer, but she still held his arm. As they
entered the drawing-room alone together, she turned and looked at him.
"Ah! I knew you were hurt," she said quickly. "Sit down, Bertie. Here is
a chair."
He sank down blindly, his face like death; he had begun to gasp for
breath. His hand groped desperately towards an inner pocket, but fell
powerless before reaching it.
"Let me!" whispered Chris.
She bent over him, and slipped her own trembling hand inside his coat.
Her fingers touched something hard, and she drew out a small bottle.
"Is it this?" she said.
His lips moved in the affirmative. She removed the stopper and shook out
some capsules.
"_Deux_!" whispered Bertrand.
She put them into his mouth and waited. Great drops had started on his
forehead, and now began to roll slowly down his drawn face. She took his
handkerchief after a little to wipe them away, but almost immediately he
reached up with a quivering smile and took it from her.
"I am better," he said, and though his voice was husky he had it under
control. "You will pardon me for giving you this trouble. It was only--a
passing weakness."
He mopped his forehead, and leaned slowly forward, moving with caution.
"But you are ill! You are in pain!" Chris exclaimed.
"No," he said. "No, I have no pain. I am better. I am quite well."
Again he looked up at her, smiling. "But how I have alarmed you!" he said
regretfully. "And your arm, _petite_? It is not burnt--not at all?"
He took her hand gently, and put back the tattered sleeve to satisfy
himself on this point.
Chris said nothing. Her lips had begun to tremble. But she winced a
little when he touched a place inside her arm where the flame had
scorched her.
He glanced up sharply. "Ah! that hurts you, that?"
"No," she said, "no. It is nothing." And then, with sudden passion:
"Bertie, what does a little scorch like that matter when you--when
you--" She broke off, fighting with herself, and pointed a shaking finger
at his wrist.
It had been blistered by the flame, and his shirt-cuff was charred; but
the injury was slight, remarkably so in consideration of the utter
recklessness he had displayed.
He snapped his fingers with easy indifference. "Ah, bah! It is a
_bagatelle_, that. In one week it will be gone. And now--why, _chérie_--"
He stopped abruptly. She had dropped upon her knees beside him, her hands
upon his shoulders, her face, tragic in its pain, upturned to his.
"Bertie, why do you try to hide things from me? Do you think I am quite
blind? You are ill. I know you are ill. What is it, dear? Won't you tell
me?"
He made a quick gesture as if he would check either her words or her
touch, and then suddenly he stiffened. For in that instant there ran
between them once again, vital, electric, unquenchable, that Flame that
had kindled long ago on a morning of perfect summer, that Flame which
once kindled burns on for ever.
It happened all in a moment, so swiftly that they were caught unawares in
the spell of it, so overwhelmingly that neither for the space of several
throbbing seconds possessed the volition to draw back. And in the deep
silence the man's eyes held the woman's irresistibly, yet by no conscious
effort, while each entered the other's soul and gazed upon the one
supreme secret which each had mutely sheltered there.
It was to the man that full realization first came--a realization more
overwhelming than anything that had gone before, striking him with a
stunning force that shattered every other emotion like a bursting shell
spreading destruction.
He came out of that trance-like stillness with a gesture of horror, as if
freeing himself from some evil thing that had wound itself about him
unawares.
Her hands fell away from his shoulders instantly. She was white to
the lips. She even for one incredible moment--the only moment in her
life--shrank from him. But that impulse vanished as swiftly as it came,
vanished in a rush of passionate understanding. For with a groan Bertrand
sank forward and bowed his head in his hands.
"_Mon Dieu_!" he said. "What have I done?"
She responded as it were instinctively, not pausing to choose her words,
speaking in a quick, vehement whisper, because his distress was more than
she could bear.
"It is none of your doing, Bertie. You are not to say it--not to think it
even. It happened long, long ago. You know it did. It happened--it
happened--that day at Valpré--the day you--took me into your boat."
He groaned again, his head dropping lower. She knew that also! Then was
she woman indeed!
There followed a silence during which Chris remained kneeling beside him,
but she was no longer agitated. She was strangely calm. A new strength
seemed to have been given her to cope with this pressing need. When at
last she moved, it was to lay a hand that was quite steady upon his knee.
"Bertie," she said, "listen! You have done nothing wrong. You have
nothing to reproach yourself with. It wasn't your fault that I took so
long to grow up." A piteous little smile touched her lips, and was gone.
"You have been very good to me," she said. "I won't have you blame
yourself. No woman ever had a truer friend."
He laid his hand upon hers, but he kept his eyes covered. She could only
see the painful twitching of his mouth under the slight moustache.
"Ah, Christine," he said at last, with an effort, "I have tried--I have
tried--to be faithful."
"And you have never been anything else," she said very earnestly. "You
were my _preux chevalier_ from the very beginning, and you have done more
for me than you will ever know. Bertie, Bertie"--her voice thrilled
suddenly--"though it's all so hopeless, do you think it isn't easier for
me now that I know? Do you think I would have it otherwise if I could?"
His hand closed tightly upon hers with a quick, restraining pressure. He
could not answer her.
For some seconds he did not speak at all. At length, "Then--you trust me
still, Christine?" he said, his voice very low.
Her reply was instant and unfaltering. "I shall trust you as long as I
live."
He was silent again for a space. Then suddenly he uncovered his face and
looked at her. Again their eyes met, with the perfect intimacy of a
perfect understanding.
"_Eh bien_," Bertrand said, speaking slowly and heavily, as one labouring
under an immense burden, "I will be worthy of your confidence. You are
right, little comrade. We have travelled too far together--you and I--to
fear to strike upon the rocks now."
He paused a moment, then quietly rose, drawing her to her feet. So for a
while he stood, her hands clasped in his, seeming still upon the verge of
speech, but finding no words. His eyes smiled sadly upon her, as the eyes
of a friend saying good-bye. At last he stooped, and reverently as though
he sealed an oath thereby, he pressed his lips upon the hands he held.
An instant later he straightened himself, and in unbroken silence turned
and left her.
It was one of the simplest tragedies ever played on the world's stage.
They had found each other--too late, and there was nothing more to be
said.
CHAPTER III
THE TURN OF THE TIDE
It was evening when Mordaunt returned on the following day. He was met at
the station by Noel. Holmes was in charge of the motor, and greeted his
master with obvious relief. The care of the youngest Wyndham was plainly
a responsibility he did not care to shoulder for long.
"All well?" Mordaunt asked, as he emerged from the station with his young
brother-in-law hooked effusively on his arm.
"All well, sir," said Holmes, with the air of a sentry relaxing after
long and arduous duty.
"Flourishing," said Noel, "though it's the greatest wonder you haven't
come back to find Chris a heap of ashes. She would have been if Bertrand
hadn't--at great personal risk--put her out."
"What has happened?" demanded Mordaunt sharply.
"All's well, sir," said Holmes reassuringly.
"Fireworks!" explained Noel. "My word, I made some beauties! I wish you
could have seen 'em. I got singed a bit myself. But, then, that's only
what one would expect playing with fire, eh, Trevor?" He rubbed his cheek
ingratiatingly against Mordaunt's shoulder. "You needn't be anxious.
Chris was really none the worse. But the Frenchman had a bad attack of
blue funk when the danger was over, and nearly fainted. He's feeling
ashamed of himself apparently, for I haven't seen him since. By the way,
Aunt Phil and Chris had a mill yesterday, and the old lady is suffering
from a very stiff neck in consequence. I asked Chris what she did to it,
but she wouldn't tell me. Thank the gods, she goes to-morrow! You'll let
me drive her to the station, won't you? I should like to go to heaven in
Aunt Phil's company. She would be sure to get into the smartest set at
once."
He rattled on in the same cheery strain without intermission throughout
the return journey, having imparted enough to make Mordaunt thoroughly
uneasy, notwithstanding Holmes's assurance.
The first person he met upon entering the house was Aunt Philippa. She
accorded him a glacial reception, and explained that Chris had retired to
bed with a severe headache.
"It's come on very suddenly," remarked Noel, with frank incredulity.
"Where's Bertrand? Has he got a headache too?"
Aunt Philippa had no information to offer with regard to the French
secretary! She merely observed that she had given orders for dinner
to be served in a quarter of an hour, and therewith swept away to the
drawing-room.
Mordaunt shook off his young brother-in-law without ceremony, and went
straight up to his wife's room.
His low knock elicited no reply, and he opened the door softly and
entered.
The room was in semi-darkness, but Chris's voice accosted him instantly.
"Is that you, Trevor? I'm here, lying down. I had rather a headache, or I
would have come to meet you."
Her words were rapid and sounded feverish, as though she were braced for
some ordeal. She was lying with her back to the curtained windows and her
face in shadow.
Mordaunt went forward with light tread to the bed. "Poor child!" he said
gently.
He stooped and kissed her, and found that she was trembling. Quietly he
took her hand into his, and began to feel her pulse.
She made a nervous movement to frustrate him, but he gently insisted and
she became passive.
"There is nothing serious the matter," she said uneasily. "I--I didn't
sleep very well last night, that's all. I thought you wouldn't mind if I
didn't come to meet you."
Mordaunt, with the tell-tale, fluttering pulse under his fingers, made
gentle reply. "Of course not, dear. I think you are quite right to take
care of yourself. Is your head very bad?"
"No, not now. I think I'm just tired. I shall be all right after a
night's rest."
Again she tried to slip her hand out of his grasp, and after a moment he
let it go.
"Please don't worry about me," she said. "You won't, will you?"
"Not if there is really no reason for it," he said.
She stirred restlessly. "There isn't--indeed. Aunt Philippa will tell you
that. I was letting off fireworks with Noel only last night."
"And set fire to yourself," said Mordaunt.
She started a little. "Who told you that?"
"Noel."
"Oh! Well, nothing happened, thanks to--to Bertie. He put it out for me."
"I think there had better not be any more fireworks unless I am there,"
Mordaunt said. "I don't like to think of my wife running risks of that
sort."
"Very well, Trevor," she said meekly.
"Where did the fireworks come from?" he pursued.
"We made them--Noel and I. We used some of your cartridges for gunpowder.
He got saltpetre and one or two other things from the chemist. They were
quite a success," said Chris, with a touch of her old light gaiety.
"And you are paying for it to-day," he said. "It will be a good thing
when Noel goes back to school."
"Oh no," she answered quickly. "It wasn't the fireworks. I often have
wakeful nights."
It was the first time she had ever alluded to the fact. He wondered if
she would summon the courage to tell him something further. He earnestly
hoped she would; but he hoped in vain. Chris said no more.
He paused for a full minute to give her time, but, save that she became
tensely still, she made no sign. Very quietly he let the matter pass. He
would not force her confidence, but he realized at that moment more
clearly than ever before that she had only really belonged to him during
the brief fortnight that they had been alone together. The two months of
their married life had but served to teach him this somewhat bitter
lesson, and he determined then and there to win her back as he had won
her at the outset, to make her his once more and to keep her so for ever.
"I am going to take you away, Chris," he said. "You are wanting a change.
Noel's holidays will be over next week. We will start then."
"Where shall we go?" said Chris, and he detected the relief with which
she hailed the change of subject.
"We will go to Valpré," he said, with quiet decision.
"Valpré!" The word leaped out as if of its own volition. Chris suddenly
sprang upright from her pillows, and gazed at him wide-eyed. In the dim
light he could not see her face distinctly, but there was something
almost suggestive of fear in her attitude. "Why Valpré?" she said, in a
queer, breathless undertone as if she could not control her voice.
He looked down at her in surprise. "You would like to go to Valpré again,
wouldn't you?"
She gasped. "I--I really don't know. But what made you choose it? You
have never been there."
"No," he said. "You will be able to introduce me to all your old haunts."
She gasped again. "You chose it because of that?"
He put a steadying hand upon her shoulder. "Chris, what makes you so
nervous, child? No, I didn't choose it because of that. As a matter of
fact, I didn't choose it at all. I am due there on business in three
weeks' time, but I thought we might put in a fortnight together there
beforehand. Wouldn't you like that?"
She shivered under his hand, and made no reply. She only said, "What
business?"
He hesitated a moment, then deliberately sat down upon the bed and drew
her close to him. "You remember that blackguard Frenchman Rodolphe who
was staying with the Pounceforts two or three weeks ago?"
"Yes," whispered Chris.
"He is to be court-martialled at Valpré, and I have accepted an offer to
go as correspondent to the _Morning Despatch_ and report upon his trial.
As you know, I represented them at Bertrand's _affaire,_ and this is a
sequel to that. In fact, Bertrand himself is very nearly concerned in it.
Certain transactions have recently come to light tending to show that the
crime of which he was accused was not only committed by this same
Rodolphe, but that he also deliberately manufactured evidence to shield
himself at the expense of Bertrand, the author of the betrayed invention,
against whom it seems he had a personal grudge. By the way, he managed
skilfully to keep in the background at Bertrand's trial. I fancy he was
away on some special mission at the time, and he did not appear. I never
saw him before that day at Sandacre Court, and I did not so much as know
then that he and Bertrand were acquainted. Did you know that?"
She started at the question, but answered it more naturally than she had
before spoken. "Yes. I knew that Bertie had belonged to the same
regiment. They did not speak to each other that afternoon. You see, I was
there."
"Ah! And you never met him in the old Valpré days?"
Again she answered without apparent agitation; but her hands were fast
gripped together in the gloom. "I may have seen him. I never spoke to
him. Bertie was the only one I ever knew."
"Ah!" Mordaunt said again. He was plainly thinking of Bertrand's affairs.
"Well, he is to stand his trial now, and I couldn't resist the chance of
being present at it. He was recalled to Paris a week ago, and summarily
arrested; but as popular feeling is running very high, the trial is to be
held at Valpré, which is a fairly important military station. That means
that the court-martial will take place probably in the fortress in which
the crime was committed--a pleasing consummation of justice."
"And--Bertie will be vindicated?" breathed Chris.
"If Rodolphe is convicted," Mordaunt answered, "Bertrand will be in a
position to return to France and demand a second trial, the outcome of
which would be practically a foregone conclusion, and at which I hope I
shall be present."
Chris drew a sharp breath. "Then--then he will go to Valpré too?"
"Not yet. He would be arrested and imprisoned if he did, and might
possibly ruin his cause as well. No, he will have to play a waiting game
for the present. I think myself it is the turn of the tide, but things
may yet go against him. There is no knowing. He is better off where he is
till we can see which way the matter will go. He doesn't want to spend
the rest of his life in a fortress."
Chris shuddered uncontrollably at the bare thought. "Oh no--no! Trevor,
you won't let him run any risk of that?"
"I shall certainly counsel prudence," Mordaunt answered. "If he runs any
risks, it will be with his eyes open."
He paused a moment, then turned her face tenderly up to his own, and
kissed it. "And you don't like the Valpré plan?" he said, with great
gentleness.
She hesitated.
"We can go elsewhere if you prefer it," he said. "The court-martial will
probably only take a few days. We can stay somewhere near while it is in
progress. But I must have you with me wherever it is."
He spoke the last words with his arms closely enfolding her. She turned
with sudden impulse and clasped him round the neck.
"Oh, Trevor," she murmured brokenly, "you are good to me--you are good!"
"My darling," he whispered back, "your happiness is mine--always."
She made a choked sound of dissent. "I'm horribly selfish," she said,
with a sob.
"No, dear, no. I understand. I ought to have thought of it before."
She knew that he was thinking of Cinders, and that a return to the old
haunts could but serve to reopen a wound that was scarcely closed. She
was thankful that he interpreted her reluctance thus, even while she
marvelled to herself as she realized how far she had travelled since the
bitter day on which she had parted with her favourite. Looking back, she
saw now clearly what that tragedy had meant to her. It had been indeed
the commencement of a new stage in her life's journey. It was on that day
that she had finally stepped forth from the summer fields of her
childhood, and she knew that she would wander in them no more for ever.
The thought went through her with a dart of pain. They had been very
green, those fields, and the great thoroughfare which now she trod seemed
cruelly hard to her unaccustomed feet.
A sharp sigh escaped her as she gently withdrew herself from her
husband's arms. "Shall we talk about it to-morrow?" she said.
CHAPTER IV
"MINE OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND"
Sitting in his writing-room with Bertrand that night Mordaunt imparted
the news that concerned him so nearly.
The young Frenchman listened in almost unbroken silence, betraying
neither surprise nor even a very great measure of interest. He sat and
smoked, with eyes downcast, sometimes fidgeting a little with the fingers
of one hand on the arm of his chair, but otherwise displaying no sign of
agitation.
Only at the end of the narration did he glance up, and that was but
momentarily, when Mordaunt said, "It transpires that this Rodolphe had an
old score to pay off. You were enemies?"
Bertrand removed his cigarette to reply, "That is true."
"You once fought a duel with him?" Mordaunt proceeded.
Bertrand's eyelids quivered, but he did not raise them. He merely
answered, "Yes."
"That fact will probably figure in the evidence," Mordaunt said. "The
cause of the duel is at present unknown."
"It is--immaterial," Bertrand said, in a very low voice. He paused a
moment, then said, "And you, you will be at the trial to report?"
"Yes. I am going. Chris will go with me."
"Ah!" The exclamation seemed involuntary. Bertrand's hand suddenly
clenched hard upon the chair-arm. "You will take her--to Valpré?" he
questioned.
"Probably not to the place itself," Mordaunt made answer. "I think she is
not very anxious to go there. It has associations that she would rather
not renew. We shall stay somewhere within easy reach of Valpré. Perhaps
you can tell me of a suitable resting-place not too far away. You know
that part of the world."
"I know it well," Bertrand said, and fell silent, as though pondering the
matter. At the end of a lengthy pause he spoke, abruptly, with just a
tinge of nervousness. "But why do you take her if she does not desire to
go?"
Mordaunt raised his brows a little.
"You will pardon me," Bertrand added quickly, "but it occurs to me that
possibly she may prefer to remain at home. And if that were the case you
would not, I hope, consider my presence here as an obstacle, for"--again
he flashed a swift look across--"it is not my intention to remain."
"What are your intentions?" Mordaunt asked.
Bertrand shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know yet. Circumstances will
decide. But it is certain that I can trespass no more upon your kindness.
I have already accepted too much from you--more than I can ever hope to
repay. Moreover"--he paused--"I do not wish to inconvenience you, and
since I cannot accompany you to France--" he paused again, and finally
decided to say no more.
"Chris will go with me in any case," said Mordaunt quietly. "We have
already arranged that. You would cause no inconvenience to anyone by
staying here. In fact, it would be to my advantage."
"To your advantage!" Bertrand echoed the words sharply, as if in some
fashion they hurt him; and then, "But no," he said with decision. "It has
never been to your advantage to employ me. You have done it from the
kindness of your heart, but it would have been better for you if you had
entrusted your affairs to a man more capable. And for that reason I am
going to ask you to find another secretary as soon as possible, one who
will perform his duties faithfully and merit his pay."
"Is that the only reason?" Mordaunt asked unexpectedly.
There fell a sudden silence. Bertrand, with bent head, appeared to be
closely examining the leather on which his fingers still drummed an
uneasy tattoo. At last, "It is the only reason which I have to give you,"
he said, his voice very low.
"It is not a very sound one," Mordaunt remarked.
Again that quick shrug of the shoulders, and silence. Several moments
passed. Then with an abrupt movement Bertrand rose, laid aside his
cigarette, which had gone out, and seated himself at the writing-table.
A pile of letters lay upon it that had arrived by the evening post. He
began to turn them over, and presently took up a paper-cutter and deftly
slit them open one by one.
Mordaunt sat and smoked as one lost in thought. Finally, after a long
silence, he looked up and spoke.
"Why this sudden hurry to dissolve partnership, Bertrand?" he asked, with
his kindly smile. "Is it this Rodolphe affair that has unsettled you?
Because surely it would be wiser to wait and see what is going to happen
before you take any decided step of this sort."
"Ah! It is not that!" Bertrand spoke with a vehemence that sounded almost
passionate. "It is nothing to me--this affair. It interests me--not
that!" He snapped his fingers contemptuously. "No, no! The time for that
is past. What is honour, or dishonour, to me now--me who have been down
to the lowest abyss and who have learned the true value of what the world
calls great? Once--I admit it--I was young; I suffered. Now I am old,
and--I laugh!"
Yet there was a note that was more suggestive of heartbreak than of mirth
in his voice. He applied himself feverishly to extracting a letter from
an envelope, while Mordaunt sat and gravely watched him.
Suddenly, but very quietly, Mordaunt rose, strolled across, and took the
fluttering paper out of his hands. "Bertrand!" he said.
The Frenchman looked up sharply, almost as if he would resent the action,
but something in the steady eyes that met his own altered the course of
his emotions. He leaned back in his chair with the gesture of a man
confronting the inevitable.
Mordaunt sat down on the edge of the writing-table, face to face with
him. "Tell me why you want to leave me," he said.
There was determination in his attitude, determination in the very
coolness of his speech. It was quite obvious that he meant to have an
answer.
Bertrand contemplated him with a faint, rueful smile. "But what shall I
say?" he protested. "You English are so persistent. You will not be
content with the simple truth. You demand always--something more."
"There you are mistaken," Mordaunt made grave reply. "It is the simple
truth that I want--nothing more."
"_Ciel_!" Bertrand jumped in his chair as if he had been stabbed in the
back. "You insult me!"
Mordaunt's hand came out to him instantly and reassuringly. "My dear
fellow, I never insult anyone. It is not my way."
"But you do not believe me!" Bertrand protested. "And that is an
insult--that."
"I believe you absolutely." Very quietly Mordaunt made answer. The hand
he would not take was laid with great kindness on his shoulder. "I happen
to know you too well to do otherwise. Why, man," he began to smile a
little, "if all the world turned false, I should still believe in you."
"_Tiens_!" The word was almost a cry. Bertrand shook the friendly hand
from his shoulder as if it had been some evil thing, and almost with the
same movement pushed his chair back sharply out of reach. "You should not
say these things to me!" he stammered forth incoherently. "I do not
deserve them. I am not--I am not what you imagine. You do not know me. I
do not know myself. I--I--" He broke off in agitation and sprang
impetuously to his feet.
With a gesture half-hopeless, half-appealing, he turned and walked to the
window, as if he could no longer bear to meet the level, grey eyes that
watched him with so kindly a confidence.
There fell a silence in the room while Mordaunt, still sitting on the
writing-table, deliberately finished his cigarette. That done, he spoke.
"Don't you think you had better tell me what is the matter?"
Bertrand jerked his shoulders convulsively; it was the only response he
made.
Mordaunt waited a few moments more. Then, "Very well," he said, without
change of tone or countenance. "We will dismiss the subject. If you
really mean to leave me, I will accept your resignation in the morning,
but not to-night. If--as I hope--you have thought better of it by then
and decide to remain, nothing further need be said. Will that satisfy
you?"
Bertrand wheeled abruptly, and stood facing him, the length of the room
intervening. His mouth worked as if he were trying to speak, but he said
nothing whatever.
Mordaunt turned without further words to the letter in his hand, and
studied it in silence. After a pause Bertrand came slowly back to the
writing-table. He had mastered his agitation, but he looked unutterably
tired.
Mordaunt moved to one side at his approach. "Sit down!" he said, without
raising his eyes.
Bertrand sat down, and began to turn his attention to sorting the letters
he had opened. Mordaunt stood motionless, reading with bent brows.
Suddenly he spoke. "There is something here I can't understand."
Bertrand glanced up. "Can I assist?"
"I don't know. Read that!" Mordaunt laid the letter before him. "I can't
account for it. I think it must be a mistake."
Bertrand took the letter and read it. It was an intimation from the bank
that in consequence of the bearer cheque for five hundred pounds
presented and cashed the week before, Mordaunt's account was overdrawn.
"What cheque can it be?" Mordaunt said. "Have you any idea?"
Bertrand shook his head. "But no! It is perhaps some charity--a gift that
you have forgotten?"
"My good fellow, I may be careless, but I'm not so damned careless as
that." Mordaunt pulled out a bunch of keys with the words. "Let me have a
look at my cheque-book. You know where it is."
Yes, Bertrand knew. He was as cognizant of the whereabouts of Mordaunt's
possessions as if they had been his own, and he had as free an access to
them. Such was the confidence reposed in him.
He took the keys, selected the right one, stooped to fit it into the
lock. And then suddenly something happened. A violent tremor went through
him. He clutched at the table-edge, and the keys clattered to the ground.
"Hullo!" Mordaunt said.
Bertrand was staring downwards with eyes that saw not. At the sound of
Mordaunt's voice he started, and began to grope on the floor for the keys
as if stricken blind.
"There they are, man, by your feet." Mordaunt stooped and recovered them
himself. "What's the matter? Aren't you well?"
Bertrand lifted a ghastly face. "I am quite well," he said. "But--but
surely the bank would not cash a cheque so large without reference to
you!"
Mordaunt looked at him a moment. "I have been in the habit of drawing
large sums," he said. "But I usually write a note to the bank to
accompany a cheque of this sort."
He turned to the drawer and unlocked it. His cheque-book lay in its
accustomed place within. He took it out and commenced a careful
examination of the counterfoils of cheques already drawn.
Bertrand sat quite motionless, with bowed head. He seemed to be numbly
waiting for something.
Mordaunt was very deliberate in his search. He came to the end of the
counterfoils only, but went quietly on through the sheaf of blank cheques
that remained, gravely scrutinizing each.
Minutes passed. Bertrand was sunk in his chair as one bent beneath some
overpowering weight, the pile of letters untouched before him.
Suddenly Mordaunt paused, became tense for an instant, then slowly
relaxed. His eyes travelled from the open cheque-book to the man in the
chair. He contemplated him silently.