before him. "A cheque has been abstracted here," he said.
His voice was perfectly quiet. He made the statement as if there were
nothing extraordinary in it, as if he felt assured that there must be
some perfectly simple explanation to account for it, as if, in fact, he
scarcely recognized the existence of any mystery.
But Bertrand uttered not a word. He was as one turned to stone. His eyes
became fixed upon the cheque in front of him, but his stare was wide and
vacant. He seemed to be thinking of something else.
There fell a dead silence in the room, a stillness in which the quiet
ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece became maddeningly obtrusive. For
seconds that dragged out interminably neither of the two men stirred. It
was as if they were mutely listening to that eternal ticking, as one
listens to the tramp of a watchman in the dead of night.
Then, at last, with a movement curiously impulsive, Trevor Mordaunt freed
himself from the spell. He laid his hand once more upon his secretary's
shoulder.
"Bertrand!" he said, and in his voice interrogation, incredulity, even
entreaty, were oddly mingled. "You!"
The Frenchman shivered, and came out of his lethargy. He threw a single
glance upwards, then suddenly bowed his head on his hands. But still he
spoke no word.
Mordaunt's hand fell from him. He stood a moment, then turned and walked
away. "So that was the reason!" he said.
He came to a stand a few feet away from the bent figure at the
writing-table, took out his cigarette-case, and deliberately lighted a
cigarette. His face as he did it was grimly composed, but there were
lines in it that very few had ever seen there. His eyes were keen and
cold as steel. They held neither anger nor contempt, only a tinge of
humour inexpressibly bitter.
Finally, through a cloud of smoke, he spoke again. "Have you nothing to
say?"
Bertrand stirred, but he did not lift his head. "Nothing," he muttered,
almost inarticulately.
"Then"--very evenly came the words--"that ends the case. I have nothing
to say, either. You can go as soon as you wish."
He spoke with the utmost distinctness. His head was tilted back, and his
eyes, still with that icy glint of amusement in them, watched the smoke
ascending from his cigarette.
There was a brief pause. Then Bertrand stumbled stiffly to his feet. He
seemed to move with difficulty. He turned heavily towards the Englishman.
"Monsieur," he said with ceremony, "you have--I believe--the right to
prosecute me."
Mordaunt did not even look at him. "I believe I have," he said.
"_Alors--_" the Frenchman paused.
"I shall not exercise it," Mordaunt said curtly.
"You are too generous," Bertrand answered.
He spoke without emotion, yet there was something in his tone--something
remotely suggestive of irony--that brought Mordaunt's eyes down to him.
He looked at him hard and straight.
But Bertrand did not meet the look. With a mournful gesture he turned
away. "I shall never cease to regret," he said, "the unhappy fate that
sent me into your life. I blame myself bitterly--bitterly. I should have
drawn back at the commencement, but I had not the strength. Only
monsieur, believe this"--his voice suddenly trembled--"it was never my
intention to rob you. Moreover, that which I have taken--I will restore."
He spoke very earnestly, with a baffling touch of dignity that seemed in
some fashion to place him out of reach of contempt.
Mordaunt heard him without impatience, and replied without scorn. "What
you have taken can never be restored. The utmost you can do is to let me
forget, as soon as possible, that I ever imagined you to be--what you
are not."
The simplicity of the words effected in an instant that which neither
taunt nor sneer could ever have accomplished. It pierced straight to
Bertrand's heart. He turned back impulsively, with outstretched hands.
"But, my friend--my friend--" he cried brokenly.
Mordaunt checked him on the instant with a single imperious gesture of
dismissal, so final that it could not be ignored.
The words died on Bertrand's lips. He wheeled sharply, as if at a word of
command, and went to the door.
But as he opened it, Mordaunt spoke. "I will see you again in the
morning."
"Is it necessary?" Bertrand said.
"I desire it." Mordaunt spoke with authority.
Bertrand turned and made him a brief, punctilious bow. "That is enough,"
he said, and left the room martially, his head in the air.
CHAPTER V
A DESPERATE REMEDY
The clock on the mantelpiece struck two, and Mordaunt rose from his chair
to close the window. The night was very still and dark. He stood for a
few moments breathing the moist air. From somewhere away in the distance
there came the weird cry of an owl--the only sound in a waste of silence.
He leaned his head against the window-sash with a sensation of physical
sickness. His heart was heavy as lead.
"Trevor!"
It was no more than a whisper, but he heard it. He turned. "Chris!"
She stood before him, her white draperies caught together with one hand,
her hair flowing in wide ripples all about her, her eyes anxiously raised
to his.
"Trevor," she said, "what is the matter?"
There was a species of desperate courage in the low question. The fingers
that grasped her wrapper were tightly clenched.
He closed the window. "Have you been lying awake for me?" he said. "I am
sorry."
"Something is the matter," she said with conviction. "Won't you tell me
what it is? I--I would rather know."
"I will tell you in the morning, dear," he said gently. "You must go back
to bed. I am coming myself now."
But Chris stood still. "I want to know now, please, Trevor," she said. "I
shall not sleep at all unless I know."
He put his arm about her, looking down at her with great tenderness.
"Must I tell you now?" he said, a hint of weariness in his voice.
She did not resist his touch, but neither did she yield herself to him.
She stood within the encircling arm, looking straight up at him with
wide, resolute eyes.
"It is something to do with Bertie," she said, in the same tone of
unquestioning conviction.
He raised his eyebrows. "What makes you think so?"
She frowned a little. "It doesn't matter, does it? Won't you tell me what
has happened?"
He hesitated momentarily; then; "Yes, I will tell you," he said.
"Bertrand is leaving to-morrow--for good."
He felt her stiffen against his arm, and for the first time he noticed
her pallor and the unusual steadfastness of her eyes. He realized that
she was putting strong restraint upon herself, and the fact made her
strangely unfamiliar to him. He was accustomed to vivid speech and
impetuous action. He scarcely knew her in this mood, although he
recognized that he had seen it at least once before.
"Why?" Her lips scarcely moved as they asked the question. Her eyes never
left his face.
He drew her to the writing-table on which his cheque-book still lay open
at the place whence a cheque had been abstracted with its counterfoil.
"Sit down," he said, "and I will tell you."
She sat down in silence.
He knelt beside her as he had knelt on their wedding-night, and took her
cold hands into his own.
"I think you know," he said quietly, "that I have always trusted Bertrand
implicitly."
"You trust everyone," she said, with a small, aloof smile, as if she were
trying to appear courteous while her thoughts were elsewhere.
"Yes, to my undoing," he told her grimly. "I trusted him to the utmost,
and--and he has betrayed my trust."
She started at that, but instantly controlled herself. "In what way?" she
asked him, her voice scarcely above a whisper.
He drew the cheque-book to him. "If you look at this cheque and the
next," he said, "you will see that there is one missing. There has been a
cheque taken out."
"Yes?" said Chris.
Her eyes rested for a moment upon the cheque-book, and returned to his
face. They held a curious expression as of relief and doubt mingled.
"That is how he betrayed my trust," he told her quietly. "He used that
cheque to forge my signature and withdraw a sum of money from my account
which under ordinary circumstances I should probably never have missed.
As he is aware, I keep a large account, and I am in the habit of drawing
large cheques. As it chanced, the account was not quite so large as
usual, and it did not quite cover the amount withdrawn. Consequently my
attention was called to it, and I looked into the matter and
discovered--this."
"Yes?" said Chris. "Yes?"
She was breathing very fast. It was evident that her agitation was
getting beyond her control.
He clasped her hands closer, with a warm and comforting pressure. He
knew--or he thought he knew--what this revelation would mean to her. Had
not Bertrand been even more her friend, her trusted counsellor, than his
own?
"That is all the story, dear," he said gently. "We have got to face it as
bravely as we can. He will leave in the morning, so you need not see him
again."
She made a quick, involuntary movement, and her hands slipped from his.
"Not see him again!" she repeated, staring at him with wide eyes. "Not
see him again!"
"I think it would be wiser not," he said, very kindly. "It would only
cause you unnecessary pain."
She uttered a sudden breathless little laugh. "Trevor--am I dreaming?
Or--are you mad? You don't--actually--believe he did this thing?"
His face hardened a little. "He had the sense not to attempt to deny it.
There was no question as to his guilt. He was the only person besides
myself who had access to my cheque-book."
"But--" Chris said, and paused, as if to collect her thoughts. "How much
was taken?" she asked after a moment.
"That," Mordaunt observed, "is the least important part of the whole
miserable business."
"Still, tell me," she persisted.
"He took five hundred pounds."
"Trevor!" She gasped for breath, and turned so white that he thought for
a moment she would faint.
He put his arm round her quickly. "Chris, we won't discuss it any further
to-night. You must go back to bed. You will catch cold if you stay here
any longer."
But for the first time in her life she resisted him. She drew away from
him. She almost pushed him from her.
"Five hundred pounds!" she said, speaking through white lips. She was
shivering violently from head to foot. "But--but--what should Bertie want
with five hundred pounds?"
"I didn't inquire what he did with it." Mordaunt's answer came with
implacable sternness. "I haven't the least curiosity on that point. It is
enough for me that he took it."
"Oh, Trevor, how hard you are!" The words rushed out like the cry of a
hurt creature, and suddenly Chris's hands were on his shoulders, and
her face, pinched and desperate, looked closely into his. "You have so
much--so much!" she wailed. "You don't know what temptation is!"
He rose to his feet instantly and lifted her to hers. She was sobbing
terribly, but without tears. He held her to him, supporting her.
"Chris, Chris!" he said. "Don't, child, don't! I know what this means to
you. It means a good deal to me too, more than you realize. But for
Heaven's sake let us stand together over it. Let us be reasonable."
There was strong appeal in his voice; for in that moment, though he held
her to his heart, he knew that the gulf between them had suddenly begun
to widen. He saw the danger in a flash of intuition, but he was powerless
to avert it. They viewed the matter from opposite standpoints. Did they
not view all matters moral thus? She could condone what he could only
condemn, and because of this she deemed him hard and feared him.
He bent his face to hers as he held her. His lips moved against her
forehead. "Chris," he said softly, "don't cry, dear! Listen to me. I'm
not going to punish him. He will have to go of course. As a matter of
fact, he meant to do so in any case. But it will go no further than that.
There will be no prosecution."
She turned her face up quickly, and he saw that her eyes were dry, though
her breathing was spasmodic. "You couldn't prosecute an innocent man,"
she said. "And he is innocent. I know he is innocent. You say he didn't
deny it. It was because he wouldn't stoop to deny it. He knew you would
never believe him if he did."
The words came fast and passionate. She drew back from him to utter them,
and for the first time he read a challenge in her desperate eyes.
He let her go out of his arms. He had tried to bridge the gulf, but the
distance was too great. His tenderness only gave her courage to defy him.
With a stifled sigh he abandoned the conflict. "As I said before, there
is no question of his guilt," he said, with quiet emphasis. "Far from
denying it, he even announced his intention of restoring what he had
taken. That, of course, is also out of the question. He will probably
never be in a position to do so. But in any case it is beside the point.
It is useless to discuss it further."
She broke in upon him almost fiercely. "Trevor, won't you believe me when
I say that I know--I know--he is innocent?"
He looked at her. "How do you know it?"
She wrung her hands together. "Oh, I have no proof! Can't you believe me
without proof?"
He was watching her intently. "I believe in your sincerity, of course,"
he said. "But I am afraid I don't share your conviction."
"But you must--you must!" she cried. "I know him better than you do. I
know him to be incapable of the tiniest speck of dishonour. I swear that
he is innocent! I swear it! I swear it!"
He put out a restraining hand. "Chris, don't say any more! You are
only upsetting yourself to no purpose. Come, child, it is useless to go
on--quite useless."
She flung out her arms with a gesture of utter despair. "You won't
believe me?"
He turned to lock up his cheque-book. "I have answered that question
already," he said, without impatience.
She drew near to him. Her blue eyes burned with a feverish light. Her
face was haggard. "Trevor, what would you say if--if--I told you he were
shielding someone--if I told you he were shielding--me?" Her voice sank
upon the word.
He turned sharply round, so sharply that she shrank. But he made no
movement towards her. He only looked full and piercingly into her face.
At the end of ten seconds he spoke, so calmly that his voice sounded
cold.
"I am afraid I shouldn't believe you."
His eyes fell away from her with the words. He dropped his keys into his
pocket and switched off the light from his writing-table.
Chris was shivering again, shivering from head to foot. She could barely
keep her teeth from chattering. He came to her and put his arm round her.
She glanced up at him nervously, but his quiet face told her nothing.
Almost involuntarily she suffered him to lead her from the room.
CHAPTER VI
WHEN LOVE DEMANDS A SACRIFICE
When Chris awoke, the morning sunshine was streaming in through the open
windows, and she was alone. She came back to full remembrance slowly, as
one toiling along a difficult road. Her brain felt very tired. She lay
vaguely listening to the gay trill of a robin on the terrace below,
dreading the moment when the dull ache at her heart should turn to active
pain.
A cheery whistle on the gravel under her windows roused her at last. She
took up her burden again with a great sigh.
"O God!" she whispered, as she turned her heavy head upon the pillow, "do
let me die soon--do let me die soon!"
But there was no voice nor any that answered.
Wearily at length she raised herself. It was curious how ill she felt.
She looked longingly back at her pillow.
At the same instant the gay whistle in the garden gave place to a cracked
shout. "Hullo, Chris! Aren't you going to get up to-day? Do you know what
time it is?"
She started, and looked at her watch. Ten o'clock! In amazement and
consternation she sprang from the bed. Bertrand was to leave in the
morning; so Trevor had told her. She must--she must--see him before he
left! Doubtless Trevor had hoped that she would sleep on till the
afternoon, and so miss him. How little he knew! How little he understood!
With a bound she reached the window, there a sudden dizziness attacked
her. She clutched at the curtain with both hands. What if he had gone
already? What if she were never to see him again?
Desperately she steadied herself. She must not give way thus. She looked
out and saw Noel, walking along the edge of the balustrade that bounded
the terrace. His arms were outstretched, and he balanced himself with
extreme difficulty. It looked perilous, but she knew him well enough to
feel no anxiety, notwithstanding the fact that there was a fall of twelve
feet on one side of him.
After a few moments she commanded herself sufficiently to call down to
him, "Noel, where is everybody?"
He looked up, lost his balance, and sprang down upon the terrace. "By
Jove! Aren't you dressed yet? What are we coming to? Trevor is gone to
ride round the estate, wouldn't have me for some reason. Bertrand is in
his room with the door locked, says he is busy--all bally rot, of course.
And Aunt Phil, thank the gods! is packing her trunk to leave by the five
o'clock train. By the way, Trevor said I was to see you had some
breakfast. What would you like? I'll bring it up to you myself in two
shakes."
Chris felt an unexpected lump rise in her throat. Somehow the tenderness
of her husband's love hurt her more than it comforted just then. She knew
that he had absented himself and deputed Noel to wait upon her because he
had divined that she would prefer it. His intuition frightened her also.
Was he beginning to divine other things as well? Recalling his intent
look of the night before, the wonder struck chill to her heart. Yes, she
was thankful that he had gone; but it would be horribly hard to meet him
again after she and Bertrand had said good-bye. Aunt Philippa's
departure, eagerly though she had anticipated it, would make it harder.
Very soon Noel also would be gone, and they would be alone together. How
would she keep her secret then? How hide her soul from those grave, keen
eyes that probed so deeply?
Ah! but he trusted her; he trusted her! Back to the old sheet-anchor flew
her whirling thoughts. His faith in her was invincible, unassailable. It
kept her safe. It sheltered her from every danger. It was her single
safeguard in temptation; without it she would be lost.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, and leaned from the window to give
her brother the instructions he awaited.
Turning back into the room, she found a note in her husband's handwriting
lying on her table. She took it up.
"I do not forbid you to see Bertrand," it ran, "though I think you would
be wiser not to do so. I have already taken leave of him. He refuses to
be open with me, so there is no more to be said. It is by his own wish
that he is leaving to-day. As I said to you last night, I shall take no
legal steps against him, but that does not alter the fact that he is a
criminal, and for that reason your friendship with him must cease. I am
sorry, but it is inevitable. I think you will see it for yourself by and
bye, but till then my prohibition must be enough. I cannot be disobeyed
in this matter. Bear it in mind, dear, and believe that, even though I
may seem hard, I am acting for your welfare, which is more to me than
anything else on earth.
"Yours,
TREVOR."
Her face was white and strained as she read the note through. She seemed
to hear her husband's quiet voice in every sentence. Never till that
moment had she fully realized the fact that he had the right thus to
guide and restrain her actions. Never till that moment had she found her
will in direct opposition to his. A sudden passion of rebellion swept
upon her, possessed her. It was intolerable, impossible; she could not
submit to the mandate.
To give up her friend--the dear knight of her girlhood's dreams--to see
him never again, to close her heart to him, to shut out the very memory
of him, to take up her life without him--no, never, never, never! Her
throbbing heart cried out against it. It was not to be borne. A fury akin
to hatred surged up within her. There was no man living who could make
her do this thing.
Fiercely she tore the paper across and across, and flung the fragments
from her. Never would she consent to this! She would defy him sooner!
Defy him! It was as if a voice spoke suddenly in her soul, asking a quiet
question. Could she defy him and still hide her secret? Would not the
steady eyes read her through and through the instant that her will
resisted his? Would he not know in a moment? Was it not even possible
that he had begun already to suspect?
Again she recalled his intent look of the night before, and her heart
misgave her. Had she betrayed herself? Had he seen behind the veil? She
shivered at the thought, and for a few moments she was overwhelmingly
afraid. How would she ever meet those eyes again?
But when presently Noel presented himself she had recovered her
self-command. She even compelled herself to eat some breakfast, while he
balanced himself on the window-sill and made careless conversation. It
was evident that he knew nothing of Bertrand's impending departure, and
she was relieved that this was so. She could not have borne his curiosity
or his comments.
"What are you going to do to-day?" she presently inquired.
"When you've had a decent meal, I'm going for a ride," he answered
promptly. "Can't waste the whole day hanging about and Fiddle's spoiling
for a gallop. You won't come, I suppose?"
She shook her head. "No. I couldn't, anyhow. I must stay with Aunt
Philippa to-day. I've had quite a lot to eat. Don't wait."
He sprang to his feet at once. "You haven't done badly, have you,
considering you've been lazing in bed instead of working up an appetite
in the open air? I say, Chris, there's nothing the matter, is there?"
"Of course not," she returned briskly. "Why?"
"You're not looking exactly chirpy," he said, regarding her critically.
"And Trevor was positively bearish this morning. He hasn't been bullying
you, has he?"
"Of course not," she said again. "How absurd you are!"
He looked incredulous. "Don't you stick it!" he warned her. "If he tries
it on, you come to me. I'll settle him."
She laughed and turned the subject. "Hadn't you better start? It's
getting late."
"P'raps I had. Good-bye, then!" He bent unexpectedly and kissed her
cheek. "We'll go for a picnic to-morrow," he said, "to celebrate Aunt
Phil's departure. Keep your pecker up! She'll soon be gone."
He marched away, whistling, and Chris was alone.
She rose and finished her dressing with feverish haste. Now was her time.
Noel had said Bertrand was in his room. She must see him alone. But how
should she let him know? If she went in search of him she might encounter
Aunt Philippa and be detained. She went down to her husband's room, and
rang the bell there.
Holmes answered it in some surprise, knowing his master to be out; but
she gave him no time for speculation.
"Holmes," she said, "I believe Mr. Bertrand is somewhere in the house. I
wish you would find him, and say I am waiting to speak to him on a matter
of importance. I am going into the garden. He will find me under the
yew-tree."
Holmes departed with his customary dispatch. There was something
indefinable about his young mistress that made him wish his master were
at hand. He made his way to Bertrand's room and knocked.
There was no immediate reply; then, "I am busy," said Bertrand from
within.
"If you please, sir!" said Holmes.
There was a movement in the room at once, and the door opened. "Ah! It is
the good Holmes!" said Bertrand. "I thought that it was Monsieur Noel.
What is it, then? You bring me a message?"
He looked at the man with sleepless eyes that shone curiously bright. In
the room behind him a portmanteau, half-filled, lay upon the floor.
For a single instant Holmes hesitated before delivering his message. Then
he gave it punctiliously, word for word.
"I am obliged to you," said Bertrand courteously. "I shall go to Mrs.
Mordaunt at once."
He crossed the threshold therewith, but paused a moment outside the room.
"Holmes," he said, "I go to London by the 11.50. Will you arrange for my
luggage to be taken to the station?"
Holmes's well-ordered countenance expressed no surprise. "Very good, sir.
And you yourself, sir?" he said.
"I shall walk," said Bertrand.
"You would like me to finish packing for you, sir?" suggested Holmes.
"Ah! That would be very good." Bertrand's voice expressed relief. He
stepped back into the room to slip a sovereign into the man's hand.
But Holmes drew back. "Thank you, sir. I'd rather not, sir."
Bertrand's brows went up. "How? But we are friends, no?" he questioned.
"I don't know, sir," said Holmes, respectful but firm. "Anyhow, I'd
rather not, sir."
"_Eh bien_!" The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and turned. "_Adieu_,
Holmes!" he said.
"Good-day, sir!" said Holmes.
He stood in the middle of the room till Bertrand had gone, then with an
expressionless face he betook himself to the door of Aunt Philippa's
room.
Here he knocked again, and, receiving Mrs. Forest's permission to enter,
presented himself on the threshold. "I have come to say, madam, that Mrs.
Mordaunt is in the garden under the old yew," he announced deferentially.
"Will you be good enough to join her there?"
Aunt Philippa, in the midst of her own preparations for departure,
received the news with considerable surprise. It was not Chris's custom
to send her messages of any description. The summons fired her curiosity;
but her dignity would not allow her to hasten overmuch to answer it.
"I will be with Mrs. Mordaunt in a few minutes," she said.
And Holmes departed, impassive still but with a mind uneasy. He wished
with all his soul that the master had not chosen to absent himself that
morning. Perhaps he was unreasonably nervous, but there seemed to be
tragedy in the very air.
Bertrand, traversing the lawn bareheaded, was keenly aware of tragedy;
but it did not delay his steps. He went down the shady path that led to
Chris's retreat at a speed that left him breathless. He paused with his
hand to his heart as he reached the yew-tree before plunging into the
gloom beneath its great, drooping branches. He was living too fast, and
he knew it, could almost feel his life running out like the sand in an
hour-glass. But a great recklessness possessed him. If his strength could
only be made to last for a couple of hours more, he did not care what
happened to him, how soon the sand ran out.
He had suffered more during the past night than he had ever thought to
suffer again. He had fought a desperate fight, and it had cost him nearly
all his strength. He knew instinctively that he must make the most of
what was left. Afterwards--afterwards--when the ordeal was over, he would
sink down and rest, it mattered not where. If he lived long enough, he
would keep his promise to Max Wyndham. If not,--well, he would not be
needing human help. The gods had nearly done with him, and he was too
weary to care. If he could only be faithful a little longer--a little
longer! Nothing would matter afterwards, and the pain would be over then.
"Bertie, I am here!"
He started, and for a moment that which he had been fighting down all
night showed in his eyes. He thrust it away out of sight. He answered her
with his usual courteous confidence.
"Ah! You are there, Christine! You will pardon me for keeping you
waiting. I came as soon as your message reached me."
He lifted one of the great yew-branches and stepped beneath as if
entering a tent. It fell behind him, and in the green gloom they were
face to face.
"Were you going without saying good-bye?" said Chris.
She stood before him, very pale and quiet. Her eyes did not meet his
quite fully.
He spread out his hands. "I knew not if you would wish to see me."
"Don't you know me better than that?" she said. He did not answer her.
Evidently she did not expect an answer, for she went on almost at once.
"Bertie, why did you let Trevor think you had robbed him?"
He made a sharp gesture of protest, but remained silent.
She laid her hand on his arm. "Come and sit down, Bertie! And please
answer me, because I want to know."
He went with her to the rustic seat against the tree-trunk. He was
gripping his self-control with all his strength.
"Mr. Mordaunt must think what he will," he said at length, with an
effort. "He can never judge me too severely."
"Why do you say that?" Chris asked the question quickly, nervously, as if
she had to ask it, yet dreaded the answer.
"I think you know, Christine," he answered, his voice very low.
She shrank a little. "But that money, Bertie? You knew nothing of that?"
He was silent for a moment; then, "We will not speak of that," he said
firmly. "I could not stay here in any case, so--it makes no difference."
"No difference that he should think you a thief!" exclaimed Chris.
He turned his eyes downwards, staring heavily at the ground between his
feet. "I ask myself," he said, "if I am any better than a thief."
"Bertie!" There was quick distress in her voice this time. "But you have
done nothing wrong," she declared vehemently, "nothing whatever!"
He shook his head in silence, not looking at her.
"And you are ill," she went on, passing the matter by as if not trusting
herself. "What will you do? Where will you go?"
He sat up slowly and faced her. "I go to London," he said, "and I must
start now. Do not be anxious for me, Christine. I have money enough. Mr.
Mordaunt offered me more this morning. But I had no need of it, and I
refused."
He spoke quite steadily. He was braced for the ordeal. He would be strong
until the need for strength was past.
But with Chris it was otherwise. For her there was no prospect of
relaxation. She was but at the beginning of her trial, and her whole soul
shrank from the contemplation of what lay before her. The dear dreams of
her childhood had flickered out like pictures on a screen. And she had
awakened to find herself in a prison-house from which all her life long
she could never hope to escape. Did some memory of the arms that had
enfolded her so often and so tenderly come to her as she realized it? If
so, it was only to stab her afresh with the bitter irony of Fate that had
lavished upon her the love of a man who had filled her life with all that
woman's heart could desire, and yet had failed to give her happiness.
And so, when Bertrand spoke of going, the newly awakened heart of her
rose up in sudden, hot revolt. His departure was inevitable, and she knew
it, but her endurance was not equal to the strain. She had deemed herself
stronger than she was.
She threw out her hands with a passionate gesture. "Bertie! What shall I
do without you? I can't go on by myself. I can't--I can't!"
It was like the cry of a child, but in it there throbbed all the deep
longing of her womanhood. Ah! why had her eyes been opened? Surely she
had been happier blind!
He took the outflung hands and held them. He looked into her eyes. "But,
_chérie_," he said, "you have your husband."
"I know--I know!" Piteously the words came from her. "He is very good to
me. But, Bertie, he--has never been--first. I know it now. I didn't know
before, or I wouldn't have married him. I swear I would never have
married him--if I had known!"
"_Chérie_, hush!" Almost sternly he checked her, though his eyes
were unfailingly kind. "You must not say it, Christine. Words always
make a bad thing worse. Think instead how great is his love for you.
Remember--oh, remember that you are his wife! The sin was mine that you
could ever forget it. But you have not forgotten it, _mignonne!_ Tell me
that you have not! Tell me that when you think of me it will be as a
friend who gives you no regrets, the friend of your childhood, little
Christine--the comrade with whom you played in the sunshine; no more
than that--no more than that!"
Very earnestly he besought her, holding her hands lightly clasped between
his own, ready at her slightest movement to let them go. But she made no
effort to withdraw them. She only bent her head and wept as though her
heart were breaking.
"_Chérie, chérie_!" he said, and that was all; for he had no words
wherewith to comfort her. He had wrought the mischief, but the remedy did
not lie with him.
His own lips quivered above her bowed head; he bit them desperately.
After a little she commanded herself sufficiently to speak through her
tears. "Bertie, you once said--that there was no goodness without Love.
Then why--why is Love--wrong?"
"Love is not wrong, _chérie_." Instant and reassuring came his answer.
"Let us be true to Love, and we are true to God. For Love is God, and in
every heart He is to be found; sometimes in much, sometimes in very, very
little, but He is always there."
"I don't understand," said Chris. "If that were so--why mustn't we love
each other? Why is it wrong?"
"It is not wrong." Again with absolute assurance Bertrand spoke. "So long
as it is pure, it is also holy. There is no sin in Love. We shall love
each other always, dear, always. With me it will be more--and ever more.
Though I shall not be with you, though I shall not see your face or touch
your hand, you will know that I am loving you still. It will be as an
Altar Flame that burns for ever. But I will be faithful. My love shall
never hurt you again. That is where I sinned. I was selfish enough to
show you the earthly part of my love--the part that dies, just as our
bodies die, setting our spirits free. For see, _chérie_, it is not the
material part that endures. All things material must pass, but the
spiritual lives on for ever. That is why Love is immortal. That is why
Love can never die."
She listened to him in silence, scarcely comprehending at the moment
words that later were to become the only light to guide her stumbling
feet.
"Would you say that you love the dead no more because you see them not?"
he questioned gently. "The sight--the touch--what is it? Only the earthly
medium of Love; Love Itself is a higher thing, capable of the last
sacrifice, greater than evil, stronger than death. Oh, believe me,
Christine, Death is a very small thing compared with Love. If our love
were of the spirit only, Death would be less than nothing; for it is only
the body that can ever die."
"But why can't we be happy before we die?" whispered Chris. "Other people
are."
He shook his head. "I doubt it, _chérie_. With death in the world there
can be no perfection. All passes--all passes--except only the Love that
is our Life."
He paused a moment, seeming to hesitate upon the verge of telling her
something more; but in that instant she raised her head and he refrained.
"Ah, Christine," he said sadly, "I never thought that I should make you
weep like this."
"Oh, it's not your fault, Bertie." She smiled at him, with quivering
lips. "It's just life. But--dearest--I want you to know all the
same--that I'm glad--I'm glad I love you so. And--whether it's right or
wrong, I can't help it--I shall always love you--best of all."
His eyes shone at the words. A passionate answer sprang to his lips, but
he stopped it unuttered. "We are not responsible for that which we cannot
help," he said instead. "Only--my darling"--for the first time the
English word of endearment passed his lips, spoken almost under his
breath--"never permit the thought of me to come between you and your
husband. Be faithful, Christine--be faithful!"
She made no answer of any sort; but her eyes were hopeless.
He waited a while, still holding her hands while tenderly he watched her.
At last, "I must go, _chérie_," he whispered.
Her face quivered. Suddenly and impetuously as of old she spoke. "Bertie,
once--long ago--you meant to marry me, didn't you?"
His own face contracted. "Do not let us torture ourselves in vain," he
urged her gently.
"But it is true!" she persisted.
He hesitated an instant. "Yes, it is true," he said.
She leaned her head back, looking him straight in the eyes. There was a
light in hers that he had never seen before. They gleamed like stars,
seeing him only. "Bertie," she said, and her voice thrilled upon the
words, "I was yours then, and I am yours now. I have always belonged
to you, and you to me. Bertie, I--am coming with you."
His violent start testified to the utter unexpectedness of her
announcement. Such a possibility had not, it was obvious, suggested
itself to him. He turned white to the lips.
"Christine!" he stammered incredulously.
Feverishly she broke in upon his astonishment. "Oh, don't be shocked! It
is absolutely the only way. I cannot stay here without you. Trevor will
keep us apart. He will not let me even write to you. He says that our
friendship must cease. And it cannot--it cannot! Bertie, don't you see?
Don't you understand? Don't you--want me?"
A note of despair rang in her voice. Her hands suddenly gripped each
other in agonized misgiving. But on the instant his gripped closer,
holding them crushed against his breast in fierce reassurance. His eyes
shone full into hers, and for one moment of fiery rapture which both were
to remember all their lives their souls mingled, became fused in one,
forgetful of all beside.
Out of the silence the man's voice came, low and passionate. "_Le
bon Dieu_ knows how I want you, my bird of Paradise! But yet--but
yet--" Something seemed to choke his utterance. He gave a sudden gasp,
and bowed his head forward upon her shoulder.
Her arms were round him in an instant. "What is it, dearest? You are
ill!"
"No," he said. "No." But still he gasped for breath, and she fancied that
he repressed a shudder.
He raised his head after a moment. "Pardon me, _chérie_. I am only--weak.
Christine, all my life--all my life--I shall remember--how you were
ready--to give up all--all--for me. But, _mignonne_, I cannot take
such a sacrifice. I dare not. Go back to your husband, _chérie_. It is
your duty. You are his, not mine. We will not stain our love thus.
Christine"--his voice broke--"_ma mignonne_, I love you too well--too
well--to do this thing. You shall not be ruined--for my sake."
"Oh, but, Bertie!" she pleaded. She was clinging to him now; her
eyes implored him. "Think of me here without you! Never to see you
again--never to have a single word from you any more! Bertie, I can't
bear it--I can't bear it! It will be no sacrifice to me to come with
you. I don't mind hardship. I'm used to poverty, But here--but here--"
Her voice broke also, she could say no more. His arms went round her,
straining her to him. His face was close to hers. But his eyes were the
eyes of a man in torture.
"I know--I know all," he whispered. "Yet--my darling--you must stay--and
I must go. When Love demands a sacrifice--"
"I will sacrifice anything--everything--all I have!" she cried out
wildly.
"We must sacrifice each other," he said. "That is the test of our love,
_chérie_. That is the sacrifice that Love demands."
He spoke quite quietly, with the calmness of one who knew and faced the
worst. The torture in his eyes had turned to dumb endurance. "Only thus,"
he said--"only thus can we be true to our love. We sacrifice the little
for the much. _Mignonne_, believe me, it is worth it. You are mine, and I
am yours. So be it, then. Let us be--faithful."
He spoke with the utmost tenderness; yet was she awed. Her sudden
rebellion died. It was as though a quiet hand had been laid upon her
heart, stilling her pain. For one moment she looked with him across the
long, dark furrows of mortal life into the great Beyond, and knew that he
had spoken the truth. Their love was worth the sacrifice.
"Oh, Bertie," she said, in a whisper, "you are right, dear, you are
right."
His eyes flashed swift understanding into hers; yet for a moment his arms
tightened about her, as if her submission made it harder for him to let
her go.
She waited till they relaxed, and then she laid her hands upon his
shoulders. "Bertie," she said very earnestly, "forget I ever asked it of
you!"
He shook his head instantly, with a sudden, transforming smile that
revealed in him the young, quick spirit that had caught hers so long ago.
"Oh no--no!" he said. "It will be to me the most precious memory of my
life. By it I shall always remember--the so great generosity--of
your love."
The smile went out of his face. He leaned nearer to her. She read
irresolution in his eyes, and a quiver that was half of hope and half of
apprehension went through her. Was he going to fail, after all, in the
moment of victory? If so--if so--
But he restrained himself. She saw him fight down the impulse that urged
him inch by inch until he had it in subjection. Under her watching eyes
he conquered. He showed her the Omnipotence of Love.
Quietly, with no exaggeration of reverence, he knelt before her. He took
her hands into his own, turned them upwards, pressed his lips to each
palm, let them go.
The silence between them was like a sacrament. She never knew how long it
lasted. It was a farewell more final than any words.
At last, "God keep you, my Christine!" he said. "God bless you!"
He rose to his feet, but he did not look at her again.
She could not speak in answer; there was no need of speech. He knew her
heart as he knew his own.
And so in silence, with bent head, he left her. And the sun went out of
her sky.
CHAPTER VII
THE WAY OF THE WYNDHAMS
When Mordaunt returned from his ride, it was close upon the
luncheon-hour. He went straight upstairs to prepare for the meal.
Chris's room was empty. He wondered where she was, but Noel bounded in
and enlightened him before he descended.
"She's doing the pretty to Aunt Philippa," he reported. "Only three more
hours now! Hip, hip, hooray!"
His yell caused Mordaunt to fling the towel he was using at his head, a
compliment which seemed to please him immensely. He draped it round his
neck and proceeded to deliver himself of that which he had come to say.
"Look here, Trevor, you've been bullying Chris, haven't you? You needn't
say you haven't, because I know you have."
"Did she tell you so?" Mordaunt sounded grim.
Noel turned to look at him. "No. She said you hadn't. But she always
tells a cram when it suits her purpose. I knew you had all the same."
Mordaunt was silent.
"She's horribly down in the mouth," Noel proceeded. "She never used to be
before she married you. It's a pretty beastly thing to have to say, but
someone ought to say it, and if I don't no one else will."
"Go on," said Mordaunt. "Your sense of duty does you credit."
"Don't be a beast! It isn't duty at all. I'm simply pointing out the
obvious. I should think you could see it for yourself, can't you?"
Mordaunt brushed his hair in silence.
"It's got to stop anyhow," Noel went on with determination. "She's not to
be bullied. It's worse than shabby,--it--it's damned mean to--to treat
her as if--as if--" He became suddenly agitated and lost the thread of
his discourse.
Mordaunt had laid down his brushes to listen. His eyes were gravely
attentive. They held no indignation. "Go on," he said again. "You are
quite right to use strong language if you consider the occasion requires
it."
But Noel's flow of language had failed him. He sprang suddenly at his
brother-in-law, and caught him by the shoulders. "Oh, do stop it, old
chap!" he urged, with husky vehemence. "We all of us rely on you. And if
you fail us--can't you see we're done for?"
Mordaunt looked down at him with a faint smile. "Perhaps I had better
tell you what has happened," he said. "The trouble at the present moment
is that Bertrand has robbed me, and has left in consequence."
"Great Scotland!" ejaculated Noel. "How much did he take?"
"Five hundred pounds. That's a detail of small consequence." Mordaunt
spoke with grim precision. "It has upset Chris--quite naturally. But even
you can hardly hold me responsible for that."
"I should think not! I say, I'm sorry I spoke." Impetuously Noel hugged
him to obliterate the effect of his words. "I'm a silly ass. You mustn't
mind me. Do you know, I always thought he would somehow, though Chris was
so keen on him."
"I was keen on him too," Mordaunt observed, without much humour.
"I'm awfully sorry, old chap. It's a bit of a facer for you. But, you
know, you can't trust foreigners. It doesn't do. There was that chap at
Valpré. He simply bewitched Chris. She never would hear a word against
him, but I'm sure he was a bounder. I've often thought since that he
probably manoeuvred that cave business. They're such a wily lot, these
Frenchies."
"What cave business?" There was a hint of sharpness in Mordaunt's voice;
his brows were drawn.
Noel looked surprised. "Why, the time they got hung up by the tide all
night. Mean to say you never heard of it? Oh, my eye!" he broke off
blankly. "Then I've let the cat out of the bag!"
"Don't distress yourself. It is of no importance." Mordaunt's tone was
suddenly very deliberate. He turned away and began to put on his coat.
"Are you ready for luncheon? I'm going down now."
Noel surveyed him doubtfully. "You won't let on I told you, will you?" he
said uneasily. "Chris may have asked me to keep it dark."
"I don't suppose she did." Very quietly Mordaunt made reply. "She has
more probably forgotten all about it. But I won't give you away in any
case. You are ready? Then suppose we go!"
They descended together to find Aunt Philippa and Chris awaiting them in
the hall. Chris scarcely looked at her husband. She was very pale.
He followed her to her end of the table to pour her out a glass of wine.
"Please don't!" she said nervously. "I don't like it. I can't drink it."
"I think you can," he answered. "Try!"
He went to his own place, and proceeded to engage Aunt Philippa in
conversation. But Aunt Philippa was looking even more severe than usual,
and responded so indifferently to his efforts that he presently suffered
them to flag. There fell a dead silence. Then Noel struck in with furious
zest, and Mordaunt turned to him with relief. But Chris scarcely opened
her lips.
At the end of the meal he addressed her with quiet authority. "Chris, you
must rest this afternoon. Your aunt will excuse you."
"Certainly," said Aunt Philippa stiffly.
Chris rose from the table in unbroken silence. She came slowly down the
long room. Mordaunt got up to open the door, and followed her out.
"Don't worry about me, please!" Chris besought him as he closed the door
behind them. "I shall be all right to-morrow."
He ignored the protest, and accompanied her upstairs. She glanced at him
uneasily as they went. "I can't help being--unhappy just for to-day," she
murmured. "You--you couldn't expect me--not to care?"
He did not speak till they reached her room. Then: "You saw Bertrand," he
said, in a tone that was hardly a question.
"Yes." She began to tremble a little. "I am sorry," she said. "But--I had
to." She stood before him, not meeting his eyes, waiting for him to
speak. "I couldn't let him go--for good--without saying good-bye," she
said, as he remained silent.
He took her gently by the shoulders. "Chris, look at me!"
She drew back, yet in a moment with a desperate effort she raised her
eyes to his. He laid his hand upon her forehead, and looked at her long
and searchingly.
She endured the look in quivering silence, but she turned so deathly pale
under it that he thought she would faint. Quietly he let her go.
"You will lie down now?" he said.
"Yes," she answered, under her breath.
"Don't be in a hurry to get up," he said. "I will explain to your aunt
that I do not wish you to be disturbed, and I shall see her off myself."
He went to the windows and drew the curtains. She watched him silently.
As he turned back into the room, she spoke.
"Trevor, are you angry with me?"
He paused, as if the question were unexpected. "No," he said, after a
moment.
Her eyes shone unnaturally bright in the twilight. "You understand
that--that I couldn't obey your wishes about not seeing--Bertrand--before
he left?"
"I did not forbid you to see him," he said.
"But--you are vexed because I did," she persisted.
He came quietly back to her. "I believe you did the only thing possible
to you," he said, in a tone she could not fathom. "Therefore there is no
more to be said. Won't you lie down?"
She complied without further words. He covered her with a rug, but she
shivered under it as one with an ague. He brought a quilt, and laid that
also over her.
She reached out then, and caught his hand. "Trevor, forgive me!"
He bent over her. "My dear, I am not angry with you."
"Ah, but--but--" She broke off helplessly; there was something about him
that unnerved her. Suddenly and inexplicably the longing surged over her
to be caught to his breast and held there safe from all the tumult, the
misery, the vain regrets, that tortured her quivering soul. But she could
not tell him so, could not bring herself to pour out all the truth. For
the first time she saw how wide was the gulf that had opened between
them--that gulf which he had tried in vain to span the night before--and
her heart died within her. She knew that she was powerless, that now in
the hour of her adversity, now when she felt her need of a protector and
comforter as never before, she dared not confide in him, dared not throw
herself upon his mercy, and trust to his generosity to understand and to
forgive.
And so she could only hold his hand very tightly, too agitated to utter
any plea, afraid to keep him, yet even more afraid to let him go, lest,
apart from her, that dread gulf should widen into an abyss too terrible
for contemplation.
He waited for a little beside her, to give her agitation time to subside.
But it only increased till it became so painfully obvious that he could
ignore it no longer.
"Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked her gently. "I am
quite ready to listen to you. Only don't be so distressed. Really there
is no need."
His tone was perfectly kind, but the caressing note she was wont to hear
in it was absent. She shivered afresh, conscious of a chill. She could
not answer him; her throat seemed incapable of producing sound.
A while longer, with absolute patience, he waited. Then; "I think you
must let me go, dear," he said. "I am doing you more harm than good just
now. By and bye, when you are calmer, we will have a talk."
And so by his very forbearance he committed the greatest mistake of his
life. If he had stayed then, she might have been persuaded to tell him
all that was in her heart. But--the bitter irony of it!--though she was
possessed by a passionate longing to do so, in face of his quiet
restraint she could not. In fear of the physical effect upon her, he held
her back. And she was powerless to pass the barrier. Without his
supporting tenderness, she could not lay bare to him the misery and the
pain which in no other way could be relieved.
She loosened her hold upon his hand, and as he gently withdrew it she
felt as if her last chance of peace were taken away. She turned her face
into the pillow and lay still, and a moment later the soft closing of the
door told her he had gone.
She listened to his quiet tread along the passage, and an overwhelming
sense of desolation swept over her. He had left her alone to cope with
her trouble, and the burden of it was greater than she could bear.
She did not know that he returned a little later and listened for many
seconds at the door, fearing that she might be spending her solitude in
tears. She never heard him there, or even then her tragedy might have
been lifted from her. She was lying quite still, with clenched hands,
staring dry-eyed into space; for she had no tears to shed.
And he, deeming her sleeping, went softly away again, to sit on the
terrace and await Aunt Philippa, who had retired to make her final
preparations.
A long time passed before she made her appearance, and he was beginning
to wonder with some uneasiness if she had decided to postpone her
departure after all, when at length she joined him, ready dressed for the
journey. She sat down beside him, looking very handsome and dignified.
"I am glad of this opportunity of seeing you alone, my dear Trevor," she
began, "as, after long deliberation, I have at last decided to take you
into my confidence upon a matter that has been greatly troubling me."
Mordaunt laid aside the proof of an article with which he had been
occupying himself, and replied with his customary courtesy, "I am always
glad if I can be of use to you."
"Thank you," said Aunt Philippa.
She carried a bag upon her wrist, and she proceeded to open and search
within it. Finally she extracted, a piece of folded notepaper, and handed
it to him.
"Will you read that first?" she said. "It will make a difficult task
easier."
Mordaunt took the paper, saw that it was a letter, and proceeded to read
it under her watching eyes.
There followed a long, quiet pause before he said, "I presume that this
is not addressed to you."
"There," said Aunt Philippa, "you are quite correct."
"Then--" He folded it sharply, and made as if he would hand it back to
her, but altered his purpose and closed his fingers upon it instead.
"Will you explain?" he said.
Aunt Philippa proceeded to do so in her most judicial manner. "That
letter I found on the terrace yesterday morning and, believing it to be
one of my own that had blown out of my window, I picked it up and later
placed it in my letter-case. In the evening I took it out with the
intention of answering my correspondent, but upon perusing it, I
discovered it to be the communication which you hold in your hand. As you
perceive, it was written from Sandacre Court about a week ago, and I now
realize that it is not the first letter which the writer has sent to this
house. You may remember a discussion arising one morning on the subject
of a letter from Sandacre Court. That letter, I am now convinced, was
written by the same hand, and these facts point to the very unpleasant
conclusion that the man who wrote them--Guillaume Rodolphe--has been
levying blackmail. He is apparently aware of a most unfortunate episode
which occurred at Valpré in Chris's early girlhood--"
Mordaunt held up his hand abruptly; his face was set in iron lines. "I
have already heard of the episode to which you refer," he said.
"Indeed!" said Aunt Philippa. "And may I ask how long you have been aware
of it?"
He hesitated momentarily. "Is that material?"
"I think it is," she rejoined. "If Chris has brought herself even at the
eleventh hour to be open with you, none will rejoice more sincerely than
I. It has always been my principle that wives should have no secrets from
their husbands. But, knowing her as I do, I question very much if this
can be the case. I have remonstrated with her myself upon the subject,
but she refused so stubbornly to listen to me that I cannot but feel that
the time has come for me to take my own measures. I should not be doing
my duty otherwise. Painful as it is to me, I feel it incumbent upon me to
tell you the truth. Now, my dear Trevor, are you aware that there has
to-day been a scene between your wife and your secretary which I can only
describe as--a love passage? Has she confessed this to you? Because, if
not, you must no longer remain in ignorance of the true state of affairs.
Chris has deceived me throughout in the most flagrant manner. Had I
known--as I now know--that the man who caused the Valpré scandal and your
secretary, Bertrand de Montville, a criminal exile living upon your
charity, were one and the same person, I would never have permitted you
to marry my niece and expose her afresh to a temptation which she had
already shown herself unable to resist."
Her last words were somewhat hurried, for Mordaunt had risen to his feet,
and there was that in his eyes that warned her that if she paused for a
single instant they would never be uttered at all. And Aunt Philippa
never liked to leave a task unfinished. That which she undertook she
invariably carried through undeviatingly, whatever the cost, and
notwithstanding any adverse circumstances which might arise during its
accomplishment.
She finished her sentence therefore, and then resigned herself to the
martyrdom of being grossly misunderstood.
For that he utterly misread her motives was apparent from his very
expression, even before he said with extreme deliberation: "Mrs. Forest,
you will oblige me very greatly by not pursuing this subject any further.
As I said to you before, Chris is in my keeping now, and it will be my
first care to see that no harm comes to her. As to my secretary, he has
left me for good, and I doubt if I ever see him again."
"I see," said Aunt Philippa. "You have quarrelled with him then?"
"I have." Sternly he made reply. He still held the note she had given him
crumpled in his hand.
Aunt Philippa stiffened her neck severely. "And you left them alone to
say good-bye! My dear Trevor, are you mad, or only criminally indifferent
to your own interests?"
"I am neither," he said.
"And do you know what happened?"
"I do not wish to know."
She contemplated him for a moment in silence, then: "Your own servant has
more common sense," she said.
"Do you mean Holmes?" He spoke with absolute composure, not as one
vitally interested; but his eyes made her nervous, they were so still and
intent.
"I do mean Holmes," she said. "He came to me in the course of the morning
and informed me that his mistress was under the yew-tree and wanted me. I
thought his message unusual at the time. When I went out to the yew-tree
about ten minutes later, I understood the meaning of it. They were
together there, in each other's arms. I did not interrupt them, for I
felt it my duty to ascertain, if possible, how far the mischief had gone.
But I was not successful. The interview came to an end almost at once. He
knelt down upon the ground and kissed her hands, after which he got up
and went away. I did not hear what he said to her, but it was certainly
no word of farewell. Personally I am convinced that his leave-taking was
not final. As for Chris herself, she seemed dazed, and I left her to
recover."
Aunt Philippa paused. He had not interrupted her, but she did not feel
his silence to be reassuring. She found it impossible to meet his look
any longer, though she made a valiant effort to do so.
"I hope you will believe," she said, after a moment, "that nothing but a
most urgent sense of duty has impelled me to tell you this."
He did not answer, and she began to flounder a little, finding his
silence hard to fathom.
"I felt that you ought to be upon your guard. As I have told you before,
not one of the Wyndhams is to be trusted. I think you have been too
generous in this respect, and have laid yourself open to deception.
However--now that I have warned you once more, you will perhaps be more
careful in the future. I can only hope that my warning has come in time."
Again she paused, but still he remained silent, looking straight at her
with a steely regard that never altered.
She mustered her forces at length to ask a direct question. "What do you
propose to do with regard to that letter you hold in your hand?"
With a quiet movement he transferred it to his pocket. "I have not had
time to consider the matter," he said.
She was momentarily surprised, and showed it. "I thought you would know
what to do at once," she said. "It was, in fact, my reason for telling
you of it. I felt that something ought to be done--and quickly."
"Something will be done," Mordaunt answered quietly. "You have placed the
matter in my hands, and I shall deal with it. I think I need not ask you
to refrain from mentioning it to anyone else?"
"You need not," said Aunt Philippa with dignity.
"Thank you. And that is all you wish to say to me?"
She met his steady eyes for an instant and at once looked away again.
"All," she replied, "except that I think it was a great pity that you
refused so persistently to profit by my former warning. It might have
averted much trouble both for yourself and for Chris."
He made her a slight bow. "I fear I am not unique," he said, "in
preferring to conduct my own affairs in my own way."
When Aunt Philippa took her departure that afternoon it was in a most
unwonted state of doubt, not unmingled with apprehension. Despite his
moderation, she had an uneasy feeling that her communication to Trevor
Mordaunt had set in motion a devastating force which nothing could arrest
or divert until it had spread destruction over all that lay in its path.
CHAPTER VIII
THE TRUTH
In answer to her husband's low knock, Chris turned from her
dressing-table. She had switched on the electric light, and had taken
down her hair, preparatory to dressing for dinner. It hung all about her
in magnificent ripples of ruddy light and shade. Her face, in the midst
of it, looked very small and tired. She was clad in a plain white
wrapper, that fell away from her neck and arms, giving her a very
childish appearance.
"Yes, I'm getting up," she said, with the flicker of a smile. "I couldn't
sleep."
He entered and closed the door behind him in silence.
"Has Aunt Philippa gone?" she asked.
He responded briefly, "Three hours ago."
"Ah!" She stretched out her arms with the gesture of one freed from an
irksome burden, but they fell again immediately, almost as if a fresh
burden had taken its place.
She stood for a few seconds motionless, looking straight before her.
Finally, with a hint of nervousness, she turned her eyes upon her
husband; they shone intensely blue in the strong light.
"We shall soon be quite alone," she said.
His eyes did not answer hers. They looked remote and cold. "Come and sit
down," he said.
He seated himself on the couch from which she had just risen. Chris
caught up a slide from the dressing-table, and fastened back her hair
with fingers that trembled inexplicably.
Then she went to him. "Trevor," she said, and there was pleading in her
voice, "do you know, I don't want to talk about anything. I think one
gets over some troubles best that way. Do you mind?"
He took her wrists very quietly, and drew her down beside him. "What were
you trying to tell me this afternoon?" he said.
She shivered and turned her face away. "Nothing, really nothing. I was
foolish and upset. Please let me forget it."
She would have withdrawn from his hold, but his hands tightened upon her.
"Won't you reconsider the matter?" he asked. "It would be better for us
both if you told me of your own accord."
"Trevor!" She turned to him swiftly, flashing into his face a look of
such wild alarm that he was touched, in spite of himself.
"My dear," he said, "I have no wish to frighten you. But you must see for
yourself that it is utterly impossible for us to go on like this. You are
keeping something from me. I want you to tell me quite quietly and
without prevarication what it is."
She turned white to the lips. "There is nothing, Trevor. Indeed, there is
nothing," she said.
His face changed, grew stern, grew implacable. He bent towards her, still
holding her firmly by the wrists. He looked closely into her eyes, and in
his own was neither accusation nor condemnation, only a deep and awful
questioning that seemed to probe her through and through.
"For Heaven's sake," he said, "don't lie to me!"
And Chris shrank, shrank from that dread scrutiny as she would have
shrunk from naked steel. She did not attempt to speak another word.
For seconds that seemed to her agonized senses like hours, he held her
so, waiting, waiting for she knew not what. Her heart thumped within her
like the heart of a terrified creature fleeing for its life. She began to
pant audibly through the silence. The strain was more than she could
bear.
"Chris!" he said.
She started violently; every pulse leaped, every nerve jarred. But she
did not lift her eyes to his; she could not.
"Don't tremble," he said, his voice very cold and even. "Just tell me the
truth. Begin with what happened at Valpré."
Her white lips quivered. "What--how much--do you know?"
"I will tell you that," he said, "when you have answered me quite fully
and unreservedly."
She cast an imploring look at him that did not reach his eyes. "But,
Trevor, nothing happened," she told him piteously. "That is to say,
nothing beyond--" She broke off short. "I was only a child. I didn't
know," she ended, in a confused murmur.
"What didn't you know?" Stern and pitiless came the question. His hands
were holding her wrists tightly locked. There was compulsion in their
grasp.
She answered him because she could not help it, but her words were
wild and incoherent. "I didn't know what it meant. I didn't see the harm
of it. I was too young. It all happened before I realized. And even
then--even then--I didn't understand--that it was serious--until--until--
the duel. Trevor--Trevor, you are hurting me!"
His hold relaxed, but he did not set her free. "Was that duel fought on
your account?" he asked.
"Yes," she whispered.
"In what way?"
She was silent.
"Answer me," he said.
She clenched her hands in sudden, strenuous rebellion. "I don't know. I
never heard."
"Was it because you had compromised yourself with Bertrand de Montville?"
Very deliberately he asked the question, so deliberately that she could
not evade it.
"It is not fair to--to put it like that," she said.
"I am waiting to hear your own version," he told her grimly.
"You have only heard Aunt Philippa's, so far?" she hazarded.
"I have heard nothing whatever about what happened at Valpré from your
aunt," he answered. "But that is beside the point. Are you quite
incapable of telling me the truth?"
She winced sharply. "Trevor! Why are you so cruel? I have done nothing
wrong."
"Then look at me!" he said.
But she would not, for his eyes terrified her. Nor could she bring
herself to speak of Valpré under their piercing scrutiny. Only
close-locked in his arms could she have poured out the poor little secret
that she had sacrificed so much to keep. Not the nature of the adventure
itself, but the fact that she had given her love to the man who had
shared it with her, held her silent. She could not spread her love before
those pitiless eyes, and to disclose the one without the other had become
impossible to her.
And so she remained silent, counting the seconds as she felt his
forbearance ebb away.
When at last he moved and released her, she cowered almost as if she
expected a blow. Yet when he spoke, though there was in his tone a subtle
difference, his words came with absolute composure. She could almost have
imagined that he was smiling.
"Since you refuse to be open with me," he said, "you compel me to draw my
own conclusions. Now, with regard to this letter which you received a
week ago from Captain Rodolphe--you have another letter from him
somewhere in your possession?"
He took the missive from his pocket and opened it as if he would read it
again. But the sight was too much for Chris. It tortured her beyond
endurance, galvanizing her into sudden, unconsidered action. She snatched
it from him and tore it passionately into fragments.
"You shall not!" she cried. "You shall not!"
With the words she sprang to her feet, and stood before him, goaded to
frenzy, challenging his calm.
"Where did you find it?" she demanded.
"It was found on the terrace," he said.
She flung out a trembling hand. "Ah! Then I dropped it that night that my
dress caught fire. I thought it was burnt. And you found it--you dared to
read it!"
He did not attempt to explain his action. Perhaps he realized he
was more likely to obtain the truth from her thus than by endless
cross-questioning. "Yes, I have read it," he said.
She made a desperate gesture. "And because of this--because of
this--you--you accuse me of--"
"I have accused you of nothing," he said sternly. "I have only asked you
to tell me the truth. I hoped you would do so of your own free will, but
since you will not--"
"Yes?" she cried back. "Since I will not--?"
"I shall find another means," he answered.
He rose abruptly. They stood face to face. There was no shrinking about
Chris now. She was braced to defiance.
"Where is that other letter?" he said.
"I have destroyed it."
She uttered the words with quivering triumph, strung to a fever-pitch of
excitement in which fear had no part.
His eyes went to her jewel-drawer.
"It is not there," she said. "The letter I hid there was the one you have
just read."
She spoke rapidly, but she was no longer incoherent. Her words came
without effort, and he knew that she was telling the truth as the victim
in a torture-chamber might tell it, because she was goaded thereto and
incapable at the moment of doing otherwise. He also knew that,
notwithstanding this, she was scarcely aware of what she said. Out of the
agony of her soul, because the pain was unbearable, she had yielded
without knowing it.
"I only kept this letter," she said, "in case he ever asked for more. But
it doesn't matter now--nothing will ever matter any more. You know the
worst, and"--fiercely--"you are welcome to know it. I--I'm even glad!
I've nothing left to be afraid of."
She drew in her breath hysterically. She was on the verge of dreadful
laughter, but she caught it back, instinctively aware that she must keep
her strength--this unwonted strength of desperation that had come
to her--as long as possible.
He heard her without emotion. His face was grim and mask-like, frozen
into hard, unyielding lines.
"It is certainly best that I should know it," he said. "But I have not
yet heard all. How much did this Rodolphe charge for his silence?"
She had almost answered him before she remembered, and checked the words
upon her lips. "No, I don't think I need tell you that," she said.
"That is better than telling me a lie," he rejoined. "As a matter of
fact, there is no need, as you say, for you to tell me. I know what sum
he asked for, and I know how he obtained it."
He spoke with steady conviction, his eyes unwaveringly upon her. For
seconds now she had endured his look without flinching. As she had said,
there was nothing left for her to fear. But at his words her face
changed, and unmistakable apprehension took the place of despair.
"No, no!" she said quickly. "He did not obtain it in that way. At
least--at least--Trevor, I swear to you that Bertrand knew nothing of
that."
"You need not take that trouble," he said coldly.
She gripped her hands together. "You don't believe me--but it is the
truth. Bertrand never knew that I had heard from Captain Rodolphe."
"You deceived him too, then?" Pitilessly he asked the question. He also
had begun to feel that nothing could ever matter any more.
She wrung her hands in anguish. Her face was still raised to his, white
and strained and desperate--the face of a woman who would never dissemble
with him again. "Yes," she said, "I deceived him too."
"Then"--slowly he uttered the words--"it was you who forged my name upon
that cheque? It actually was you whom he was shielding? And you tell me
that he did not know what it was for?"
"He did not know," she said. She would not have given such an explanation
of her own volition at that moment, but--since upon this point she could
not tell him the truth--it was simpler to let it pass. What did it
matter, after all? Let him think her a thief also if he would! She was
past caring what he thought.
"And when do you expect to meet again?" Mordaunt asked, with great
distinctness.
She flinched as if he had struck her. "Oh, haven't you tortured me
enough?" she said.
His jaw hardened. He stepped suddenly to her and took her by the
shoulders. His eyes appalled her. It was as if a devil looked out of
them. She shrank away from him in sheer physical terror.
"Oh, you needn't be afraid," he said. "I shan't hurt you. Why should I?
You are nothing to me. But--for the last time--let me hear you speak the
truth. You love this man?"
The words, curt and cold, might have fallen from the lips of a stranger,
so impersonal were they, so utterly devoid of any emotion.
Wide-eyed, she faced him, for she could not look away with his hands upon
her, compelling her.
"You love this man?" he repeated, his speech still cold but incisive--a
sharp weapon probing for the truth.
She caught her quivering nerves together, and valiantly answered him. "I
do!" she said. "I do!" And as she spoke, the power within her surged
upwards, defying constraint, dominating her with a mastery irresistible.
She suddenly stripped her heart bare of all reserve and showed him the
love that agonized there. "I have always loved him!" she said. "I shall
love him till I die!"
It was a woman's confession, in which triumph and anguish were strangely
mingled. In a calmer moment she would never have made it, but that moment
was supreme, and she had no choice. Regardless of all consequences, she
told the burning truth. She would have told it with his hands upon her
throat.
In the silence that followed the avowal she even waited for violence. But
she was unafraid. The greatness of the power that possessed her had
lifted her above all fear. She trod the heights where fear is not. And
all-unconsciously, in that moment she won a battle which she had deemed
irrevocably lost.
Mordaunt's hands fell from her, setting her free. "In Heaven's name," he
said, "why didn't you go with him?"
She did not understand his tone. It held neither anger nor contempt, and
so quiet was it that she could still have fancied it almost indifferent.
Yet, inexplicably, it cut her to the heart.
"I'll tell you the truth!" she said, a little wildly. "I--I would have
gone with him. I offered--I begged--to go. But he--he sent me back."
"Why?" Again that deadly quietness of utterance, as though, indeed, a
dead man spoke.
Her throat began to work spasmodically, though she had no desire to weep.
She felt as if her heart were bleeding from a mortal wound.
With an effort that nearly choked her, she made reply.
"He said--it was--my duty."
"Your duty!" He repeated the word deliberately. Though the devil had gone
out of his eyes, she could not meet them any longer. Not that she feared
to do so; but the pain at her heart was intolerable, and it was his look,
his voice, that made it so.
Almost as if he divined this, he turned quietly from her. He walked to
the window and opened it wide, as if he felt suffocated. The wind was
moaning desolately through the trees. There was the scent of coming rain
in the air.
He spoke with his back to her, without apparent effort. "I release you
from your duty," he said. "Go to him! Go to him--now!"
She gazed at him, dumbfounded, not breathing. But he remained motionless,
his hands clenched, his face to the night.
"Go to him!" he repeated. "I shall set you free--at once. Go--and tell
him so!"
Then, as still she neither moved nor spoke, he slowly turned and looked
at her.
From head to foot she felt his eyes comprehend her, and from head to
foot, under his look, she shuddered. She spoke no word; she was as one
paralysed.
Very quietly he pulled the window to behind him, still with his eyes upon
her. In that moment he was complete master of himself. He stood aloof,
shrouded, as it were, in an icy calm. She had no clue to his thoughts.
She only knew that by some means, inexplicable and irresistible, he bound
her even as he set her free.
"You understand me?" he said, his voice cold, level, pitilessly distinct.
"It is my last word upon the subject. You and I have done with each
other. Go!"
It was literally his last word. As he uttered it, his eyes fell away from
her. He crossed the room with even, unhurried tread, opened the
intervening door that led into his own, passed through with no backward
glance, and shut it steadily behind him.
As for Chris, she stood numbly gazing after him till only the panels of
the door met her look. And then, her strength leaving her, without sound
she sank downwards and lay crumpled, inanimate, broken, upon the floor.
PART IV
CHAPTER I
THE REFUGEE
Autumn on a Yorkshire moor.
Hilda Davenant leaned back and looked from her sketch to the moor with
slight dissatisfaction in her calm eyes.
"What's the matter with it?" said Lord Percy.
He was lying in the faded heather beside her, sucking grass-stems with
bovine enjoyment. He surveyed the faint pucker on his wife's forehead
with lazy amusement.
She looked down at him. "It isn't nearly good enough."
He laughed comfortably. "Put it away! It'll do for my birthday. I shan't
look at it from an artist's point of view."
She smiled a little. "Oh, any daub would do for you. You simply don't
know what art is."
"Exactly," he rejoined tranquilly. "Any daub will do, provided your hand
lays on the colours. But nothing less than that would satisfy me. Come!
Isn't that a pretty speech? And you didn't angle for it either!" He
caught her hand and rubbed it against his cheek. "You are civilizing me
wonderfully," he declared. "I never knew how to make pretty speeches
before I met you."
"Surely I never taught you that!" she protested. "I am never guilty of
empty compliments myself."
"Nor I," smiled her husband. "I say what I think to you always. Now what
do you say to coming for a stretch? There's an hour left before I need
buzz down to the station and meet Jack. You will admit I have been very
good and patient all this time. Pack up your painting things, and I'll
trek back to the house with them."
"No. We will go together," Hilda said. "Why not?"
"I thought you would prefer to sit and admire the landscape," he said.
She smiled and made no response.
"A case in point!" laughed Lord Percy. "But here the compliment would not
have been empty since you obviously prefer my company to the solitude of
a Yorkshire moor."
She looked at him with the smile still in her eyes, but she did not put
the compliment into words. Only, as she rose to leave the scene of her
labours, she slipped her hand within his arm.
"I have been thinking a great deal of Chris lately," she said. "I wish
she would write to me again."
"I thought your mother was there," said Lord Percy.
"She has been. I believe she left them yesterday. But then, she does not
give me any detailed news of Chris. I have a feeling that I can't get rid
of that the child is unhappy."
"She has no right to be," rejoined her husband. "She's married about the
best fellow going."
"Who understands her about as thoroughly as you understand art."
"Oh, come!" he remonstrated. "Mordaunt is not quite such a fool as that!
The little monkey ought to be happy enough--unless she tries to play fast
and loose with him. Then, I grant you, there would be the devil to pay."
Hilda smiled. "I can't help feeling anxious about her. It has always been
my fear that, when the glamour of first love is past, Trevor might
misjudge her. She is so gay and bright that many people think her empty.
I know my mother does for one."
"Your mother might," he conceded. "Trevor wouldn't--being a man of
considerable insight. Tell you what, though, if you want to satisfy
yourself on the score of Chris's happiness, we will get them to put us up
for a night when we leave here for town three weeks hence. How will that
suit you?"
"I should love it, of course," she said. "But wouldn't it be rather far
out of our way?"
"I daresay the car won't mind," said Lord Percy.
They walked back to the house that a friend had lent for their
three-months' honeymoon. It nestled in a hollow amongst trees, the long
line of moors stretching above it. They were well out of the beaten
track. Few tourists penetrated to their paradise. Near the house was a
glade with a miniature waterfall that filled the place with music.
"That waterfall makes for laziness," Lord Percy was wont to declare, and
many were the happy hours they had spent beside it.
They passed it by without lingering to-day, however, for both were
feeling energetic. Briskly they crossed the little lawn before the house,
and entered by a French window.
"Better secure some refreshments before we go on the tramp," suggested
Lord Percy. "I've got a thirst already. Hullo! What on earth--"
He broke off in amazement. A slight figure had risen up suddenly from a
settee in a dark corner; and a woman's face, wild-eyed and tragic,
confronted them.
"Great Scott! Who is it?" said Lord Percy Davenant.
And "Chris!" exclaimed Hilda, at the same moment.
As for Chris, she stood a second, staring at them; then: "Trevor has
turned me out, so I've come to you," she said her white lips moving
stiffly. "I've nowhere else to go."
With the words she stumbled forward, feeling vaguely out before her as
though she saw not. Hilda started towards her on the instant, caught her,
folded warm arms about her, held her fast.
"My darling!" she said, and again, "My darling!"
But Chris heard not, nor saw, nor felt. She had reached the end of her
strength, and black darkness had closed down upon her agony, blotting out
all things. She sank senseless in her cousin's embrace....
It was long before they brought her back, so long that Hilda became
frightened and dispatched her husband in the motor for a doctor, wholly
forgetting her brother's expected visit in her anxiety.
Lord Percy ultimately returned with the local practitioner, whom he had
dragged almost by force from the bedside of a patient ten miles away. He,
too, had forgotten Jack, but remembered him as he set down the doctor,
and whirled away again in a cloud of dust, leaving him to announce
himself.
Chris had by that time recovered consciousness, in response to Hilda's
strenuous efforts, but she had scarcely spoken a word. She lay on the
sofa in the drawing-room, cold from head to foot, and shivering
spasmodically at intervals. She drank the wine that Hilda brought her
with shuddering docility; but it seemed to have no effect upon her. It
was as if the blood had frozen at her very heart.
"Get her to bed," were the doctor's orders, and he himself carried Chris
up to Hilda's room.
She was perfectly passive in their hands, but quite incapable of the
smallest effort, and so painfully apathetic that Hilda grew more and more
uneasy. She had never imagined that her gay, light-hearted Chris could be
thus. It wrung her heart to see her. She was like a dainty flower crushed
into the dust of the highway.
"Nervous prostration consequent upon severe mental strain," was the
doctor's verdict later. "You will have to take great care of her, and
keep her absolutely quiet, or I can't be answerable for the consequences.
She is in a very critical state, and"--he paused a moment--"I think her
husband ought to be with her."
"Ah!" Hilda said, and no more.
He passed the matter over. "Don't let her talk at all if you can prevent
it, and reassure her in every way possible. I will send a composing
draught, or she will be in a high fever before the morning."
"You fear for the brain?" Hilda hazarded.
"I fear--many things," he answered uncompromisingly.
He took his departure just as Lord Percy and his guest arrived, and Hilda
paused upon the step to greet her brother.
He sprang from the car before it came to a standstill, and she saw on the
instant that he was in a towering fury. Jack Forest, the kindly, the
easy-going, the careless, was actually white with anger.
He scarcely stopped to greet her. "Where is Chris?" he demanded.
"She is in bed," Hilda answered, seeing he had heard the whole story.
"No," as he turned inwards, "you can't see her. Indeed you mustn't, Jack.
The doctor says--"
"Damn the doctor!" said Jack. "I'm going to see her, in bed or not. Where
is she?"
He was half-way upstairs with the words, and Hilda's protest fell upon
empty air. She could only follow and look on.
Jack opened the first door he came to, and found himself in Chris's
presence. He strode straight across the room, as one who had a perfect
right, stooped over her as she lay, and gathered her up into his arms.
"My little sweetheart!" he said, and kissed her fiercely over and over
again.
That woke her from her lethargy, as no more tender ministrations could
have done. She wound her arms about his neck, and clung to him like a
lost child.
"Oh, Jack!" she said. "Oh, Jack!" and burst into an agony of tears.
Hilda closed the door softly, and went away. Jack's treatment seemed the
best, after all.
When she saw him again he was quite calm, but there was about him a
grimness of purpose with which she was not familiar. He drew her aside.
"Look here! I can't sleep on this. I'm going to see Trevor--at once. If I
don't bring him to reason, I shall probably shoot him; but I haven't told
her that. All she wants is to be left in peace, and peace she shall have,
whatever the cost."
"But, my dear boy, quarrelling with Trevor on her behalf won't make for
peace," Hilda ventured to point out.
He acknowledged the truth of this with a brief nod. "All the same, I'm
damned if I'll stand by and see him wreck her life. Let me know how she
goes on. Send a wire to the club to-morrow. No, don't! I'll wire to you
first, and let you know where I am. I'm going straight back to the
station now. With any luck I ought to catch the afternoon express.
Where's Percy?"
"You must have something to eat," urged Hilda. "You've had nothing
whatever."
He frowned impatiently. "Oh, rats! I can feed on board. I shan't starve."
But she knew, with sure intuition, that the moment he was out of her
presence all thought of refreshment would leave his mind.
She saw him go, and then returned to Chris.
She found her sitting up in bed, rocking herself to and fro, and crying,
crying, crying, the tears of utter despair. But this distress, despite
its violence, was better--Hilda knew it instinctively--than her former
cold inertia. She gathered her to her breast, and held her close pressed
till her anguish had somewhat spent itself.
By degrees and haltingly the story of Chris's tragedy was unfolded.
"I've told Jack everything," she said at last. "And now I've told you,
but we won't ever talk about it any more. Jack is going to see Trevor,
and--and try to make him understand. I didn't want him to, but he would
do it. But he has promised me that Trevor shan't follow me here. Do you
think he will be able to prevent him? Do you? Do you?"
She shuddered afresh uncontrollably at the bare thought, and Hilda had
some difficulty in calming her.
"Dearest, I am sure he will never come to you against your will," she
said, with conviction. "I am sure you needn't be afraid. But oh, Chris,
my darling, he is your husband. Always remember that!"
"I know! I know!" Feverishly Chris made answer, and Hilda knew that
she must not pursue this subject. "But I can never see him again,
never--never--never! I think it would kill me. Besides--besides--" She
broke off inarticulately, and Hilda did not press her to finish.
She found that she must not speak much of Bertrand either, though she did
venture to ask why the Valpré escapade had ever been kept from Trevor in
the first place.
"I really can't quite explain," Chris answered wearily. "When it dawned
on me that vile things had been said and actually a duel fought because
of it I felt as if I would rather die than let him know. Besides, at the
back of my mind, I think I somehow always knew--though I did not
realize--that--Bertie--came first with me, and I--I was terrified lest
Trevor should suspect it. Of course it doesn't matter now," she ended.
"He knows it all, and--as he says--we have done with each other." She
uttered a long, quivering sigh, and turned her face into the pillow.
"My darling, so long as you both live, that can never be," Hilda said
very earnestly. "Whatever mistakes you have made, you are still his and
he is yours. Nothing can alter that."
"He doesn't think so," said Chris. "In fact, he--he told me to go to
Bertie, so that--so that"--she shivered again--"he could set me free."
"Oh, Chris, he did--that?"
"Yes, I think he meant it for my sake as much as for his own. But I
couldn't do it. You see, I don't know where Bertie has gone for one
thing. And then--I know Bertie would have thought it wrong. You see"--the
tears were running down her face again--"we love each other so much,
and--and love like ours is holy. He said so."
"I wonder how he learned that," Hilda said. "It is not a creed that most
men hold."
"But Bertie is not like most men." Very softly came Chris's answer, and
through her tears her eyes shone with the light that is kindled by
nothing earthly. "Bertie has come through a great deal of suffering," she
said. "It has taught him to know the good from the bad. And--he said I
shouldn't be ruined for his sake. As if I cared for that!" she ended,
smiling wanly.
"Thank God he did for you!" Hilda said.
"Oh, do you think it matters?" said Chris.
CHAPTER II
A MIDNIGHT VISITOR
It was a dark, wet night. The rain streamed from the gutters and pattered
desolately on the pavement below. It had rained for hours.
Trevor Mordaunt sat alone, with a pipe between his teeth, his windows
flung wide to the empty street, and listened to the downpour. He had
arrived in town that afternoon to make a few necessary arrangements
before leaving England. These arrangements completed, there was nothing
left to do but to await the next morning for departure.
It was not easy, that waiting. He faced it with grim fortitude, realizing
the futility of going to bed. It was possible that he might presently
doze in his chair, but ordinary sleep was out of the question, and he
would not trouble himself to court it. Tossing all night sleepless on his
pillow was a refinement of torture that he did not feel called upon to
bear.
He had spent the previous night tramping the country-side, but he could
not tramp in London, and though he was not aware of fatigue, he knew the
necessity for bodily rest existed, and he compelled himself to take it.
So he sat motionless, listening to the rain, while the hours crawled by.
The roar of London traffic rose from afar, for the night was still. Now
and then a taxi whirred through the sloppy street, but there were few
wayfarers. Once a boy passed whistling, and the man at the window above
stiffened a little, as if in some fashion the careless melody stirred
him, but as the whistler turned the corner he relaxed again with his head
back, and resumed his attitude of waiting.
It was nearly midnight when a taxi hummed up to the flaring lamp-post
before the house, and stopped to discharge its occupant. Mordaunt heard
the vehicle, but his eyes were closed and he did not trouble to open
them. He had laid aside his pipe, and actually seemed to be on the verge
of dozing at last. The window-curtain screened him from the view of any
in the street, and it did not occur to him that the new arrival could be
in any way connected with himself.
It was, therefore, with a hint of surprise that he turned his head at the
opening of the door.
"Mr. Wyndham to see you, sir," said Holmes. "Says it's very particular,
sir."
"Who? Oh, all right. Show him in." A bored note sounded in Mordaunt's
voice. "And you needn't sit up, Holmes. I'll let him out," he added.
"Very good, sir," said Holmes, without enthusiasm. He never liked to
retire before his master.
Mordaunt rose with a faint touch of impatience. He expected to see Max,
and wondered that the news of his arrival in town had reached him so
quickly. But it was Rupert who entered, and turned to satisfy himself
that the door was shut before he advanced to greet his brother-in-law.
Mordaunt stood by the window and watched the precaution with a certain
grim curiosity. He fancied he could guess the reason of this midnight
visitation, but as the boy came towards him and halted in the full light
he saw that he was mistaken. There was no indignant questioning visible
on Rupert's face. It looked only grey and haggard and desperate.
"Look here," he said, speaking jerkily, as if it were only by a series of
tense efforts that he spoke at all. "I've come to tell you something. I
don't know how you'll take it. And I may as well admit--that I'm horribly
afraid. Do you mind if I have a drink--just to help me through?"
Mordaunt closed the window, and came quietly forward. Just for a moment
he fancied that Rupert had already fortified himself in the manner
indicated for the ordeal of meeting him, and then again he realized that
he was mistaken. The eyes that looked into his were perfectly sane, but
they held an almost childlike appeal that made his heart contract
suddenly. He bit his lip savagely. Why on earth couldn't the fellow have
left him alone for this one night at least?
He forced himself to be temperate, but there was no warmth in his tone as
he said, "I've no objection to your having a drink if you want it. I
suppose you've got into a scrape again, and want me to help you out?"
"No, it's not that--at least, not in the sense you mean."
Hurriedly Rupert made answer. He looked for a moment at the glasses on
the table, but he did not attempt to help himself. Suddenly he shivered.
"Ye gods! What an infernal night! I had to walk ever so far before I
found a taxi. I came up by the evening train--couldn't get off duty
sooner. I thought you would be off to Dover before I got here. And I--and
I--" He broke off blankly and became silent, as if he had forgotten what
he had meant to say.
Mordaunt leaned over the table, and mixed a drink with the utmost
steadiness. "Sit down," he said. "And now drink this, and pull yourself
together. There's nothing to be in a funk about, so take your time."
He spoke with authority, but his manner had the aloofness of one not
greatly interested in the matter in hand. He resented the boy's
intrusion, that was all.
Rupert accepted his hospitality in silence. This obvious lack of interest
increased his difficulties tenfold.
Mordaunt went back to his chair by the window, and relighted his pipe. He
knew he was being cold-blooded, but he felt absolutely incapable of
kindling any warmth. There seemed to be no warmth left in him.
Rupert gulped down his drink, and buried his face in his hands. He felt
that the thing he had come to do was beyond his power to accomplish. He
could not make his confession to a stone image. And yet he could not go,
leaving it unmade.
In the long pause that followed it almost seemed as if Mordaunt had
forgotten his presence in the room. The minutes ticked away, and he made
no sign.
At last, desperately, Rupert lifted his head. "Trevor!"
Mordaunt looked at him. Then, struck possibly by the misery of the boy's
attitude, he laid down his pipe and turned towards him.
"Well, what is it?"
Vehemently Rupert made answer. "For pity's sake, don't freeze me up like
this, man! I--I--oh, can't you give me a lead?" he broke off desperately.
"You see, I don't know in the least what you have come to say," Mordaunt
pointed out. "If it has anything to do with--recent events"--he spoke
with great distinctness--"I can only advise you to leave it alone, since
no remonstrance from you will make the smallest difference."
"But it hasn't," groaned Rupert. "At least, of course, it's in connection
with that. But I've come to try and tell you the truth--something you
don't know and never will know if I don't tell you. And--Heaven help
me!--I'm such a cur--I don't know how to get through with it."
That reached Mordaunt, stirring him to activity almost against his will.
He found himself unable to look on unmoved at his young brother-in-law's
distress. He left his chair and moved back to the table.
"I don't know what you've got to be afraid of," he said, with a touch of
kindliness in his tone that deprived it of its remoteness. "I'm not
feeling particularly formidable. What have you been doing?"
Rupert groaned again and covered his face. "You'll be furious enough
directly. But it's not that exactly that I mind. It's--it's the
disgusting shabbiness of it. We Wyndhams are such a rotten lot, we don't
see that part of the business till afterwards."
"Hadn't you better come to the point?" suggested Mordaunt. "We can talk
about that later."
"No, we can't," said Rupert, with conviction. "You'll either throw me out
of the window or kick me downstairs directly you know the truth."
"I'm not in the habit of doing these things," Mordaunt remarked, with the
ghost of a smile.
"But this is an exceptional case." Rupert straightened himself abruptly,
and turned in his chair, meeting the quiet eyes. "Damn it, I'll tell
you!" he said, springing to his feet with sudden resolution. "Trevor,
I--I'm an infernal blackguard! I forged that cheque!"
"You!" Sternly Mordaunt uttered the word. He moved a step forward and
looked Rupert closely in the face. "Are you telling me the truth?" he
said.
"I am." Rupert faced him squarely, though his eyelids quivered a little.
"I'm not likely to lie to you in this matter. I've nothing to gain and
all to lose. And I shouldn't have told you--anyway now--if Noel hadn't
come over this morning with the news that you had kicked out your
secretary for the offence I had committed. Even I couldn't stick that, so
I've come to own up--and take the consequences."
He braced himself, almost as if he expected a blow. But Mordaunt remained
motionless, studying him keenly, and for many seconds he did not utter a
word.
At last, "Bertrand knew of this," he said, in a tone that held more of
conviction than interrogation.
"No, he didn't. He knew nothing, or, if he did, it was sheer guess-work.
I never suspected that he knew." Rupert's hands were clenched. He was
face to face with the hardest task he had ever undertaken.
"He knew, for all that." Mordaunt's brows contracted; he seemed to be
following out a difficult problem.
Finally, to Rupert's relief, he turned aside. "Go on," he said. "I'll
hear the whole of it now. What did you do with the money?"
Rupert's teeth closed upon his lower lip. "That's the only question I
can't answer."
"Why not?" The question was curt, and held no compromise.
"Private reasons," Rupert muttered.
"Family reasons would be more accurate," Mordaunt rejoined, in the same
curt tone. "You gave it to--Chris."
The momentary hesitation before the name did not soften its utterance. It
came with a precision almost brutal.
Rupert made a slight movement, and stood silent.
"You are not going to deny it?" Mordaunt observed, glancing at him.
He turned his face away. "What's the good?"
"Just so. You had better tell me the whole truth. It will save trouble."
"But I don't see that there is anything more to tell." Rupert spoke
with an effort. "I stole the cheque in the first place--that Sunday
afternoon--you remember? I was a bit top-heavy at the time. That's no
excuse," he threw in. "I daresay I should have done it in any case.
But--well, you know the state of mind I was in that day. You had just
been beastly generous, too. And that reminds me; you left your keys
behind, do you remember? I came in for another drink and saw them. The
temptation came then, and I never stopped to think till the thing was
done. Bertrand nearly caught me in the act. He didn't suspect anything at
the time, but he may have remembered afterwards."
"Probably," said Mordaunt. "You weren't frank with me that day, then?
There were debts you didn't mention."
Rupert nodded. "You were a bit high-handed with me. That choked me off.
Still, though in an evil moment I took the cheque out of your book, I
loathed myself for it afterwards. I hadn't the strength of mind to
destroy it, or the courage to send it back. But"--he turned back again
and met Mordaunt's eyes--"I wasn't going to use it, though I was cur
enough to keep it, and to like to feel it was there in case of emergency.
I didn't mean to use it--on my oath, I didn't. I don't expect you to
believe me, but it's true."
"I believe you," Mordaunt said quietly. "And--the emergency arose?"
Rupert nodded again. "Chris came to me--in great distress. Couldn't tell
me what she wanted it for. You weren't to know, neither was Bertrand. She
couldn't use her own without your finding out. And so--as it seemed
urgent--in fact, desperate--and as it was for her--" He broke off. "No, I
won't shelter myself in that way. I did it on my own. She didn't know. No
one knew. If Bertrand suspected, he must have thought I took it for my
own purposes. Heaven knows what she wanted it for, but she was most
emphatic that it shouldn't get round to him."
"And you tell me she did not know how you obtained the money? Are you
certain of that?" Mordaunt's tone was deliberate; he spoke as one who
meant to have the truth.
"Why, man, of course I am! What do you take her for? Chris--my
sister--your wife--"
"Stop!" The word was brief, and very final. "We need not go into that.
She may not have known at the time, but she suspected afterwards. In
fact, she knew."
"Is that what you quarrelled about?" Eagerly Rupert broke in. "Noel tried
to get it out of her, but she wouldn't tell him. You'll find out where
she's gone, and set it right? She can't be very far away."
"That," Mordaunt said, in a tone from which the faintest hint of feeling
was excluded, "is beside the point. We will not discuss it."
"But--" Rupert began.
"We will not discuss it." Mordaunt repeated the words in the same utterly
emotionless voice, and Rupert found it impossible to continue. "In fact,
there seems to be nothing further to discuss of any sort. Can I put you
up for the night?"
Rupert stared at him.
"Well?" Mordaunt's brows went up a little.
"Are you in earnest?" the boy burst out awkwardly. "I mean--I mean--don't
you want to--to--give me a sound kicking?"
"Not in the least." A steely glint shone for a moment in the grey eyes.
"I don't think that sort of treatment does much good, as a rule. And I
have not the smallest desire to administer it. If you think you deserve
it, I should imagine that is punishment enough."
Rupert swung round sharply on his heel. "All right. I'm going. If you
want me, you know where to find me. I shan't run away. And I shan't try
to back out. What I've said I shall stick to--if it means perdition."
"And what about the Regiment?" Quietly Mordaunt's voice arrested him
before he reached the door. "Or doesn't the Regiment count?"
Rupert stopped dead, but he did not turn. "The Regiment"--he said--"the
Regiment"--he choked suddenly--"they'll be damned well rid of me," he
ended, somewhat incoherently.
"Come back!" Mordaunt said.
He made an irresolute movement, but did not comply.
"Rupert!" There was authority in the quiet voice.
Unwillingly Rupert turned. He came back unsteadily, with features that
had begun to twitch.
Mordaunt moved to meet him. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. He
took Rupert's arm, and brought him back to the table.
"I think you had better let me put you up," he said. "You can sleep in my
room; I'm not wanting it for to-night. There, sit down. You mustn't be a
fool, you know. You are played out, and want a rest."
"I--I'm all right," Rupert said.
He made as if he would withdraw his arm, but changed his intention, and
stood tense, battling with himself.
"Oh, man!" he burst out at last, hoarsely, "you--you don't know what
a--what a--cur I feel! I--I--I--" Words failed him abruptly; he flung
round and sank down again at the table with his head on his arms, too
humbled to remember his manhood any longer.
"My dear fellow, don't!" Mordaunt said. He put his hand on the boy's
heaving shoulders and kept it there. "There's no sense in letting
yourself go. The thing is done, and there is no more to be said, since
neither you nor I can undo it. Come, boy! Pull yourself together. I am
going to forget it, and you can do the same. I think you had better go to
bed now. We shall have time for a talk in the morning. What?" He stooped
to catch a half-audible sentence.
"You'll never forget it," gasped Rupert.
"Yes, I shall--if you will let me. It rests with you. I never wish to
speak or think of it again. I have plenty of other things to think about,
and so have you. That's settled, then. I am going to see if I can find
you something to eat."
He stood up. His face had softened to kindness. He patted Rupert's
shoulder before he turned away.
"Buck up, old chap!" he said gently, and went with quiet tread from the
room.
CHAPTER III
A FRUITLESS ERRAND
"Hullo, Jack!" Noel sprang to meet his cousin with the bound of a young
panther. "Where on earth have you come from? My good chap, you're
positively drenched! You've never walked up from the station!"
"And missed the way twice," said Jack grimly. He shook Noel off without
ceremony. "Where is Trevor? I have come to see him."
"Oh, he's cleared out; went to town this afternoon, says he's going to
Paris to-morrow. There's been no end of a shine, you know. Chris bolted
last night. Heaven only knows where she's gone. I think she might have
told me first."
"I can tell you," said Jack. "She is with Hilda at Graysdale. I have just
come from there. Trevor is in town, you say?"
Noel nodded. "Bertrand's gone too, you know. That was the beginning of
it. Trevor kicked him out for robbing him. Beastly little thief! I told
Trevor he would long ago. I say, you are not going again!"
Jack, still standing on the mat, was consulting his watch. "If there is
another up train to-night I must catch it. There's a motor here, isn't
there? Send round word that it is wanted."
"But there isn't a train!" Noel protested. "I know the last one goes at
nine-fifty, and it's past ten now. Have you all gone raving mad? I always
thought you, anyhow, had a little sense."
Jack uttered a grim laugh. "Well, find a time-table. I must go by the
first train in the morning, whatever the hour. I've got to see Trevor
before he leaves England."
"You won't get any sense out of him," Noel remarked. "I told him he was a
beastly cad myself before he went, and he didn't even punch my head. Oh,
I say, Jack, this place is pretty ghastly with no one in it. I can't
stick it much longer."
"Just get me a drink," Jack said, "and we will discuss your affairs at
length."
Noel departed with his customary expedition. He returned with drinks for
two, which he proceeded to mix with a lavish hand.
"I'm not going to let you have that," Jack observed. "You have dined, and
I haven't. Get me some food like a good chap, and then we will have a
talk."
Noel submitted meekly. He was fond of Jack. Returning with sufficient to
satisfy his cousin's immediate needs, he seated himself on the table
while he ate, and embarked upon a more detailed account of the happenings
of the past two days.
"I only saw Chris for a few minutes," he said in conclusion. "She looked
pretty desperate, and seemed horribly scared. But she wouldn't tell me
why. I knew there was something up, of course. Trevor had told me she was
upset about Bertrand. But I had no idea she was going to cut and run. I
don't know if Trevor had, but I couldn't get anything out of him. It's my
belief the silly ass was jealous."
Jack grunted.
"I didn't know what to do," Noel ended. "So I thought I'd stick on here
till someone turned up."
"You ought to be going back to school," Jack remarked.
Noel leaned carelessly down upon his elbow and looked him straight in the
eyes. "I'm not going," he said.
"Why not?"
"I've other things to think about. I'm going to Graysdale. Can you lend
me a couple of quid for the journey? I'll pay you back when I come of
age."
Jack surveyed him with one brow uplifted. "Suppose I can't?"
"I shall tramp, that's all." Noel made unconcerned response. He was
accustomed to fend for himself, and the prospect of such an adventure was
rather alluring than otherwise.
Jack smiled a little. He liked the boy's independence. "What do you want
to go to Graysdale for?" he asked.
"To look after Chris, of course."
"Hilda can do that."
"Not in the same way. You needn't try to put me off. I'm going." Noel got
off the table with his hands in his pockets and broke into a whistle.
Jack went on with his meal in silence.
Finally Noel came round and stood beside him. "That's understood, is it?"
he said. "One of us ought to be with her, and as you and Rupert are
chasing after Trevor, and Max is in town, it looks like my job. Anyhow,
I'm going to take it on."
"All right," Jack said. "Go and prosper. I'm not sure that you will be
wanted. But that's a detail. I daresay Chris may like to have you."
Noel grinned boyishly. "You're a white man, Jack! I'm jolly glad you
turned up. Between ourselves, I don't mind telling you that I've been in
a fairly stiff paste all day. It's a beastly feeling, isn't it? I'd have
looked after her better if I'd known."
"You're a white man too," said Jack kindly. "Mind you behave like one."
They parted for the night soon after, to meet again very early in the
morning, and finally separate upon their various errands.
Noel departed upon his in obviously high spirits; but he maintained his
air of responsibility notwithstanding, and Jack took leave of him with a
smile of approval.
He himself telegraphed to Hilda as soon as he arrived in town, and
acquainted her with the fact of the boy's advent. He directed her to send
her answering message to him at Mordaunt's rooms, and then proceeded
thither with the firm determination to see the owner thereof without
further delay.
Holmes admitted him, and imparted the information that his master was at
breakfast with the eldest Mr. Wyndham, who had arrived overnight.
Jack's jaw hardened at the news. He had not expected to find Rupert
accepting his brother-in-law's hospitality. He shrugged his shoulders
over the volatility of the Wyndhams, and announced curtly that he desired
to see Mr. Mordaunt in private.
"Will you come into the smoking-room, sir?" asked Holmes.
"Certainly. But tell him I can't wait," said Jack.
He marched into the smoking-room therewith, and Holmes softly closed the
door upon him. The window by which Mordaunt had sat all night long was
open, and the sounds of the street below came cheerily in. Jack crossed
over and quietly shut it.
Turning from this, his eyes fell upon a photograph on the mantelpiece. He
went up to it and took it between his hands. Gaily the pictured face
laughed up at him--Chris in her happiest, wildest mood, with Cinders
clasped in her arms; Chris, the child of the sunny eyes that no shadow
had ever darkened!
Something rose suddenly in Jack's throat. He gulped hard, and put the
portrait back. Was it indeed Chris--the broken-hearted woman he had held
in his arms but yesterday? Then was the Chris of the old days gone for
ever.
Someone entered the room behind him and he wheeled round.
"Good morning," said Mordaunt.
He offered his hand, but Jack ignored it and his greeting alike.
He stood for a couple of seconds in silence, looking at him, while
Mordaunt waited with absolute composure. Then, "I daresay you are
wondering what I have come for," he said. "Or perhaps you can guess."
"Why should I?" Mordaunt said.
Jack frowned abruptly. He had met this impenetrable mood before. But he
would not be baffled by it. It was no moment for subtleties. He went
straight to the point.
"I have come to tell you that Chris is at Graysdale with Hilda," he said.
Mordaunt's brows went up. He said nothing.
But Jack was insistent. "Did you know that?"
"I did not." Very deliberately came Mordaunt's answer; it held no emotion
of any sort. The subject might have been one of utter indifference to
him.
"Then where did you think she was?"
There was an undernote of ferocity in Jack's question, almost a hint of
menace; but Mordaunt seemed unaware of it.
"Forgive me for saying so, Jack," he said. "But that is more my affair
than yours. I have nothing whatever to discuss with you, nor do I hold
myself answerable to you in any way for my actions."
"But I do," Jack said curtly. "I have always held myself responsible for
Chris's welfare. And I do so still."
Mordaunt listened unmoved. "You can hardly expect me to acknowledge your
authority," he said, "since my responsibility in that respect is greater
than yours."
"I have no desire to dictate to you," Jack answered quickly. "But I do
claim the right to speak my mind on this matter. Remember, it was I who
first brought you into her life."
Mordaunt shrugged his shoulders slightly. "As to that, I am fatalist
enough to believe that we should have met in any case. But isn't that
beside the point? I have declined to discuss the matter with anyone, and
I am not going to make an exception of you."
"You must," Jack said. He threw back his shoulders as if bracing himself
for a physical conflict. He was plainly in earnest.
Mordaunt turned to the table and sat down. "You are wasting your time,"
he said. "Argument is quite useless. I have already decided upon my plan
of action, and quarrelling with you is no part of it."
"What is your plan of action?" Jack demanded.
Mordaunt took out his cigarette-case. "I shall start for Paris in a
couple of hours. Meantime"--he glanced up--"I suppose you won't smoke?
Have you had any breakfast?"
"Then you mean to desert her?" Jack said.
Mordaunt's face remained immovable. He began to smoke in dead silence.
Jack's teeth clenched. "I am going to have an answer," he said.
"Very well." Coldly the words fell; there was something merciless in
their very utterance. "Then I will answer you; but it is my last word
upon the subject. My wife followed her own choice in leaving me, and it
is my intention to abide by her decision. If you call that desertion--"
"I do," Jack broke in passionately. "It is desertion, nothing less. She
left you--oh, I know all about it--she left you because you literally
scared her away. You terrified her into going; there was nothing else for
her to do. She had done nothing wrong. But you--you dared to suspect her
of Heaven knows what. You dared to think that Chris--my Chris--was
capable of playing you false, you who were the only man on earth I
thought good enough for her. And do you know what you have done? You have
broken her heart!" He took the portrait from the mantelpiece and thrust
it in front of the man at the table. "That," he said, and suddenly his
voice was quivering, "that was the child you married. I gave her into
your care willingly, though, God knows, I worshipped her. No, you didn't
cut me out. I was never in the running. I never so much as made love to
her. I always knew she was not for me. When she accepted you, I thought
it was the best thing that could possibly happen. I felt she would be
safe with you. You were the one fellow I would have chosen to guard her.
And she needed guarding. She was as innocent and as inexperienced as a
baby. She didn't know the world and its beastly ways. I thought you were
to be trusted to keep her out of the mud; I could have sworn you were.
But you withdrew your protection just when she needed it most. You
practically turned her out, cut her adrift. She might have gone straight
to the bad for all you cared. And now, like the damned blackguard that
you are, you are going to clear out and leave her to break her heart!"
Fiercely the words rushed out. Jack, the placid, the kindly, the
careless, was for the moment electrified by a tornado of feeling that
swept him far beyond the bounds of his customary easy _bonhomie_. He
towered over the man in the chair as if at the first movement he would
fell him to the ground.
But Mordaunt remained quite motionless. He had removed his cigarette, and
sat looking straight up at him with steely eyes that never changed. When
Jack ceased to speak, there fell a silence that was in a sense more
fraught with conflict than any war of words.
Through it at length came Mordaunt's voice, measured and distinct and
cold. "It is not particularly wise of you to take that tone, but that is
your affair. I have already warned you that you are wasting your time.
Your championship is quite superfluous, and will do no good to anyone.
I think you will see this for yourself when you have taken time to think
it over. Wouldn't it be as well to do so before you go any further--for
your own sake, not for mine?"
"I am not thinking of myself at the present moment," Jack responded
sternly, "or of you. I'm thinking of Chris--and Chris only. Man, do you
want to kill her? For you're going the right way to do it."
The cigarette between Mordaunt's fingers slowly doubled and crumpled into
shapelessness, but the steely eyes never altered. They barred the way
inflexibly to the man's inmost soul. He uttered neither question nor
answer.
But Jack was not to be silenced. "I tell you, she is ill," he said. "I
saw her myself yesterday. She was simply broken down. I never saw such a
change in anyone. I couldn't have credited it. Hilda is horribly anxious
about her. She is going to wire to me here as to her condition."
"Why here?" Very calmly came the question.
Jack explained. Almost in spite of himself his own heat had died down,
cooled by that icy deliberation. "I went to Kellerton yesterday in search
of you, found only Noel there, but had to spend the night as it was late.
I came on by the first train, and wired to Hilda to send her message here
in case you may be wanted. It ought to come through in about an hour."
"And you propose to wait for it?"
"Yes, I do." Jack paused an instant; then, "You must wait too," he said
doggedly. "She isn't very likely to want you, and I've sworn you shan't
frighten her any more; but you shan't abandon her either while there is
the faintest chance that she may want you."
"There is not the faintest." Mordaunt glanced down at the thing that had
once been a cigarette which he still held between his fingers,
contemplated it for a moment, then rose and went to the mantelpiece for
an ash-tray. "You have taken a good deal upon yourself, Jack," he said.
"But I have borne with you because I know that your position is a
difficult one. You say you know everything. That may be so, and again
it may not. In either case, our points of view do not coincide. I will
wait until that telegram comes; but it is not my intention to go to my
wife--whatever it may contain."
Jack bit his lip savagely. "In short, you don't care what happens to
her!" he said. "You want to be rid of her--one way or another. And you
don't care how!"
He spoke recklessly, uttering the thought that had come uppermost in his
mind without an instant's consideration. Perhaps instinctively he sought
to rouse the devil that till then had been held in such rigid control.
But the effect of his words was such as he had scarcely looked for.
Mordaunt turned with the movement of a goaded creature and gripped him by
the shoulder. "You believe that?" he said.
They stood face to face. Mordaunt was as white as death. His eyes in that
moment were terrible. But it seemed to Jack that they expressed more of
anguish than of anger, and he felt as if he had seen a soul in torment.
He averted his own instinctively. It was a sight upon which he could not
look.
"Do you believe it?" Mordaunt said, his voice very low.
"No!" Impulsively Jack made answer. That instant's revelation had
quenched his own fire very effectually. "Forgive me!" he said. "I--didn't
understand."
The hand on his shoulder relaxed slowly. There fell a silence. Then, "All
right, Jack," Mordaunt said very quietly.
And Jack knew that he had dropped the veil again that shrouded his soul's
agony.
"You will wait here for that telegram?" Mordaunt asked, after a moment.
"Yes, please."
"Will you come into the other room? Rupert is with me."
"No. I'll wait here, thanks."
"Very well. I shall see you again." Mordaunt crossed to the door, then
paused, and after a moment came slowly back to the table.
He stood before it in silence, looking down upon the portrait that Jack
had laid there as one looks upon the face of the dead.
His face showed no sign of softening, yet Jack made a last effort to move
him. "You're not going to let her fret her heart out for you? You'll go
back to her if she is wanting you? Damn it, Trevor! You can't know what
she is suffering! And after all--she is your wife!"
Mordaunt's mouth hardened. He made no response.
"Surely you don't--you can't--think evil of her?" Jack said.
Mordaunt raised his eyes slowly. "You have said enough," he said, with
quiet emphasis. "As for this portrait, take it if you value it. I never
cared for it myself."
"Never cared for it!" Jack ejaculated.
"No. It never conveyed very much to me. I did not regard her in that
light."
"Then you never knew her," Jack said with conviction.
"Possibly not." Mordaunt turned away once more. "Most of us are blind,"
he said, "until our eyes are opened. I am going to send you in some
breakfast if you are sure you prefer to stay here."
He went out quietly, leaving Jack marvelling at his own docility. The
last thing he would have expected of himself was that at the end of the
interview he also would be accepting the hospitality of the man he had
come almost prepared to shoot. The turn of events forced him into a
species of unwilling admiration. There was no denying the fact that,
mismanage his own private affairs as he might, this was a born leader of
men.
Mordaunt himself brought him his sister's telegram some time later.
He remained in the room while Jack opened it, but he betrayed no
impatience to hear its contents. As for Jack, he stood for several
seconds with the message in his hand before he looked up.
"I suppose you will have to see it," he said then reluctantly.
"That is as you like."
But though the words were emotionless, Mordaunt's eyes searched his face,
and in answer to them Jack held out the paper.
"I am sorry," he said.
"In no danger. Keep Trevor away," was the message it contained.
"As I thought," Mordaunt observed, and handed it back without further
comment.
"She will be wanting you presently," Jack said uneasily, "You know how
women change."
And Mordaunt smiled, a grim, set smile. "Yes, I know," he answered.
CHAPTER IV
THE DESIRE OF HIS HEART
The night was very hot, even hotter than the day had been. Only the
whirring electric fan kept the air moving. It might have been midsummer
instead of the end of September.
Bertrand de Montville, seated in an easy-chair and propped by cushions,
raised his head from time to time and gasped for breath. He held a
newspaper in his hand, for sleep was out of the question. He had been
suffering severely during the day, but the pain had passed and only
weariness remained. His face was yet drawn with the memory of it, and his
eyes were heavily shadowed. But the inherent pluck of the man was still
apparent. His pride of bearing had not waned.
He was reading with close attention a report upon the chief event of the
hour--the trial of Guillaume Rodolphe at Valpré. It had been in progress
for four days, and was likely to last for several more. The report he
read was from the pen of Trevor Mordaunt, an account clear and direct as
the man himself. So far the evidence had seemed to turn in Bertrand's
favour, and, his protestations notwithstanding, it was impossible not to
feel a quickening of the pulses as he realized this fact. Would they ever
send for him? He asked himself. Would they ever desire to do justice to
the man they had degraded?
It was evident that the writer of the account before him thought so.
However Mordaunt's opinion of the man himself had altered, his conviction
on the subject of his innocence of that primary crime had plainly
remained unshaken. He had not allowed himself to be biased by
subsequent events.
"And that is strange--that!" the Frenchman murmured, with his eyes
upon the article. "Perhaps _la petite Christine_ has convinced him.
But no--that is not probable."
He broke off as the door opened, and a quick smile of welcome flashed
across his face. He stretched out both hands to the new-comer.
"All right. Sit still," said Max.
He sauntered across the room, his coat hanging open and displaying
evening dress, and gave his hand into Bertrand's eager clasp. It was a
very cool hand, and strong with a vitality that seemed capable of
imparting itself.
He looked down at Bertrand with a queer glint of tenderness in his eyes.
"I shouldn't have come up at this hour," he said, "but I guessed you
would be awake. How goes it, old chap? Pretty bad, eh?"
"No, I am better," Bertrand said. "I am glad that you came up."