Title: The Rocks of Valpre
Author: Dell, Ethel M. (Ethel May), 1881-1939
Language: English
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THE ROCKS OF VALPRÉ

by

ETHEL M. DELL

Author of "The Way of an Eagle," "The Knave of Diamonds," etc.

1913



I Dedicate This Book To MY MOTHER

AS A VERY SMALL TOKEN OF THAT LOVE WHICH NO WORDS CAN EXPRESS

  "Love is indestructible:
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
  Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,
  At times deceived, at times opprest,
  It here is tried and purified,
  Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,
Bat the harvest-time of Love is there."

_The Curse of Kehama_--Robert Southey.



CONTENTS

CHAPTER

PROLOGUE

   I. THE KNIGHT OF THE MAGIC CAVE
  II. DESTINY
 III. A ROPE OF SAND
  IV. THE DIVINE MAGIC
   V. THE BIRTHDAY TREAT
  VI. THE SPELL
 VII. IN THE CAUSE OF A WOMAN
VIII. THE ENGLISHMAN


PART I

   I. THE PRECIPICE
  II. THE CONQUEST
 III. THE WARNING
  IV. DOUBTS
   V. DE PROFUNDIS
  VI. ENGAGED
 VII. THE SECOND WARNING
VIII. THE COMPACT
  IX. A CONFESSION
   X. A SURPRISE VISIT
  XI. THE EXPLANATION
 XII. THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
XIII. PALS
 XIV. A REVELATION
  XV. MISGIVINGS
 XVI. MARRIED


PART II

   I. SUMMER WEATHER
  II. ONE OF THE FAMILY
 III. DISASTER
  IV. GOOD-BYE TO CHILDHOOD
   V. THE LOOKER-ON
  VI. A BARGAIN
 VII. THE ENEMY
VIII. THE THIN END
  IX. THE ENEMY MOVES
   X. A WARNING VOICE
  XI. A BROKEN REED
 XII. A MAN OF HONOUR
XIII. WOMANHOOD


PART III

   I. WAR
  II. FIREWORKS
 III. THE TURN OF THE TIDE
  IV. "MINE OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND"
   V. A DESPERATE REMEDY
  VI. WHEN LOVE DEMANDS A SACRIFICE
 VII. THE WAY OF THE WYNDHAMS
VIII. THE TRUTH


PART IV

   I. THE REFUGEE
  II. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR
 III. A FRUITLESS ERRAND
  IV. THE DESIRE OF HIS HEART
   V. THE STRANGER
  VI. MAN TO MAN
 VII. THE MESSENGER
VIII. ARREST
  IX. VALPRÉ AGAIN
   X. THE INDESTRUCTIBLE
  XI. THE END OF THE VOYAGE
 XII. THE PROCESSION UNDER THE WINDOWS



PROLOGUE



CHAPTER I

THE KNIGHT OF THE MAGIC CAVE


When Cinders began to dig a hole no power on earth, except brute force,
could ever stop him till he sank exhausted. Not even the sight of a crab
could divert his thoughts from this entrancing occupation, much less his
mistress's shrill whistle; and this was strange, for on all other
occasions it was his custom to display the most exemplary obedience.

Of a cheerful disposition was Cinders, deeply interested in all things
living, despising nothing however trivial, constantly seeking, and very
often finding, treasures of supreme value in his own estimation. It was
probably this passion for investigation that induced him to dig with such
energy and perseverance, but he was not an interesting companion when the
digging mood was upon him. It was, in fact, advisable to keep at a
distance, for he created a miniature sand-storm in his immediate vicinity
that spoiled the amusement of all except himself and successfully checked
all intrusive sympathy.

"It really is too bad of him," said Chris, as she sat on a rock at twelve
yards' distance and dried her feet in melancholy preoccupation. "It's the
third day running, and I'm so tired of having nobody to talk to and
nothing to do--not even a crab-hunt."

There was some pleasure to be extracted from crab-hunting under Cinders'
ardent leadership, but alone it held no fascinations. It really was just
a little selfish of Cinders.

She glanced towards him, and saw that the sand-storm had temporarily
abated. He was working away the heap that had collected beneath him in
preparation for more extensive operations.

"Cinders!" she called, in the forlorn hope of attracting his attention.
"Cinders!" Then, with a sudden spurt of animation, "Cinders darling, just
come and see what I've found!"

But Cinders was not so easily deceived. He stood a moment with his stubby
little body tensely poised, then plunged afresh with feverish eagerness
to his task.

The sand-storm recommenced, and Chris turned with a sigh to contemplate
the blue horizon. A large steamer was travelling slowly across it. She
watched it enviously.

"Lucky people!" she said. "Lucky, lucky people!"

The wind caught her red-brown hair and blew it out like a cloak behind
her. It was still damp, for she had been bathing, and when the wind had
passed it settled again in long, gleaming ripples upon her shoulders. She
pushed it away from her face with an impatient hand.

"Cinders," she said, "if you don't come soon I shall go and find the
Knight of the Magic Cave all by myself."

But even this threat did not move the enthusiastic Cinders. All that
could be seen of him was a pair of sturdy hind-legs firmly planted amid a
whirl of sand. Quite plainly it was nothing to him what steps his young
mistress might see fit to take to relieve her boredom.

"All right!" said Chris, springing to her feet with a flourish of her
towel. "Then good-bye!"

She shook the hair back from her face, slipped her bare feet into
sandals, slung the towel across her shoulders, and turned her face to the
cliffs.

They frowned above the rock-strewn beach to a height of two hundred feet,
tunnelled here and there by the sea, scored here and there by springs,
rising mass upon mass, in some places almost perpendicular, in others
overhanging.

They possessed an immense fascination for Chris Wyndham, these cliffs.
There was a species of dreadful romance about them that attracted even
while it awed her. She longed to explore them, and yet deep in the most
private recesses of her soul she was half-afraid. So many terrible
stories were told of this particular corner of the rocky coast. So many
ships were wrecked, so many lives were lost, so many hopes were quenched
forever between the cliffs and the sea.

But these facts did not prevent her weaving romances about those
wonderful caves. For instance, there was the Magic Cave, for which she
was bound now, the entrance to which was only accessible at low tide.
There was something particularly imposing about this entrance, something
palatial, that stirred the girl's quick fancy. She had never before quite
reached it on account of the difficulty of the approach; but she had
promised herself that she would do so sooner or later, when time and tide
should permit.

Both chanced to be favourable on this particular afternoon, and she set
forth light-footed upon the adventure, leaving Cinders to his monotonous
but all-engrossing pastime. A wide line of rocks stretched between her
and her goal, which was dimly discernible in the deep shadow of the
cliff--a mysterious opening that had the appearance of a low Gothic
archway.

"I'm sure it's haunted," said Chris, and fell forthwith to dreaming as
she stepped along the sunlit sand.

Of course she would find an enchanted hall, peopled by crabs that were
not crabs at all, but the afore-mentioned knight and his retinue, all
bound by the same wicked spell. "And I shall have to find out what it is
and set him free," said Chris, with a sigh of pleasurable anticipation.
"And then, I suppose, he will begin to jabber French, and I shall wish to
goodness I hadn't. I expect he will want to marry me, poor thing! And I
shall have to explain--in French, ugh!--that as he is only a foreigner I
couldn't possibly, under any circumstances, entertain such a preposterous
notion for a single instant. No, I am afraid that would sound rather
rude. How else could I put it?"

Chris's brow wrinkled over the problem. She had reached the outlying
rocks of the belt she had to cross, and was picking her way between the
pools in deep abstraction.

"I wonder!" she murmured to herself. "I wonder!"

Then suddenly her rapt expression broke into a merry smile. "I know!
Of course! Absurdly easy! I shall tell him that I am under a spell
too--bound beyond all chance of escape to marry an Englishman." The sweet
face dimpled over the inspiration. "That ought to settle him, unless he
is very persevering; in which case of course I should have to tell
him--quite kindly--that I really didn't think I could. Fancy marrying a
crab--and a French crab too!"

She began to laugh, gaily, irrepressibly, light-heartedly, and skipped on
to the first weed-covered rock that obstructed her path. It was an
exceedingly slippery perch. She poised herself with arms outspread, with
a butterfly grace as airy as her visions.

Away in the distance Cinders, nearing exhaustion, leaned on one elbow and
scratched spasmodically with his free paw.

"Good-bye, Cinders!" she called to him in her high young voice. "I'm
never coming back any more."

Lightly she waved her hand and sprang for another rock. But her feet
slipped on the seaweed, and she splashed down into a pool ankle-deep.

"Bother!" she said, with vehemence. "It's these silly sandals. I'll leave
them here till I come back."

She scrambled out again and pulled them off. "If I really don't come back
I shan't want them," she reflected, with her merry little smile.

She arranged sandals and towel on the flat surface of a rock and pursued
her pilgrimage unhampered.

She certainly managed better without the sandals, but even as it was she
slipped and slid a good deal on the treacherous seaweed. It took her
considerably longer than she had anticipated to cross that belt of rocks.
It was much farther than it looked. Moreover, the pools were so full of
interest that she had to stop and investigate them as she went. Anemones,
green and red, clung to the shining rocks, and crabs of all sizes
scuttled away at her approach.

"What a lot of retainers he must have!" said Chris.

She was nearing the Gothic archway, and her heart began to beat fast in
anticipation. What she really expected to find she could not have said.
But undoubtedly this particular cave was many degrees more mysterious and
more eerie than any other she had ever explored. It was very lonely, and
the cliff that frowned above her was very black. The afternoon sun shone
genially upon all things, however, and this gave her courage.

The waves foamed among the rocks but a few yards from the jutting
headland. Already the tide was turning. That meant that her time was
short.

"I won't go beyond the entrance to-day," said Chris. "But to-morrow I'll
start earlier and go right in. P'raps Cinders will come too. It wouldn't
be so lonely with Cinders."

The rocks all about her lay scattered like gigantic ruins. She stood
upon a high boulder and peered around her. There was certainly something
awe-inspiring about the place, the bright sun notwithstanding. It seemed
to lie beneath a spell. She wondered if she would come across any bits of
wreckage, and suppressed a shudder. The Gothic archway looked very dark
and vault-like from where she stood. Should she, after all, go any
nearer? Should she wait till Cinders would deign to accompany her? The
tide was undoubtedly rising. In any case she would have to turn back
within the next few minutes.

Slowly she pivoted round and looked again from the smiling horizon
whereon no ship was visible to the Magic Cave that yawned in the
face of the cliff. The next instant she jumped so violently that
she missed her footing and fell from her perch in sheer amazement.
Something--someone--was moving just within the deep shadow where the
sunlight could not penetrate!

It was not a big drop, but she came to earth with a cry of pain among a
mass of fallen stones, whereon she subsided, tightly clasping one foot
between her hands. She had stumbled upon wreckage to her cost; a piece of
rusty iron at her side and the blood that ran out between her locked
fingers testified to that.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she wailed, rocking herself, and then glanced
nervously over her shoulder, remembering the mysterious cause of the
disaster.

The next moment swiftly she released the injured foot and sprang up. A
man, attired in white linen, had emerged from the Magic Cave.

He stood a second looking at her, then came bounding towards her over the
rocks.

Chris shrank back against her boulder. She was feeling dizzy and rather
sick, and the apparition frightened her.

As he drew near she waved a desperate hand to stay his approach. "Oh,
please go away!" she cried in English. "I--I don't want any help. I'm
only looking for crabs."

He paid no attention whatever to her gesture or to her words. Only,
reaching her, he bowed very low, beginning with some formality, "_Mais,
mademoiselle; permettez-moi, je vous prie_," and ending in tones of quick
compassion, "_Ah, pauvre petite! Pauvre petite_!"

Before she knew his intention he was on his knees before her, and had
taken the cut foot very gently into his hands.

Chris leaned back, clinging to the boulder. The sunlight danced giddily
in her eyes. She felt as if she were slipping over the edge of the world.

"I can't--stand," she faltered weakly.

"No, no, _petite_! But naturally!" came the reassuring reply. "Be seated,
I beg. Permit me to assist you!"

Chris, being quite incapable of doing otherwise, yielded herself to
the gentle insistence of an arm that encircled her. She had an
impression--fleeting at the time but returning to her later--of friendly
dark eyes that looked for an instant into hers; and then, exactly how it
happened she knew not, she was sitting propped against the rock, while
all the world swam dizzily around her, and someone with sure, steady
hands wound a bandage tightly and ever more tightly around her wounded
foot.

"It hurts!" she murmured piteously.

"Have patience, mademoiselle! It will be better in a moment," came the
quick reply. "I shall not hurt you more than is necessary. It is to
arrest the bleeding, this. Mademoiselle will endure the pain like a brave
child, yes?"

Chris swallowed a little shudder. The dizziness was passing. She was
beginning to see more clearly, and her gaze travelled with dawning
criticism over the neat white figure that ministered so confidently to
her need.

"I knew he'd be French," she whispered half aloud.

"But I speak English, mademoiselle," he returned, without raising his
black head,

"Yes," she said, with a sigh of relief. "I'm very glad of that. Must you
pull it any tighter? I--I can bear it, of course, but I'd much rather you
didn't if--if you don't mind."

She spoke gaspingly. Her eyes were full of tears, though she kept them
resolutely from falling.

"Poor little one!" he said. "But you are very brave. Once more--so--and
we will not do it again. The pain is not so bad now, no?"

He looked up at her with a smile so kindly that Chris nearly broke down
altogether. She made a desperate grab after her self-control, and by dint
of biting her lower lip very hard just saved herself from this calamity.

It was a very pleasing face that looked into her own, olive-hued, with
brows as delicate as a woman's. A thin line of black moustache outlined a
mouth that was something over-sensitive. He was certainly quite a
captivating fairy prince.

Chris shook the thick hair back upon her shoulders and surveyed him with
interest. "It's getting better," she said. "It was a horrid cut, wasn't
it? You don't know how it hurt."

"But I can imagine it," he declared. "I saw immediately that it was
serious. Mademoiselle cannot attempt to walk."

"Oh, but I must indeed!" protested Chris in dismay. "I shall be drowned
if I stay here."

He shook his head. "Ah no, no! You shall not stay here. If you will
accept my assistance, all will be well."

"But you can't--carry me!" gasped Chris.

He rose to his feet, still smiling. "And why not, little one? Because you
think that I have not the strength?"

Chris looked up at him speculatively. She felt no shyness; he was not the
sort of person with whom she could feel shy. He was too kindly, too
protecting, too altogether charming, for that. But he was of slender
build, and she could not help entertaining a very decided doubt as to his
physical powers.

"I am much heavier--and much older--than you think," she remarked at
length.

He laughed boyishly, as if she had made a joke. "_Mais c'est drôle,
cela_! Me, I have no thoughts upon the subject, mademoiselle. I believe
what I see, and I assure you that I am well capable of carrying you
across the rocks to Valpré. You lodge at Valpré?"

Chris nodded. "And you? No," hastily checking herself, "don't tell me!
You live in the Magic Cave, of course. I knew you were there. It was why
I came."

"You knew, mademoiselle?" His eyes interrogated her.

She nodded again in answer. "You have lived there for hundreds of years.
You were under a spell, and I came and broke it. If I hadn't cut my foot,
you would have been there still. Do you really think you can lift me? And
what shall you do when you come to cross the rocks? They are much too
slippery to walk on."

He stooped to raise her, still smiling. "Have no fear, mademoiselle! I
know these rocks by heart."

She laughed with a child's pure merriment. "Oh, I am not afraid, _preux
chevalier_. But if you find me too heavy--"

"If I cannot carry the queen of the fairies," he interrupted, "I am not
worthy of the name."

He had her in his arms with the words, holding her lightly and easily, as
if she had been an infant. His eyes smiled reassuringly into hers.

"So, mademoiselle! We depart for Valpré!"

"What fun!" said Chris.

It seemed she was to enjoy her adventure after all, adverse circumstances
notwithstanding. Her foot throbbed and burned, but she put this fact
resolutely away from her. She had found the knight, and, albeit he was
French, she was very pleased with him. He was the prettiest toy that had
ever yet come her way.

Possibly in this respect the knight's sentiments resembled hers. For she
was very enchanting, this English girl, fresh as a rose and gay as a
butterfly, with a face that none called beautiful but which most paused
to admire. It was the vividness, the entrancing vitality of her, that
caught the attention. People smiled almost unwittingly when little Chris
Wyndham turned her laughing eyes their way; they were so clear, so blue,
so confidingly merry. There was a rare sweetness about her, a spontaneous
charm irresistibly winning. She loved everybody without effort, as
naturally as she loved life, with an absence of self-consciousness so
entire that perhaps it was not surprising that she was loved in return.

"You are much stronger than you look, _preux chevalier_," she remarked
presently. "But wouldn't you like to set me down while you go and fetch
my sandals? They are over there on the rocks. It would be a pity for them
to get washed away, and I might manage to walk with them on."

He had brought her safely over the most difficult part of the way. He
seated her at once upon a flat rock, and stooped to assure himself as to
the success of his bandage.

"It gives you not so much of pain, no?" he asked.

"It scarcely hurts at all," she assured him. "You will be quick now,
won't you, because I ought to be getting back. If you see Cinders, you
might bring him too."

"Cinders?" he questioned, pausing.

"My dog," she explained. "But he doesn't talk French, so I don't suppose
he will follow you."

He received the information with a smile. "But I speak English,
mademoiselle," he protested for the second time.

"Ah yes, you do--after a fashion," admitted Chris. "But I don't suppose
Cinders would understand it. It's not very English English."

He raised his shoulders in a gesture that was purely French. "_La belle
dame sans merci_!" he murmured ruefully. "_Bien_! I will do my possible."

"Splendid!" laughed Chris. "No one could do more."

She watched him go with eyes that sparkled with merriment. The trim,
slight figure was quite good to look upon. He went bounding over the
rocks with the sure-footed grace of a chamois.

"I wonder who he really is," said Chris, "and where he comes from."



CHAPTER II

DESTINY


Over the rocks went the stranger with the careless speed of youth,
humming to himself in a soft tenor, his brown face turned to the sun. The
pleasant smile was still upon it. He had the look of one in whose eyes
all things are good.

Ahead of him gleamed the towel with the sandals upon it, sandals that
might have been fashioned for fairy feet. He quickened his pace at sight
of them. But she was charming, this English child! He had never before
seen anyone quite so dainty. And of a courage unique in one so young!

He was nearing the sandals now, but the sun was in his eyes, and he saw
only the towel spread like a tablecloth over the rock. He sprang lightly
down on to a heap of shingle, and reached for it, still humming the
_chanson_ that the little English girl had somehow put into his head.

The next instant a deep growl arrested him, and sharply he drew back.
There was something more than a pair of sandals on the towel above him,
something that crouched in an attitude of tense hostility, daring him to
approach. It was only a small creature that thus challenged him, only a
weird black terrier of doubtful extraction, but he bristled from end to
end with animosity. Quite plainly he regarded the sandals as his
responsibility. With glaring eyes and gleaming teeth he crouched,
prepared to defend them.

The young Frenchman's discomfiture was but momentary. In an instant he
had taken in the situation and the humour of it.

"But it is the good Cinders!" he said aloud, and extended a fearless
hand. "So, my friend, so! The little mistress waits."

Cinders' growl became a snarl. He sucked up his breath in furious
protest, threatening murder. But the stranger's hand was not withdrawn.
On the contrary it advanced upon him with the utmost deliberation till
Cinders was compelled to jerk backwards to avoid it.

So jerking, he missed his footing as his mistress had before him, lost
his balance, and rolled, cursing, clinging, and clambering, over the edge
of the rock.

Had the Frenchman laughed at that moment he would have made an enemy for
life. But most fortunately he did not regard an antagonist's downfall as
a fit subject for mirth. In fact, being of a chivalrous turn, he grabbed
at the luckless Cinders, clutched his collar, and dragged him up again.
And--perhaps it was the generosity of the action, perhaps only its
obvious fearlessness--he won Cinders' heart from that instant. His
hostility merged into sudden ardent friendship. He set his paws on the
young man's chest, and licked his face.

Thenceforth he was more than welcome to sandals and towel and even the
effusive Cinders himself, who leaped around him barking in high delight,
and accompanied him with giddy circlings upon his return journey.

Chris, who had viewed the encounter from afar with much interest, clapped
her hands at their approach.

"And you weren't a bit afraid!" she laughed. "I couldn't think what you
would do. Cinders looked so fierce. But any one can see you understand
dogs--even English dogs."

"It is possible that at heart the English and the French resemble each
other more than we think, mademoiselle," observed the Frenchman. "One can
never tell."

He bent again over the injured foot with the sandal in his hand.

"It's very good of you to take all this trouble," said Chris abruptly.

He flashed her a quick smile. "But no, mademoiselle! It gives me pleasure
to be of service to you."

"I'm sure I don't know what I should have done without you," she
rejoined. "Ah, that is much better. I shall be able to walk now."

"You think it?" He looked at her doubtfully.

She nodded. "If you will take me as far as the sand, I shall do
splendidly then. You see, I can't let you come into Valpré with me
because--because--"

"Because, mademoiselle--?" Up went the black brows questioningly.

She flushed a little, but her clear eyes met his with absolute candour.
"We have a French governess," she explained, "who was brought up in a
convent, so she is very easily shocked. If she knew that I had spoken to
a stranger, and a man"--she raised her hands with a merry gesture--"she
would have a fit--several fits. I couldn't risk it. Poor mademoiselle!
She doesn't understand our English ways a bit. Why, she wouldn't even let
me paddle if she could help it. I shall have to keep very quiet about
this foot of mine, or it will be '_Jamais encore_!' and '_Encore
jamais_!' for the rest of my natural life. And, after all," pathetically,
"there can be no great harm in dipping one's feet in sea-water, can
there?"

But the Frenchman looked grave. "You will show your foot to the doctor,
will you not?" he said.

"Dear me, no!" said Chris.

"_Mais, mademoiselle_--"

She checked him with her quick, winning smile.

"Please don't talk French. I like English so much the best. Besides, it's
holiday-time."

"But, mademoiselle," he persisted, "if it should become serious!"

"Oh, it won't," she said lightly. "I shall be all right. Nothing ever
happens to me."

"Nothing?" he questioned, with an answering smile.

She was hobbling over the stones with his assistance. "Nothing
interesting, I assure you," she said.

"Except when mademoiselle goes to the cavern of the fairies to look for
the magic knight?" he suggested.

She threw him a merry glance. "To be sure! I will come and see you again
some day when the tide is low. Is there a dragon in the cave?"

"He is there only when the tide is high, mademoiselle, a beast enormous
with eyes of fire."

"And a princess?" asked the English girl, keenly interested.

"No, there is no princess."

"Only you and the dragon?"

"Generally only me, mademoiselle."

"Whatever do you do there?" she asked curiously.

His smile was bafflingly direct. "Me? I make magic, mademoiselle."

"What sort of magic?"

"What sort? That is a difficult question."

"May I come and see it?" asked Chris eagerly, scenting a mystery.

He hesitated.

"I'll come all by myself," she assured him.

"_Mais la gouvernante_--"

"As if I should bring her! No, no! I'll come alone--with Cinders."

"_Mais, mademoiselle_--"

"If you say that again I shall be cross," announced Chris.

"But--pardon me, mademoiselle--the governess, might she not object?"

"Absurd!" said Chris. "I am not a French girl, and I won't behave like
one."

He laughed at that, plainly because he could not help it. "Mademoiselle
pleases herself!" he observed.

"Of course I do," returned Chris vigorously. "I always have. I may come
then?"

"But certainly."

"When?"

"When you will, mademoiselle."

Chris considered. They had reached the firm sand, and she stood still. "I
can't come to-morrow because of my foot, and the day after the tide will
be too late. I shall have to wait nearly a fortnight. How dull!"

"In a fortnight, then!" said the Frenchman.

"In a fortnight, _preux chevalier_!" Her eyes laughed up at him. "But I
dare say we shall meet before then. I hope we shall."

"I hope it also, mademoiselle." He bowed courteously.

She held out her hand. "I shall come on the tenth of the month--it's my
birthday. I'll bring some cakes, and we'll have a party, and invite the
dragon." Her eyes danced. "We will have some fun, shall we?"

"I think that we shall not want the dragon," he smiled back.

"No? Perhaps not. Well, I'll bring Cinders instead."

"Ah, the good Cinders! He is different."

"And we will go exploring," she said eagerly. "I shan't be a bit afraid
of anything with you there. The tenth, then! Don't forget! Good-bye, and
thank you ever so much! You won't fail me, will you?"

He bent low over the impetuous little hand. "I shall not fail you,
mademoiselle. _Adieu_!"

"_Au revoir_!" she laughed back. "Come along, Cinders! We shall be late
for tea."

He stood motionless on the sunlit sand and watched her go.

She was limping, but she moved quickly notwithstanding. Cinders trotted
soberly by her side.

As she reached the little _plage_, she turned as if aware of his watching
eyes and nonchalantly waved the towel that dangled on her arm. The
sunlight had turned her hair to burnished copper. It made her for the
moment wonderful, and a gleam of swift admiration shot across the
Frenchman's face.

"_Merveilleux_!" he whispered to himself, and half-aloud, "Good-bye,
little bird of Paradise!"

With a courteous gesture of farewell, he turned away. When he looked
again, the child, with her glorious, radiant hair, had passed from sight.

He went back, springing over the rocks, to the Gothic archway that had
fired her curiosity. The tide was rising fast. Already the white foam
raced up to the rocky entrance. He splashed through it, and went within
as one on business bent.

He was absent for some seconds, and soon a large wave broke with a long
roar and rushed swirling into the cave. As the gleaming water ran out
again, he emerged.

A single glance was sufficient to show him that retreat by way of the
beach was already cut off. He recognized the fact with a rueful grimace.
The long green waves tumbling along the rocks were rising higher every
instant.

With a quick glance around him, the young man sprang for an upstanding
rock, reached it in safety, and paused, keenly studying the black face of
the cliff.

It frowned above him like a rampart, gloomy, terrible, impregnable. He
shrugged his shoulders with another grimace, then, as the foam splashed
up over his feet, leaped lightly onto another rock higher than the first,
whence it was possible to reach a great buttress that jutted outwards
from the cliff itself.

Once upon this, he began to climb diagonally, clambering like a monkey,
availing himself of every inch that offered foothold. A slip would have
meant instant disaster, but this fact did not apparently occur to him, or
if it did he was not dismayed thereby. He even presently, as he
cautiously worked his way upwards, began to hum again in gay snatches the
song that a child's clear eyes had set running in his brain that
afternoon.

It was a progress that waxed more perilous as he proceeded. The waves
dashed themselves to cataracts below him. Return was impossible, and many
would have deemed advance equally so. But he struggled on, maintaining
his zigzag course upwards, with nerve unfailing and spirits unimpaired.

Gulls flew out above his head and circled about him with indignant
protests. He looked somewhat like a gigantic gull himself, his slim white
figure outlined against the darkness of the cliff. He cried back to the
startled birds reassuringly in their own language, but the commotion
continued; and presently, finding precarious foothold on a narrow ledge
halfway up, he stopped to wipe his forehead and laugh with merriment
unfeigned. He was plainly in love with life--one in whose eyes all things
were good, but yet who loved the hazard of them even better.

The ledge did not permit of much comfort. Nevertheless he managed to
turn upon it and to lean back against the cliff, with his brown face to
sky and sea. He even, after a moment, took out a cigarette and lighted
it. The sun shone full in his eyes, and he seemed to revel in it. A
sun-worshipper also, apparently!

He smoked his cigarette to the end very deliberately, flicking the
ash from time to time towards the raging water below. When he had
quite finished, he stretched his arms wide with a gesture of sublime
self-confidence, faced about, and very composedly continued his climb.

It grew more and more arduous as he neared the frowning summit. He had to
feel his way with the utmost caution. Once he missed his footing, and
slipped several feet before he could recover himself, and after this
experience he took a clasp-knife from his pocket and notched himself
footholds where none offered. It was a very lengthy business, and the sun
was dipping downwards to the sea ere he came within reach of his goal.
The top of the cliff overhung where he first approached it, and he had to
work a devious course below it till he came to a more favourable place.

Reaching a gap at length, he braced himself for the final effort. The
surface of the cliff here was loose, and the stones rattled continually
from beneath his feet; but he clung like a limpet, nothing daunted, and
at last his hands were gripped in the coarse grass that fringed the
summit. Sheer depth was below him, and the inward-curving cliff offered
no possibility of foothold.

He stood, gathering his strength for a last stupendous effort. It was a
supreme moment. It meant abandoning the support on which he stood and
depending entirely upon the strength of his arms to attain to safety. The
risk was desperate. He stood bracing himself to take it.

Finally, with an upward fling of the head, as of one who diced with the
gods, he gripped that perilous edge and dared the final throw. Slowly,
with stupendous effort, he hoisted himself up. It was the work of an
expert athlete; none other would have attempted it.

Up he went and up, steadily, strongly; his head came level with his
hands; he peered over the edge of the cliff. The strain was terrific. The
careless smile was gone from his lips. In that instant he no longer
ignored what lay behind him; he knew the suspense of the gambler who
pauses after he has thrown before he lifts the dice-box to read his fate.

Up, and still up! The grass was beginning to yield in his clutching
fingers; he dug them into the earth below. Now his shoulders were above
the edge; his chest also, heaving with strenuous effort. To lower himself
again was impossible. His feet dangled over space. And the surging of the
water below him was as the roaring of an angry monster cheated of its
prey.

He set his teeth. He was nearing the end of his strength. Had he, after
all, attempted the impossible, flung the dice too recklessly, dared his
fate too far? If so, he would pay the penalty swiftly, swiftly, down
among the cruel rocks where many another had perished before him.

The surging sounded louder. It seemed to be in his brain. It bewildered
him, deprived him of the power to think. A great many voices seemed to
clamour around him, but only one could be clearly heard; only one, and
that the voice of a child close to him--or was that also an illusion born
of the racking strain that had driven all the blood to his head?

"You won't fail me, will you?" it said.

Surely his grasp was slackening, his powers were passing, when like a
flashlight those words illuminated his brain. He was as one in deep
waters, swamped and sinking; but that voice called him back.

He opened his eyes, he drew a great breath. He flung his whole soul into
one last great effort. He remembered suddenly that the little English
girl, the child with the glorious hair and laughing eyes, his
acquaintance of an hour, would be looking for him exactly two weeks from
that moment. He was sure she would look, and--she would be disappointed
if she looked in vain. One must not disappoint a child.

The memory of her went through him, vivid, enchanting, compelling. It
nerved his sinking heart. It renewed his grip on life. It urged him
upwards.

Only a child! Only a child! But yet--

"I shall not--shall not--fail you!" he gasped, and with the words his
knees reached the top of the cliff.

His strength collapsed instantly, like the snapping of a fiddle-string.
He fell forward on his face, and lay prone...

A little later he worked the whole of his body into security, rolled over
on his back with closed eyes to the sky, and waited while his heart
slowed down to its normal rhythmic beat.

At last, quite suddenly, he sat up and looked around him. The laughter
flashed back into his eyes. He sprang to his feet, mud-stained,
dishevelled, yet exultant.

He clicked his heels together and faced the sinking sun, slim and
upright, one stiff hand to his head. He had diced with the gods, and he
had won.

"_Destinée! Je te salue!_" he said, and the next instant whizzed smartly
round with a soldier's precision of movement and marched away towards the
fortress that crowned the hill above the rocks of Valpré.



CHAPTER III

A ROPE OF SAND


Undoubtedly Mademoiselle Gautier was querulous, and equally without doubt
she had good reason to be so; but it made it a little dull for Chris.
Accidents would happen, wherever one went, and what was the good of
making a fuss?

Of course, every allowance had to be made for poor Mademoiselle in
consideration of the fact that she was torn in pieces by the valiant
attempt to keep her attention focussed upon three children at once. The
effort had not so far been a brilliant success, and Mademoiselle,
conscious within herself of her inability to cope adequately with her
threefold responsibility, being moreover worn out by her gallant struggle
to do so, was inclined to shortness of temper and a severity of judgment
that bordered upon injustice.

If Chris would persist in flying about the shore in that wild fashion
with her hair loose--that flaming hair which Mademoiselle considered in
itself to be almost indecent--what could be expected but that some
_contretemps_ must of necessity arrive? It was useless for Chris to
protest that it was not her hair that had got her into difficulties, that
she had only left it loose to dry it after her bathe, that there had been
no one to see--at least, no one that mattered--and that the cut on her
foot was solely due to the fact that she had taken off her sand-shoes to
climb over the rocks. Mademoiselle only shook her head with pursed lips.
Chris _était méchante--très méchante_, and no amount of arguing would
make her change her opinion upon that point.

So Chris abandoned argument while the worried little Frenchwoman bathed
and bandaged her foot anew. She would not be able to bathe again for at
least a week, and this fact was of itself sufficient to depress her into
silence. Yet, after a little, when Mademoiselle was gone, a cheery little
tune rose to her lips. It was not her nature to be depressed for long.

Mademoiselle Gautier would have been something less than human if she had
not yielded now and then under the perpetual strain in which, for many
days past, she had lived. She had come to Valpré in charge of Chris and
her two young brothers, both of whom had developed diphtheria within a
day or two of their arrival. The children's father was absent in India;
his only sister, upon whom the cares of his family were supposed to rest,
was entertaining Royalty, and was far too important a personage in the
social world to be spared at short notice. And so the whole burden had
devolved upon poor Mademoiselle Gautier, who had been near her wits' end
with anxiety, but had nobly grappled with her task.

The worst of the business, speaking in a physical sense, was now over.
Both her patients--Maxwell, who was Chris's twin, and little Noel, the
youngest of the family, aged twelve--had turned the corner and were
progressing towards convalescence. Over the latter she still had qualms
of uneasiness, but the elder boy was rapidly picking up his strength and
giving more trouble than he had ever given before in the process.

By inexorable decree Chris was kept away from the two over whom
Mademoiselle, aided by a convent nurse, still watched with unremitting
care; and it did seem a little hard in the opinion of the harassed
Frenchwoman that her one sound charge could not be trusted to conduct
herself with circumspection during her days of enforced solitude. Chris
Wyndham, however, had been a tomboy all her life, and she could scarcely
be expected to reform at such a juncture. She was not accustomed to
solitude, and her restless spirit chafed after distraction.

The conventions had never troubled her. Brought up as she had been with
three unruly boys, running wild with them during the whole of her
childhood, it was scarcely to be wondered at if her outlook on life was
more that of a boy than a girl. She had been in Mademoiselle Gautier's
charge during the past three years, but somehow that had not sobered her
very materially. She was spoilt by all except her aunt, who was wont to
remark with some acidity that if she didn't come to grief one way or
another, this would probably continue to be the case for the term of her
natural life. But it was quite plain that Aunt Philippa expected her to
come to grief. Girls like Chris, unless they married out of the
schoolroom, usually played with fire until they burnt their fingers. The
fact of the matter was Chris was far too attractive, and though as yet
sublimely unconscious of the fact, Aunt Philippa knew that sooner or
later it was bound to dawn upon her. She did not relish the prospect of
steering this giddy little barque through the shoals and quicksands of
society, being shrewdly suspicious that the task might well prove too
much for her. For with all her sweetness, Chris was undeniably wilful, a
princess who expected to have her own way; and Aunt Philippa had a
daughter of her own, Chris's senior by three years, as well as a son in
the Guards, to consider.

No, she did not approve of Chris, or indeed of any of the family,
including her own brother, who was its head. She had not approved of his
gay young wife, Irish and volatile, who had died at the birth of little
Noel. She doubted the stability of each one of them in turn, and plainly
told her brother that he must attend to the launching of his children for
himself. She was willing to do her best for them as children, but as
grown-ups she declined the responsibility.

His answer to this had been that they must remain children until he could
spare the time to attend to them. The eldest boy, Rupert, was now at
Sandhurst, Maxwell was being educated at Marlborough, and Noel, who was
never very strong, was at present with Chris in Mademoiselle Gautier's
care. The summer holiday at Valpré had been Mademoiselle's suggestion,
and bitterly had she lived to regret it.

Chris had regretted it, too, for a time, but now that her two brothers
were well on the road to recovery it seemed absurd not to extract such
enjoyment as she could from the situation. Of course, it was lonely, but
there was always Cinders to fall back upon for comfort. She was thankful
that she had insisted upon bringing him, though Mademoiselle had
protested most emphatically against this addition to the party. How she
was to get him back again she had not begun to consider. Doubtless,
however, Jack would manage it somehow. Jack was the aforementioned cousin
in the Guards, a young man of much kindness and resource, upon whom Chris
was wont to rely as a sort of superior elder brother. He would think
nothing of running over to fetch them home and to assist in the smuggling
of Cinders back into his native land. In fact, if the truth were told, he
would probably rather enjoy it.

In the meantime, here was she, stranded with a damaged foot, and all the
delights of the sea temporarily denied to her. Perhaps not quite all,
when she came to think of it. She could not paddle, but she might manage
to hobble down to the shore, and sit on the sun-baked rocks. Even
Mademoiselle could surely find no fault with this. And she might possibly
find someone to talk to. She was so fond of talking, and it was a
perpetual regret to her that she could not understand the speech of the
Breton fishermen.

It was on the morning of the second day after her accident that this idea
presented itself. All the previous day she had sat soberly in a corner of
the little garden that overlooked the little _plage_ where none but
_bonnes_ and their charges ever passed. Nothing had happened all day
long, and she had been bored almost to tears. The beaming smiles of
Mademoiselle, who was thankful to have her within sight, had been no sort
of consolation to her, and on the second day she came rapidly to the
conclusion that she would die of _ennui_ if she attempted to endure it
any longer.

She did not arouse Mademoiselle's voluble protests by announcing her
decision. Mademoiselle was busy with the boys, and what was the good? She
was her own mistress, and felt in no way called upon to ask her
governess's leave.

Her foot was much better. The nurse had strapped it for her, and, beyond
some slight stiffness in walking, it caused her no pain. Her hair was
tied discreetly back with a black ribbon. It ought to have been plaited,
but as Mademoiselle had no time to bestow upon it and Chris herself
couldn't be bothered, it hung in glory below the confining ribbon to her
waist.

Whistling to Cinders, who was lying in the sunshine snapping at flies,
she rose from her chair in the shade, dropped the crochet with which
Mademoiselle had supplied her on the grass, and limped to the gate that
opened on to the _plage_.

At this juncture a rhythmical, unmistakable sound made her pause. A quick
gleam of pleasure shone in her blue eyes. She turned her head eagerly. A
troop of soldiers were approaching along the _plage_.

Sheer fun flashed into the girl's face. With a sudden swoop she caught up
the lazy Cinders.

"Now you are not to say anything," she cautioned him. "Only when I tell
you, you are to salute. And mind you do it properly!"

Cinders licked the animated face so near his own. When not drawn by his
one particular vice, he was always ready to enter into any little game
that his mistress might devise. He watched the oncoming soldiers with
interest, a slight frown between his brows.

The soldiers were interested also. Chris of the merry eyes was not a
spectacle to pass unheeding. She smiled upon them--there were about forty
of them--with the simplicity of a child.

Rhythmically the blue and red uniforms began to swing past. Their wearers
stared and grinned at the smiling little _Anglaise_ who was so naively
pleased to see them.

She raised an imperious hand. "Cinders, salute!" And into Cinders' ear
she whispered, "They are only French, chappie, but you mustn't mind."

And Cinders, quite unconcerned, obeyed his mistress's behest and lifted a
rigid paw to his head.

A murmur of appreciation ran through the ranks. The grins widened. One
boy, with bold admiration for the _petite Anglaise_ in his black eyes,
raised his hand abruptly and saluted in return. Every man who followed
did likewise, and Chris was enchanted. Mademoiselle Gautier would have
been horrified had she seen her frank nods of acknowledgment, but
mercifully Fate spared her this.

Behind the last line of marching men came a trim young officer. His sword
clanked at his heels. He swung along with a free swagger, head up,
shoulders back, eyes fixed straight before him. A gallant specimen was
he, for though of inconsiderable height, he was well made and obviously
of athletic build. His thoughts were evidently far away, his handsome,
boyish face so preoccupied that it had the look of a face in a picture,
patrician, aloof, immobile.

But a sudden glimpse of the girl at the gate--the child with the shining
hair--brought him back in a fraction of time, transformed him utterly.
Recognition, vivid surprise, undoubted pleasure, flashed over his face.
With an eager smile, he paused, clicked his heels together, saluted.

She extended an eager hand--her left; Cinders monopolized her right.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "you! I didn't know you were a soldier!"

He took the hand over the gate, stooped and kissed it. "But I am
delighted, mademoiselle!" he said.

Cinders was also delighted, and struggled with yelps of welcome to reach
him. He stood up, laughing, and patted the little creature's head.

"And the foot?" he questioned.

"Much better," said Chris. "I am going down to the shore presently. I
wish you could come too."

He smiled and shook his head, with a glance after his men retreating up
the hill towards the fort. "I wish it also, mademoiselle, but--"

"Couldn't you?" begged Chris. "This afternoon! Just for a little while!
There's only Cinders and me."

"_Et Mademoiselle la gouvernante--_"

"She is looking after the boys, and they are ill," Chris explained
cheerfully. "You might come. I'm wanting someone to talk to rather
badly."

The young officer hesitated. The blue eyes were very persuasive.

"I would ask you to come in to tea afterwards," she said, "only
Mademoiselle is so silly--quite cracked, in fact, on some points. But
that needn't prevent your coming down to the shore for a little to play
with Cinders and me. You will, won't you? Say you will!"

"I will, mademoiselle." His surrender was abrupt, and quite decisive.

She beamed upon him. "We will play at sand-pictures. You know that game,
I expect. One draws and the other has to guess what it's meant for. I
shall look out for you, then. Good-bye!"

She waved a careless hand, and he, still smiling, saluted again and
hastened after his men.

She was certainly unconventional, this English girl, quite superbly so.
She was also sublimely and completely irresistible.

Did she guess of the power that was hers as she turned back into the
little garden? Did some dim suggestion of a spell yet dormant present
itself as she stood thus on the threshold of her woman's kingdom?
Possibly, for her face was thoughtful, and remained so for quite ten
seconds after her new playmate's departure.

At the end of the ten seconds she kissed Cinders, with the remark,
"Chappie, that little Frenchman is a trump. I'm sure Jack would think
so." She and Jack Forest generally saw things in the same light, which
may have been the reason that Chris valued his opinion so highly.

She postponed her visit to the shore till the afternoon in consideration
of the fact that her sense of boredom had completely evaporated. After
all, what was there to be bored about? Life was quite interesting again.

The tide was on the ebb when she finally set forth. She directed her
steps towards a little patch of firm sand which she regarded as
peculiarly her own. The shore was deserted as usual. The _bonnes_
preferred the _plage_.

Would he be there before her, she wondered? Yes; almost at once she spied
him in the distance. He had discarded his uniform, in favour of white
linen. She regretted his preference somewhat, but admitted to herself
that linen might be cooler.

He was very busy with a swagger-cane, drawing in the sand, far too intent
to note her approach, and as he drew he hummed a madrigal in his soft
voice.

Noiselessly Chris drew near, a dancing imp of mischief in her eyes. She
wanted to get a glimpse of the work of art that he was elaborating with
such care before he discovered her. But his sensibilities were too subtle
for her. Quite suddenly he became aware of her and whizzed round.

He made her a low bow, but Chris waived the ceremony of greeting with
impatient curiosity. "I want to see what you are doing. I may look?"

"But certainly, mademoiselle."

She came eagerly forward and looked.

"Oh," she said, "is that the dragon? What an awesome creature! Is he
really like that? How splendidly you have done his scales! And what
frightful claws! Why"--she turned upon him--"you are an artist!"

He shrugged his shoulders, with his ready smile. "I am whatever
mademoiselle desires."

"How nice!" said Chris. "Well, go on being an artist, please. Draw
something else!"

"I think it is your turn now, mademoiselle," he said.

"Oh, but I'm no good at it," she protested. "I can't compete. You are
much too clever."

He laughed at that and began again.

She seated herself on a rock and watched him, deeply interested.

"How quick you are!" she murmured presently. "Whatever is it, I wonder? A
horse with a man on it! Ah, yes! St. George killing the dragon!
Excellent!" She clapped her hands. "It is a real picture. What a pity for
it to be washed away!"

"The destiny of all things, mademoiselle," he remarked, still elaborating
his work.

"Not all things!" she exclaimed. "Look at the Sphinx, and Cleopatra's
Needle, and--and a host of other things!"

"You think that they will endure for ever?" he said.

"For a very, very long while," she maintained.

"But for ever, mademoiselle?" He turned round to her, quite serious for
once. "There is only one thing that endures for ever," he said.

Chris frowned. "I don't want to think about it. It makes me feel giddy,"
she said. "Please go on drawing. The tide won't be up yet."

He turned back again instantly, looking quizzical. "_Alors_, shall we
build a barrier of stones and arrest the sea?" he suggested.

"Or weave a rope of sand," amended Chris.



CHAPTER IV

THE DIVINE MAGIC


When Chris went bathing it was her custom to slip a mackintosh over her
bathing costume and to run down to the shore thus equipped, discarding
the mackintosh before entering the water and leaving it in the charge of
Cinders.

Cinders never went treasure-hunting on these occasions, but invariably
sat bolt upright, brimful of importance, watching his mistress's
proceedings from afar with eager eyes and quivering nose. He would never
be persuaded to follow her, owing to a rooted objection to wetting his
feet. He was, as a rule, very patient; but if she kept him waiting beyond
the bounds of patience he howled in a heartrending fashion that always
brought her back.

Chris was a good swimmer, and had a boy's healthy love of the sea. Great
was her joy when her injured foot healed sufficiently for her to resume
the morning bathe. Mademoiselle Gautier's pleasure was not so keen, but
then--poor Mademoiselle!--who could expect it? Besides, what could she
know of the exquisite enjoyment of floating on a summer sea with the
summer sun in one's eyes and wave after gentle wave rocking one to drowsy
content?

The only drawback was the impossibility of diving, Chris longed for a
dive on that brilliant morning, longed for the headlong rush through
water, the greenness of it below the surface, the sparkling spray above.
If only she could have commandeered a boat! But that would have entailed
a boatman, and Mademoiselle would have been scandalized at the bare
suggestion.

"She would make me bathe in a coat and skirt and a hat if she could,"
reflected Chris, shaking the wet hair out of her eyes.

It was still early, not nine o'clock. The sea lay calm and empty all
about her. Was she really the only person in Valpré, she wondered, who
cared for a morning dip? She had swum some way from the little town, and
now found herself nearing the point where the rocks jutted far out to the
sea. The Magic Cave was at no great distance. She saw the darkness of it
and the water foaming white against the cliffs. Even in the morning
light it was an awesome spot, and she remembered how her friend had told
her that the dragon was there when the tide was up. With a timidity
half-actual, half-assumed, she began to swim back to her starting-point.

Half-way back, feeling tired, she allowed herself a rest in consideration
of the fact that this was the longest swim that she had ever undertaken.
Serenely she lay on the water with her hair floating about her. The
morning was perfect, the sea like a lake. Overhead sailed a gull with no
flap of wings. She wondered how he did it, and longed to do the same. It
must be very nice to be a gull.

Regretfully at length--for she was still feeling a little weary--she
resumed her leisurely journey towards the shore. As she did so she caught
the sound of oars grating in rowlocks. She turned her head, saw a boat
cutting through the water at a prodigious rate not twenty strokes from
her, caught a glimpse of its one rower, and without a second's hesitation
flung up an imperious arm.

"Stop!" she cried. "It's me!"

He ceased to row on the instant, but the boat shot on. She saw the
concern in his face as he brought it back. His black head shone wet in
the sunlight. He was evidently returning from a bathe himself.

"It's all right," smiled Chris. "Are you in a great hurry? I wondered if
you would tow me a little way. I've come too far, and I'm just a tiny bit
tired."

He brought the boat near, and shipped his oars. "I will row you to the
shore with pleasure, mademoiselle," he said.

"No, no," she said. "Just throw me a rope, that's all."

"But I have no rope, mademoiselle."

He leaned down to her as she swam alongside; but Chris still hung back,
with laughing eyes upraised. "You will capsize in a minute, and that
won't help either of us. Really, I don't think I will come out."

But she gave him her hand, nevertheless.

His fingers closed upon it in a warm clasp that seemed very sure of
itself. He smiled down at her. "I think otherwise, mademoiselle."

She found it impossible to resist him, and so yielded with characteristic
briskness of decision. "Very well, if you will let me dive from the boat
afterwards. Hold tight, _preux chevalier_! One--two--three!"

She came up to him out of the sea like a bird rising from the waves. A
moment he had her slim young body between his hands. Then she stepped
lightly upon the thwart, and he let her go.

And in that instant something happened: something that was like the
kindling of spirit into flame ran between them--a transforming magic that
only one knew for the Divine Miracle that changes the face of the whole
earth.

To the girl, with her wet hair all around her and her face of baby-like
innocence, it only meant that the sun shone more brightly and the sea was
more blue for the coming of her _preux chevalier_. And she sang, without
knowing why.

To the man it meant the sudden, primal tumult of all the deepest forces
of his nature; it meant the awakening of his soul, the birth of his
manhood.

He was young, barely twenty-two. Very early Ambition had called to him,
and he had followed with a single heart. He had never greatly cared for
social pleasures; he had been too absorbed to enjoy them. But now--in a
single moment--Ambition was dethroned. At the time, though his eyes were
open, he scarcely realized that the old supremacy had passed. Only long
afterwards did he ask himself if the death-knell of his success had begun
to toll on that golden morning; because a man cannot serve two masters.

"A penny for your thoughts!" laughed the elf in the stern, and he came to
himself to wonder how old she was. "No, never mind!" she added. "I
daresay they are not worth it, and I couldn't pay if they were."

Her eyes dwelt approvingly upon him as, with sleeves rolled above his
elbows, he began to pull at the oars. He was certainly very handsome. She
wondered that she had not noticed it before.

"Mademoiselle will not swim so far again all alone?" he suggested gently,
after a few steady strokes.

She looked at him frowningly. There was no faintest tinge of dignity
about her, only the careless effrontery of childhood and the grace that
is childhood's heritage.

"I am going to swim as far as the skyline some day," she announced
lightly, "and look over the edge of the world."

"_Mais, mademoiselle_--"

She held up an imperious hand. "That is one of the things you are not
allowed to say. You are never to talk French to me. It is holiday-time
when I am with you, and I never talk French in the holidays, except to
Mademoiselle, who won't listen to English. And won't you call me Chris?
Everyone else does."

"Chris?" he repeated after her very softly, his eyes upon her, tenderly
indulgent. "Ah! let it be Christine. I may call you that?"

"Of course," she returned practically. "My actual name is Christina, but
that's a detail. You can call me Christine if you like it best."

"I have another name for you," he said, with slight hesitation.

"Have you?" she asked with interest. "What is it? Do tell me!"

But he still hesitated. "It will not vex you? No?"

She flashed him her merriest smile. "Of course not. Why should it?"

He smiled back upon her, but there was the light of something deeper than
mirth in his eyes. "I call you my bird of Paradise," he said.

"How pretty!" said Chris. "Quite poetical, _preux chevalier_! You may go
on calling me that if you like, but it's too long for general use. And
what shall I call you? Tell me your Christian name."

"Bertrand, mademoiselle."

She held up an admonitory finger. "Chris!"

"Christine," he said, with his friendly smile.

She nodded. "Now don't forget! I think I shall call you Bertie because it
sounds more English. I'm going to dive now, so don't row any farther."

She sprang to her feet and stepped on to the thwart, where she stood
balancing, her arms above her head.

He waited motionless to see her go. But she remained poised for several
seconds, the sunlight full upon her slim, straight figure and bare,
upraised arms. Her hair, that had begun to dry, fluttered a little in the
breeze. The splendour of it almost dazzled the onlooker. He sat with
bated breath. She was like a young goddess, invoking the spirit of the
morning.

Suddenly she turned a laughing face over her shoulder. "Bertie!"

He pulled himself together. "Christine!" he answered, with a quick smile.

She laughed a little more. "Well done! I wondered if you would remember.
Will you do something for me?"

"All that you wish," he said.

"Well, when you come to tea with me in the Magic Cave on the tenth bring
a lantern. Will you?"

"But certainly," he said.

"I want to explore," said Chris. "I want to find out all the secrets
there are."

She turned back to contemplate the deep blue water at her feet, paused a
moment longer; then, "Good-bye, Bertie!" she cried, and was gone.

He saw the curve of her young body in the sunshine before she
disappeared, felt the spray splash upwards on his face; but he continued
to gaze at the spot where she had stood as a man spellbound, while every
pulse and every nerve throbbed with the thought of her and the mad, sweet
exultation that she had stirred to life within him. Child she might be,
but in that amazing moment he worshipped her as man was made to worship
woman in the beginning of the world.



CHAPTER V

THE BIRTHDAY TREAT


It was her birthday, and Chris scampered over the sands with Cinders
tugging at her skirt, singing as she ran. She had three good reasons for
being particularly happy that day--the first and foremost of these being
the long-anticipated adventure that lay before her; the second that her
two young brothers had improved so greatly in health that the tedious
hours of her solitude were very nearly over; and the third that a letter
from Jack, cousin and comrade, was tucked up her sleeve.

Jack's letters were infrequent and ever delightful. He always struck the
right note. He had written for her birthday to tell her that he had
bought a present for her to celebrate the memorable occasion, but that he
was reserving to himself the pleasure of offering it in person when they
should meet again, which happy event would, he believed, take place at no
distant date. In fact, Chris might see him any day now, since the
privilege of escorting her and her following back to England was to be
his, and he understood that the ruling power had decreed that their
return should not be postponed much longer.

She was by no means anxious to go; in fact, when the time came she would
be sorry. But she was not thinking of that to-day. It was not her custom
to dwell upon unwelcome things, and Jack had, moreover, made the prospect
attractive by the suggestion that they might possibly spend two or three
days in Paris on their return. Paris under Jack's auspices would be
paradise in Chris's estimation. She could imagine nothing more
enchanting.

So she and Cinders were in high spirits and prepared to enjoy the
birthday treat to the uttermost. She carried a small--very small--bag of
cakes which Mademoiselle had packed for her picnic--poor Mademoiselle,
who could not understand how any _demoiselle_ could prefer to eat her
food upon the beach. In fact, Chris had only carried the point because it
was her birthday, and naturally Mademoiselle had not been informed that
she had invited a guest to the meagre feast.

Chris, however, was quite content. With the serenity of childhood she was
sure there would be enough. She even told herself privately that it would
be the best birthday-party she had ever had. And Cinders was apparently
of the same opinion.

They raced nearly all the way to the rocks, spurred by the sight of a
familiar white figure awaiting them there. He came to meet them with his
customary courtesy, bare-headed, with shining eyes.

"Will you accept my good wishes?" he said, as he bent over her hand.

She laughed and thanked him. "I'm getting horribly old. Do you know I'm
seventeen? I shall have to put up my hair next year."

"I grieve to hear it," he protested.

"Never mind. It isn't next year yet. Have you remembered the lantern?
Where is it? No, I don't want any help, thank you. I balance best alone."

She was already skipping over the rocks with arms extended. He followed
her lightly, ready to give his hand at a moment's notice. But Chris was
very sure-footed, and though she allowed him to take her parcel, she
would not accept his assistance.

"I haven't brought anything to drink," she remarked presently, "I hope
you don't mind."

No, he minded nothing. Like herself, he was enjoying the treat to the
uttermost. He had not forgotten the lantern. It was waiting by the Magic
Cave. He begged that she would not hasten. The tide would not turn yet.

But Chris was in an impetuous mood. She wanted to start upon her
adventure without delay. Should they not explore first and have tea
after? It should be exactly as she wished, he assured her. Was it not her
_fête_?

But when at length she reached the shingle under the cliffs, she found a
surprise in store for her that made her change her mind.

A white napkin was spread daintily upon a flat-topped rock, and on this
were set a large pink and white cake and a box of _fondants_.

"Goodness!" ejaculated Chris.

"_Merveilleux_!" exclaimed the Frenchman.

She turned upon him. "Now, Bertie, you needn't pretend you are not at the
bottom of it, for I am old enough to know better. No," as he shrugged his
shoulders and spread out his hands, "it's not a bit of good doing that.
It doesn't deceive me in the least. I know you did it, and you're a
perfect dear, and it was sweet of you to think of it. It's the best
picnic I ever went to. And you even thought of tea," catching sight of a
small spirit-kettle that sang in a sheltered corner. "Let's have some at
once, shall we? I'm so thirsty."

He had forgotten nothing. From a basket he produced cups, saucers,
plates, knives, and arranged them on his improvised table.

Chris surveyed the cake with frank satisfaction. "What a mercy the gulls
didn't seize it while your back was turned! Do cut it, quick!"

"No, no! You will perform that ceremony," smiled Bertrand.

"Shall I? Oh, very well. I expect I shall do it very badly. What lovely
sweets! Did they come out of the Magic Cave? I hope they won't vanish
before we come to eat them."

"I thought that my bird of Paradise would like them," he said softly.

"Your bird of Paradise loves them," promptly returned Chris. "In fact, if
you ask me, I think she is inclined to be rather greedy. Please take the
kettle off. It's spluttering. You must make the tea if I'm to cut the
cake. And let's be quick, shall we? I believe it's going to rain!"

They were not very quick, however, for, as Chris herself presently
remarked, one couldn't scramble over such a cake as that. And the rain
came down in a sharp shower before they had finished, and drove them into
the Magic Cave for shelter.

The girl's young laughter echoed weirdly along the rocky walls as she
entered, and she turned with a slightly startled expression to make sure
that her companion was close to her.

He had paused to rescue the remains of the feast. "Quick!" she called to
him. "You will be drenched."

"_Je viens vite--vite_," he called back, and in a few seconds was at her
side.

"_Comment_!" he said. "You are afraid, no?"

"No," said Chris, colouring under his look of inquiry. "But it's horribly
eerie. Where is Cinders?"

A muffled bark from the depths of the cave answered her. Cinders was
obviously exploring on his own account, and believed himself to be on the
track of some quarry.

"Light the lantern--quick!" commanded Chris, her misgivings diverted into
another channel. "We mustn't lose him. Isn't it cold!"

She shivered in her light dress, but turned inwards resolutely.

"_Tenez_!" exclaimed the Frenchman, quick to catch her mood. "I will go
to find the good Cinders. He is not far."

"And leave me!" said Chris quickly.

"_Eh bien_! Let us remain here."

"And leave Cinders!" said Chris.

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders, then stooped without further words
and kindled his lamp.

The rain was still beating in fierce grey gusts over the sea and
pattering heavily upon the shingle. The waves broke with a sullen
roaring. Evidently a gale was rising.

Chris, with her face to the darkness of the cave, shivered again. Somehow
her spirit of adventure was dashed.

The flame of Bertrand's lamp shone vaguely inwards, revealing a narrow
passage that wound between rugged cliff-walls into darkness. The rock
gleamed black and shiny on all sides. Underfoot were stones of all shapes
and sizes, worn smooth by the sea.

"What a ghastly place!" whispered Chris, and something seemed to catch
the whisper and repeat it sibilantly a great many times as if learning it
off by heart.

"Permit me to precede you," said Bertrand. "You will find it not so
narrow in a moment. If you look behind you, you will see the sea as in
the frame of a picture. It is beautiful, is it not?"

His soft voice and casual words reassured her. She looked and admired,
though the sea was grey and the shore all blurred with rain.

"There will be a rainbow soon," he said. "See! It grows more light
already."

But he was looking at her as he spoke, though his glance fell directly
she turned towards him.

"Do you come here often?" she asked.

"But very often," he said.

"And what do you do here?"

"I will show you by and bye."

"Very well," she said eagerly. "Then we won't go any farther when we have
found Cinders."

But this last suggestion was not so easy of accomplishment. The darkness
had swallowed Cinders as completely as though the jaws of the dragon had
closed upon him.

"Where can he be?" said Chris, a quiver of distress in her voice.

"Have no fear! We will find him," Bertrand assured her.

He moved forward, holding the lantern to guide her. She kept very close
to him, especially when a curve in the passage hid the entrance behind
her. Her fancy for exploring was rapidly dwindling.

As he had told her, the passage soon widened. They emerged into a cave of
some size and considerable height.

"He will be here," announced Bertrand, with conviction.

But he was mistaken; Cinders was nowhere to be seen.

Chris looked around her wonderingly. This chamber in the rock was unlike
anything she had ever seen before. The very atmosphere seemed ominous,
like the air of a dungeon.

"And you come here often!" she said again incredulously.

He smiled, and, raising his lantern, pointed to a crevice just above his
head. "That is where I keep my magic."

Chris stood on tiptoe, and peered curiously. He reached up with his free
hand, and drew forward something that gave back dully the flare of the
lamp. She saw a black tin box that looked like a miniature safe.

He looked at her with a smile. "It contains my treasures--my black arts,"
he said, "and my future." He pushed it back again and turned. "Come! we
will find the naughty Cinders."

Chris was on the point of asking eager questions regarding this new
mystery, but before she could begin to utter them a long and piteous
howl--the howl of a lost dog--sent them helter-skelter from her mind.

"Oh, listen!" she cried. "That's Cinders!"

She sprang forward while the miserable sound was still echoing all about
them. "Oh, isn't it dreadful?" she gasped. "Do you think he is hurt?"

"No, no!" Bertrand hastened to reassure her. "He is only afraid. We will
go to him."

He stretched out a hand to her, and she put hers into it as naturally as
a child. Her chin was quivering, and her voice, when she tried to call to
the dog, broke down upon a sob.

"He will never know where we are because of the echoes," she said.

"He is not far," declared the Frenchman consolingly. "See, here is the
passage. They say that it was made by the contrabandists, but it leads to
nowhere; it has been blocked since many years. Do not fall on the stones;
they are very slippery."

A passage, even narrower than the first, led from the cave in which they
had been standing. Bertrand went first, his hand stretched out behind
him, still holding hers.

They had scrambled in this order about a dozen yards when again they
heard Cinders' cry for help--a pathetic yelping considerably farther away
than it had been before. The unlucky wanderer seemed to have lost his
head in the darkness and to be running hither and thither in wild dismay.

"What shall we do?" said Chris in tears. "I've never heard him cry like
that before."

Bertrand paused to listen. "The passage divides near here," he said.
"Courage, little one! We may find him at any moment. Will you then wait
while I search a little farther? I will leave you the lantern. I have
some matches."

"Oh, please don't leave me!" entreated Chris. "Why can't I come too?"

"It is too rough for you," he said. "And there are two passages. If I do
not find him in the one, without doubt he will return by the other to
you."

"You--you'd better take the lantern then," said Chris, with a gulp. "If I
am only going to stand still, I--I shan't want it."

"No, no--" he began.

But she insisted. "Yes, really. You will want it. I will wait for you
here, if you think it best. Only you will promise not to be long?"

"I promise," he said.

"Then be quick and go," she urged, drawing her hand from his. "We must
find him--we must."

But when his back was turned, and she saw him receding from her with the
light, she covered her face and trembled. It was the most horrible
adventure she had ever experienced.

For a long time she heard his footsteps echoing weirdly, but when they
died away at last and she stood alone in the utter, vault-like darkness,
her heart failed her. What if he also lost his way?

The darkness was terrible. It seemed to press upon her, to hurt her.
Through it came the faint sounds of trickling water from all directions
like tiny voices whispering together. Now and then something moved with a
small rustling. It might have been a lizard, a crab, or even a bat. But
Chris thought of snakes and stiffened to rigidity, scarcely daring to
breathe. The roar of the sea sounded remote and far, yet insistent also
as though it held a threat. And, above all, thick and hard and
agitatingly distinct, arose the throbbing of her frightened heart.

All the horrors she had ever heard or dreamt of passed through her brain
as she waited there, yet with a certain desperate courage she kept
herself from panic. Cinders might run against her at any moment--at any
moment. And even if not, even if she were indeed quite alone in that
awful place, she had heard it said that God was nearer to people in the
dark.

"O God," she whispered, "I am so frightened. Do bring them both back
soon."

After the small prayer she felt reassured. She touched the clammy wall on
each side of her, and essayed a tremulous whistle. It was a brave little
tune; she knew not whence it came till it suddenly flashed upon her that
she had heard it on Bertrand's lips on the day that he had drawn his
pictures in the sand. And that also renewed her courage. After all, what
had she to fear?

Over and over again she whistled it with growing confidence, improving
her memory each time, till suddenly in the middle of a bar there came the
rush and patter of feet, a yelp of sheer, exuberant delight, and Cinders,
the wanderer, wet, ecstatic, and quite shameless, leaped into her arms.



CHAPTER VI

THE SPELL


She hugged him to her heart in the darkness, all her fears swept away in
the immensity of her joy at his recovery.

"But, Cinders, how could you? How could you?" was the utmost reproof she
could find it in her heart to bestow upon the delinquent.

Cinders explained in his moist, eager way that it had been quite
unintentional, and that he was every whit as thankful to be back safe and
sound in her loving arms as she was to have him there. They discussed the
subject at length and forgave each other with considerable effusion,
eventually arriving at the conclusion that no blame attached to either.

And upon this arose the question, What of the Frenchman, Chris's _preux
chevalier_, who had so nobly adventured himself upon a fruitless quest?

"He promised he wouldn't be long," she reflected hopefully. "We shall
just have to wait till he turns up, that's all."

She would not suffer her rescued favourite to leave her arms again, and
they wiled away some time in the joy of reunion. But the minutes began to
drag more and more slowly, till at length anxiety came uppermost again.

Chris began to grow seriously uneasy. What could have happened to him?
Had he really lost his way? And if so what could she do?

Plainly nothing, but wait--wait--wait! And she was so tired of the
darkness; her eyes ached with it.

Her fears mustered afresh, fantastic fears this time. She began to see
green eyes glaring at her, to hear stealthy footfalls above the long,
deep roar of the sea, to feel the clammy presence of creatures unknown
and hostile. Cinders, too, weary of inaction, began to whimper, to lick
her face persuasively, and to suggest a move.

But Chris would not be persuaded. She could without doubt have groped her
way back to the cave where Bertrand kept his magic, and even thence to
the shore. But she did not for a moment contemplate such a proceeding.
She would have felt like a soldier deserting his post. Sooner or later
Bertrand would return and look for her here, and here he must find her.

But her fears were growing more vivid every moment, and when Cinders,
infected thereby, began to growl below his breath and to bristle under
her hand she became almost terrified.

Desperately she grappled with her trepidation and flung it from her, chid
Cinders for his foolish cowardice, and fell again to whistling Bertrand's
melody with all her might.

Clear and flutelike it echoed through the desolate tunnels, startlingly
distinct to her strained nerves. Sometimes the echoes seemed to mock her,
but she would not be dismayed. It might be a help to Bertrand, and it
certainly helped herself.

A long time passed, how long she had not the vaguest notion. Cinders,
grown tired of his own impatience, rested his chin on her shoulder and
went phlegmatically to sleep, secure in her assurance that there was
nothing whatever to be afraid of. Small creature though he was, her arms
ached from holding him, yet she would not let him go, he was too precious
for that; and each minute that passed, so she told herself, brought the
end of her vigil nearer.

Her heart was like lead within her, but she would not give way to
despair. He was bound to come in the end.

And come in the end he did, but not till her hopes had sunk so low that
when she heard the first faint sound of his returning feet she would not
believe her ears. But when Cinders heard it also, and raised his head to
growl, she suffered herself to be convinced. He really was coming at
last.

His progress was very slow, maddeningly slow it seemed to Chris. She
watched eagerly for the first sign of light from his lantern, but she
watched in vain. No faintest ray came to illumine the darkness. Surely it
was he; it could be none other!

Nearer and nearer came the footsteps, slow and groping. She listened till
she could bear it no longer; then "Bertrand!" she cried wildly. "Bertie!
Oh, is it you! Do speak!"

Instantly his voice came to her out of the darkness. "Yes, yes. It is me,
little one. I have had--an accident. I am desolated--afflicted; there are
no words that can say. And you awaiting me still, my little bird of
Paradise, singing so bravely in the darkness!"

"Whistling," corrected Chris; "I can't sing. What on earth has happened?
Are you hurt?"

"No, no! It is nothing--a _bagatelle_. Ah, but you have found the good
Cinders! I am rejoiced indeed!"

"Yes, he came to me--ages ago. It is you I have been waiting for all this
time. I thought you were never coming. At least, of course, I knew you
would come; but oh"--with a great sigh--"it has been a long time!"

"Ah, pardon me!" he said. "But why did you wait?"

"Of course I waited," said Chris. "I said I would."

"And you were not afraid? No?"

He was standing close to her now, and Cinders was wriggling to reach and
welcome him.

"Yes, a little," Chris admitted. "That's why I whistled. But it's all
right now. Do let us get out."

"Ah!" he said. "But I fear--"

"What?" she asked, with sudden misgiving.

He hesitated a moment, then, "The tide," he said.

"Bertie!" For the first time Chris's bravely sustained courage broke
down. She thrust out a clinging hand and clutched his arm. "Are we going
to be drowned--here--in the dark?" she said, gasping.

"No, no, no!" His reply was instant and reassuring. He took her hand and
held it. "It is not that. The water will not reach us. It is only that we
cannot return until the tide permit."

"Oh, well!" Chris's relief eclipsed her dismay. "That doesn't matter so
much," she said. "Let us get out of this horrid little tunnel, anyhow.
Oh, darling Cinders! He wants to kiss you. Do you mind?"

Bertrand laughed involuntarily. But she was droll, this English child!
Was it possible that she did not realize the seriousness of the dilemma
in which she found herself? Well, if not--he shrugged his shoulders--it
was not for him to enlighten her. As comrades in trouble they would
endure their incarceration as bravely as they might.

There was a faint spice of enjoyment in Chris's next remark: "Well, we
are all together, that's one thing, and we've got the cake for supper, if
we can only find it. Will you go first, please, so that I can hold on to
you. It will be nice to see the light again. What happened to the
lantern? Did you drop it?"

"I fell," he said. "I thought that I heard the good Cinders in front of
me, and I ran. I tripped and struck my head. It stunned me. _Après cela_,
I lay--_depuis longtemps_--insensible till I awoke and heard you singing
so far--so far away."

"Whistling," said Chris.

"I thought it was a bird at the dawn," he said, "flying high in the sky.
And I lay and listened."

"My dear _chevalier_, you wanted shaking," she interposed, with
pardonable severity. "Are you sure you are awake now? Oh, look! There is
a ray of light! How heavenly! But why didn't you relight the lantern?"

"It was broken," he said, "and useless. Also I found that I had only
three matches."

"I hope it will be a lesson to you," she rejoined, breathing a sigh of
relief as they emerged into the dim twilight of the cave. "Oh, isn't it
nice to see again! I feel as if I have been blindfolded for years."

"Poor little one!" he said. "Can you ever pardon me?"

They stood together in the deep gloom. They could hear the water lapping
the sides of the passage that led inwards from the shore.

"It must be knee-deep round the bend," said Chris. "Yes, I'll forgive
you, Bertie. I daresay it wasn't altogether your fault, and I expect your
head aches, doesn't it? I hope it isn't very bad. Is there a very big
lump? Let me feel."

She passed her hand over his forehead till her fingers encountered the
excrescence they sought.

"Oh, you poor boy, it's enormous!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me
before? We must bathe it at once."

But Bertrand laughed and gently drew her hand away. "No--no! It is only a
_bagatelle_. Think no more of it, I beg. I merited it for my negligence.
Now, while there is still light, let us decide where you can with the
greatest convenience pass the night."

He was prepared for some measure of dismay, as he thus presented to her
the worst aspect of the catastrophe. But Chris remained serene. She was
rapidly recovering her spirits.

"Oh, yes," she said. "And poor Cinders too! We must find him a nice comfy
corner. He can lie on my skirt and keep me warm. Oh, do you know, I heard
such a funny story the other day about this very cave. I'll tell you
about it presently. But do find the cake first. I'm so hungry. We needn't
go to bed yet, need we? It must be quite early. What time do you think
the tide will let us get out? Poor Mademoiselle will think I'm drowned."

Chris's awe of the Magic Cave had evidently evaporated. The picnic mood
had returned to take its place, and Bertrand knew not whether to be more
astounded or relieved. He began to feel about for the basket containing
the remnants of their feast, while Chris with much volubility and not a
little merriment explained the situation to Cinders.

He calculated that they would be at liberty in the early hours of the
morning unless he tempted Fate a second time by climbing the cliff. But
Chris would not for a moment consider this proposition, and he was too
shaken by his recent fall to feel assured of success if he persisted.
Moreover, he seriously doubted if any boat could be brought within reach
of her while the tide remained high.

Plainly his only course was to follow her lead and make the best of
things. If she managed to extract any enjoyment from a most difficult
situation, so much the better. He could but do his utmost to encourage
this enviable frame of mind.

Chris, munching cheerfully in the twilight, had evidently quite forgotten
her woes. They went down the passage later as far as the bend, and looked
at the seething water, all green in the evening light, that held them
captive.

"I wish it wasn't going to be quite dark," she said when they returned.
"But if we hold hands and talk I shan't mind. That was a lovely cake of
yours, Bertie, I shall never forget it."

They found a ledge to sit on, Chris with her feet curled up; and Cinders,
grown sleepy after a generous meal, pressed against her. She protested
when Bertrand took off his coat and wrapped it round her, but he would
take no refusal. There was a penetrating dampness about the place that he
feared for her.

"If you sleep, you will feel it," he said.

"But I'm not going to sleep," declared Chris. "I never felt more
wide-awake in my life. I often do at bedtime. I hope you are not feeling
sleepy either, for I want to talk all night long."

Bertrand professed himself quite willing to listen. "You were going to
tell me something about this cave," he reminded her.

"Oh, yes." Chris swooped upon the subject eagerly. "Manon, the little
maid-of-all-work, was telling me. She said that no one ever comes here
because it is haunted. That's what made Cinders and me call it the Magic
Cave. She said that it was well known that no one ever came out the same
as they went in even in the daytime, and if any one were to spend the
night here they would be under a spell for the rest of their lives. Just
think of that, Bertie! Do you think we shall be? She didn't tell me what
the spell was. I expect it was something too bad to repeat. That's how
Cinders and I came to make up about the knight and the dragon. I hope the
dragon won't find us, don't you?"

She drew a little nearer to him and slipped a hand inside his arm. He
pressed it close to him,

"Have no fear, _chérie_. No evil can touch you while I am here."

"I should be terrified if you weren't," she told him frankly. "Did you
ever hear about the spell? Do you know what it means?"

"Yes," he said slowly; "I have heard. That was in part why I came here at
first, because I knew that I should be alone. I had need of solitude in
order to accomplish that which I had begun."

"Your magic?" queried Chris eagerly.

"Yes, little one, my magic. But"--he was smiling--"I have never remained
here for the night. And the charm, you say, is not so potent during the
day."

"You may be under it already," she said. "I wonder if you are."

"Ah!" Bertrand's tone was suddenly grave. "That also is possible."

"I wonder," she said again. "That may be what made you knock your head.
One never knows. But tell me about your magic. What is it? What do you
do?"

"I think," he said, "I calculate. And I build."

"What do you build?"

"It is a secret," he said.

"But you will tell me!"

"Why, Christine?"

"Because I do so want to know," she urged coaxingly. "And I can keep
secrets really. All English people can. Try me!" She thrust forward the
little finger of the hand that his arm held. "You must pinch it," she
explained, "as hard as you can. And if I don't even squeak you will know
I am to be trusted."

He took the finger thus heroically proffered, hesitated a second, then
put it softly to his lips. "I would trust you with my life," he said,
"with my honour, with all that I possess. Christine, I am an inventor,
and I am at the edge of a great discovery--a discovery that will make the
French artillery the greatest in the world."

"Goodness!" said Chris, with a gasp; then in haste, "Not--not greater
than ours surely!"

He turned to her impetuously in the darkness, her hands caught into his.
"Ah, you say that because you are English! And the English--_il faut que
les anglais soient toujours, toujours les premiers_--is it not so--always
and in all things? Yet consider! What is it--this national rivalry--this
strife for the supremacy? We laugh at it, you and I. We know what it is
worth."

But Chris was too young to laugh. "I don't quite like it," she said. "I'm
very sorry. Shall we talk of something else?"

But he still held her hands closely clasped. "Listen, Christine, my
little one! These things they pass. They are as a dream in the midst of a
great Reality. They are not the materials of which we weave our life.
Envy, ambition, success--what are they? Only a procession that marches
under the windows, and we look out above them, you and I, to the great
heaven and the sun; and"--something more than eagerness thrilled suddenly
in his voice--"we know that that is our life--the Spark Eternal that
nothing can ever quench."

He ceased abruptly. Cinders had stirred in his sleep, and she had drawn
away one of her hands to fondle him.

There fell short silence. Then, her voice a little doubtful, she spoke--

"You are not ambitious, then?"

He threw himself back against the rock, and with the movement a certain
tension went out of the atmosphere--a tension of which she had been
vaguely aware almost without knowing it.

"Ah, yes, I am ambitious," he said. "I am a builder. I have my work to
do. And I shall succeed. I shall make that which all the world will envy.
I shall be famous." He broke off to laugh exultantly. "Oh, it will be
good--good!" he said. "One does not often reach the summit while one is
yet young. There are times when it seems too wonderful to be true; and
yet I know--I know!"

"Is it a gun?" said Chris.

"Yes, _mignonne_, a gun! It is also a secret--thine and mine."

She uttered a faint sigh. "I wish it wasn't a gun, Bertie. If it were
only an aeroplane, or something that didn't hurt anyone! Of course, you
are a soldier and a Frenchman. I couldn't expect you to understand."

He laughed rather ruefully. "But I understand all. And you do not love
the French? No?"

"Not so very much," said Chris honestly. "Of course, I'm not being
personal. I liked you from the first."

"Ah! But really?" he said.

"Yes, really; and so did Cinders. He always knows when people are nice.
We shall miss you quite a lot when we go home."

"Quite a lot!" Bertrand repeated the phrase musingly as if questioning
with himself how much it might mean.

"Yes," she went on, "we were so lonely till you came." She broke off to
yawn. "Do you know, I'm beginning to get sleepy. Is it the spell, do you
think, or only the dark?"

"It is not the spell," he said, with conviction.

"No?" She moved uneasily. "I'm not very comfy," she remarked. "I wish I
were like Cinders. He can sleep in any position. It must be so
convenient."

"Will you, then, lean on my shoulder?" Bertrand suggested, with a touch
of diffidence.

She accepted the offer with alacrity. "Oh, yes, if you don't mind. It
would be better than nodding one's head off, as if one were in church,
wouldn't it? But what of you? Aren't you sleepy at all?"

"I have no desire to sleep," he told her gravely.

"Haven't you?" Chris's head descended promptly upon his shoulder. "I've
never been up all night before," she said. "It feels so funny. How the
sea roars! I wish it wouldn't. Bertie, you're sure there isn't such a
thing as a dragon really, aren't you?"

His hand closed fast upon hers. "I am quite sure, _chérie_."

"Thank you. That's nice," she murmured. "I haven't said my prayers. Do
you think it matters as I'm not going to bed? I really am tired."

"No, dear," he said. "_Le bon Dieu_ understands."

She moved her head a little. "Are you going to say yours, Bertie?"

"Perhaps, little one."

"Oh, that's all right," she said comfortably. "Good-night!"

"Good-night, _chérie_!"

His lips were close, so close to her forehead. He could even feel
her hair blow lightly against his face. But he remained rigid as a
sentry--watchful and silent and still.

Once during that long night she stirred in her sleep--stirred and nestled
closer to him with an inarticulate murmur; and he turned, moving for the
first time, and gathered her into his arms, holding her there like an
infant against his breast. Thereafter she slept a calm, unbroken slumber,
serenely unconscious of him and serenely content.

And the man sat motionless, with eyes wide to the darkness, grave and
reverent as the eyes of a warrior keeping his vigil on the eve of
knighthood. But his heart throbbed all night long like the beat of a drum
that calls men into action.



CHAPTER VII

IN THE CAUSE OF A WOMAN


To say that Mademoiselle Gautier was extremely anxious over her young
charge's disappearance would be to state the case with ludicrous
mildness. She was frantic, she was frenzied with anxiety.

All the evening and half the night she was literally dancing with
suspense, intermingled with fits of despair that reduced her, while they
lasted, to a state of absolute collapse. Before midnight all Valpré knew
that the little English _demoiselle_ was missing, and all Valpré scoured
the shore for her in vain. Some of the fishermen put out in boats and
continued the search by moonlight as near the rocks as it was possible to
go. But all to no purpose.

When the moon went down, they abandoned the quest; but at dawn, when the
tide was on the turn, they were out again, searching, searching for a
white, drowned face and a mass of red-brown hair. But the sea only
laughed in the sunlight and revealed no secrets.

Mademoiselle was quite prostrate by that time. She lay in a darkened room
with her head swathed in a black shawl, and called upon all the holy
saints to witness that she had always predicted this disaster.

Chris's two young brothers slept fitfully, waking now and then to assure
each other uneasily that of course she would turn up sooner or later
sound in wind and limb; she always did.

Noel, the younger, who was more or less in Chris's confidence, gave it as
his opinion that she had eloped with someone, that officer-chap she met
the other day, he'd lay a wager! But Maxwell poured contempt upon the
bare suggestion. Chris--elope with a Frenchman! He could as easily see
himself eloping with the Goat--a pet name that he and his brother had
bestowed upon Mademoiselle Gautier, and which fitted her rather well upon
occasion.

Three hours after sunrise the prodigal returned, lightfooted, gay of
mien. She was alone when she arrived, having firmly refused Bertrand's
escort farther then the end of the _plage_, lest poor Mademoiselle, who
hated men, should have hysterics. But the tale of her adventures had
preceded her. All Valpré knew what had happened, and watched her with
furtive curiosity. All Valpré knew that the _petite Anglaise_ had spent
the night in a cave with one of the officers from the fortress, and all
Valpré waited with bated breath, prepared to be duly scandalized.

But Chris was sublimely unconscious of this. Of course, she knew that
Mademoiselle would be shocked, but then Mademoiselle's feelings were so
extremely sensitive upon all points moral that it was almost impossible
to spend an hour in her company without in some fashion doing violence
to them. One simply tumbled over them, as it were, at every turn.

She expected and encountered the usual storm of reproach, but when
Mademoiselle proceeded to inform her that she was ruined for life, she
opened her blue eyes wide and barely suppressed a chuckle. She professed
penitence and even asked forgiveness for all the anxiety she had caused,
but she could not see that what had happened possessed the tragic
importance that Mademoiselle assigned to it. According to her distracted
governess, she had almost better have been drowned. For the life of her,
Chris couldn't see why.

When the tempest had somewhat spent itself, she retreated to her
brothers, to whom she poured out a full and animated account of the
night's happenings. They all agreed that Mademoiselle must have rats in
the upper story to make such a pother over the adventure, though Maxwell,
who held himself to be approaching years of discretion, gave it as his
opinion that the whole thing was a piece of bad luck and an experiment
not to be repeated.

"It's over anyhow," said Chris. "And we are none the worse, are we,
Cinders? So all's well that ends well, and now I'm going to get something
to eat."

For the next two days, Mademoiselle continuing to be hysterical at
intervals, Chris was exemplary in her behaviour. Perhaps even she had had
a surfeit of adventure for the time being. She certainly had no further
urgent desire to explore caves, magic or otherwise. She was also a little
tired, and inclined, after her excitement, to feel proportionately slack.
But early on the morning of the third day her strenuous nature reasserted
itself.

The sea and the sunshine awoke her together and she arose and dressed,
eager to revel in them both. She wondered if Bertrand were out in his
boat, and rather hoped she might encounter him.

Bertrand, however, was nowhere to be seen, and she proceeded to enjoy her
morning bathe in solitude. It was an enchanting day, and his absence did
not depress her. The tide was low, and she had to wade out a considerable
distance through the rippling waves; but she reached deep water at last
and proceeded forthwith to enjoy herself to her utmost capacity.

She spent a delicious half-hour thus, and it was with regret that she
finally returned to the shallows and began to wade back to the point
where Cinders, with her mackintosh, awaited her.

Just beyond this spot was a fair stretch of sand, and she was surprised
as she drew nearer to the shore to hear voices and to see a group of men
in the blue and red uniform of the garrison gathered upon what she had
come to regard as her own particular playground. She peered at them for
some seconds from beneath her hand, for the sun was in her eyes; and
suddenly a queer little thrill, that was not quite fear and not solely
excitement, ran through her. For all in a moment, ringing on the still
air of early morning, there came to her ears the clash of steel meeting
steel.

"Good gracious!" she said aloud. "It's a duel!"

A duel it undoubtedly was. She had a clear view of the whole scene,
distant but distinct, could even see the flash of the swords, the rapid
movements of the two combatants. It impressed her like a scene in a
theatre. She did not wholly grasp the reality of it, though her heart was
beating very fast.

Knee-deep, she stood in the sparkling water, outlined against the blue of
sky and sea, watching. Several seconds passed, during which they seemed
to be fighting with some ferocity. Then, obeying an impulse of which she
was scarcely aware, she moved on through the swishing waves, drawing
nearer at every step, hearing every instant more distinctly the ominous
clashing of the swords.

When only ankle-deep, she paused again. Perhaps, after all, it was only a
game--a fencing-match, a trial of skill! Of course, that must be it! Was
it in the least likely to be anything more serious? And yet something
within told her very decidedly that this was not so. A trial of skill it
might be, but it was being conducted in grim earnest.

She said to herself that she would slip on her mackintosh and go. But an
overwhelming desire to investigate a little further kept her dallying.
She had an ardent longing to see the faces of the antagonists. Later she
marvelled at her own temerity, but at the time this overmastering desire
was the only thing she knew.

She came out of the sea, reached her faithful attendant Cinders, slipped
on the mackintosh, and advanced nearer still to the little group of
officers upon the beach, buttoning it mechanically as she went.

Ah, she could see them now! One faced her--a mean-visaged man, fierce,
ferret-like, with glaring eyes and evil mouth. She hated him at sight,
instinctively, without question.

He was thrusting savagely at his opponent, whose back was towards her--a
slim, straight back familiar to her, so familiar that she recognized him
beyond all doubting, no longer needing to see his face. And yet,
involuntarily it seemed, she drew nearer.

He was fencing without impetuosity, yet with a precision that even to her
untrained perception expressed a most deadly concentration. Lithe and
active, supremely confident, he parried his enemy's attack, and the grace
of the man, combined with a certain mastery that was also in a fashion
familiar to her, attracted her irresistibly, held her spellbound. There
was nothing brutal about him, no hint of ferocity, only a finished
antagonism as flawless as his chivalry, a strength of self-suppression
that made him superb.

No one noticed Chris's proximity. All were too deeply engrossed with the
matter in hand. But suddenly Cinders, who loved law and order in all
things pertaining to the human race, scented combat in the air. It was
enough. Cinders would permit no brawling among his betters if he could by
any means prevent it. With tail cocked and every hair bristling, he
rushed into the fray, barking aggressively.

With a cry of dismay Chris rushed after him, and in that instant the man
facing her raised his eyes involuntarily and shifted his position. The
next instant he lunged frantically to recover himself, failed, and with a
violent exclamation received his adversary's point in his shoulder.

It all happened in a flash, so rapidly that it was over before either
Chris or Cinders had quite reached the scene. Bertrand whirled round
fiercely, sword in hand, anger turning to consternation in his eyes as he
realized the nature of the interruption.

Chris had a confused impression that the whole party were talking at once
and blaming her, while they buzzed round the wounded man, who lay back in
the arms of one of them and cursed volubly, whether Bertrand, Cinders,
or herself she never knew.

She had the presence of mind to snatch up her belligerent favourite, who
was snapping at the prostrate officer's legs; and then, for the first
time in her life, an overwhelming shyness descended upon her as the full
horror of her position presented itself.

"I couldn't help it, Bertie! Oh, Bertie, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, in
an agony of contrition.

There was a very odd expression on Bertrand's face. She did not
understand it in the least, but thought he must be furious since he was
undoubtedly frowning. If this were the case, however, he displayed
admirable self-restraint, for he banished the frown almost immediately.

"Mademoiselle has been bathing, yes?" he questioned briskly. "But it is a
splendid morning for a swim. And le bon Cinders also! How he is droll, ce
bon Cinders!"

He snapped his fingers airily under the droll one's nose, and flashed his
sudden smile into her face of distress.

"_Eh bien_!" he said. "_L'affaire est finie_. Let us go."

He stuck his weapon into the sand and left it there. Then, without
waiting to don his coat, he turned and walked away with her with his
light, elastic swagger that speedily widened the distance between himself
and his vanquished foe.

Chris walked beside him in silence, Cinders still tucked under her arm.
She knew not what to say, having no faintest clue to his real attitude
towards her at that moment. He had ignored her apology so jauntily that
she could not venture to renew it.

She glanced at him after a little to ascertain whether smile or frown had
supervened. But both were gone. He looked back at her gravely, though
without reproof.

"Poor little one!" he said. "It frightened you, no?"

She drew a deep breath. "Oh, Bertie, what were you doing?"

"I was fighting," he said.

"But why? You might--you might have killed him! Perhaps you have!"

He stiffened slightly, and twisted one end of his small moustache. "I
think not," he said, faint regret in his voice.

Chris thought not too, judging by the clamour of invective which the
injured man had managed to pour forth. But for some reason she pressed
the point.

"But--just imagine--if you had!"

He shrugged his shoulders with extreme deliberation.

"_Alors_, Mademoiselle Christine, there would have been one _canaille_
the less in the world."

She was a little shocked at the cool rejoinder, yet could not somehow
feel that her _preux chevalier_ could be in the wrong.

"He might have killed you," she remarked after a moment, determined to
survey the matter from every standpoint. "I am sure he meant to."

He shrugged his shoulders again and laughed. "That is quite possible. And
you would have been sorry--a little--no?"

She raised her clear eyes to his. "You know I should have been
heart-broken," she said, with the utmost simplicity.

"But really?" he said.

"But really," she repeated, breaking into a smile. "Now do promise me
that you will never fight that horrid man again."

He spread out his hands. "How can I promise you such a thing! It is not
the fashion in France to suffer insults in silence."

"Did he insult you, then?"

Again he stiffened. "He insulted me--yes. And I, I struck him. _Après
cela_--" again the expressive shrug, and no more.

"But how did he insult you?" persisted Chris. "Couldn't you have just
turned your back, as one would in England?"

"No" Sternly he made reply. "I could not--turn my back."

"It's ever so much more dignified," she maintained.

The dark eyes flashed. "Pardon!" he said. "There are some insults upon
which no man, English or French, can with honour turn the back."

That fired her curiosity. "It was something pretty bad, then? What was
it, Bertie? Tell me!"

"I cannot tell you," he returned, quite courteously but with the utmost
firmness.

She glanced at him again speculatively, then, with shrewdness: "When men
fight duels," she said, "it's generally over either politics or--a woman.
Was it--politics, Bertie?"

He stopped. "It was not politics, Christine," he said.

"Then--" She paused, expectant.

His face contracted slightly. "Yes, it was--a woman. But I say nothing
more than that. We will speak of it--never again."

But this was very far from satisfying Chris. "Tell me at least about the
woman," she urged. "Is it--is it the girl you are going to marry?"

But he stood silent, looking at her again with that expression in his
eyes that had puzzled her before.

"Is it, Bertie?" she insisted.

"And if I tell you Yes?" he said at last.

She made a queer little gesture, the merest butterfly movement, and yet
it had in it the faintest suggestion of hurt surprise.

"And you never told me about her," she said.

He leaned swiftly towards her. There was a sudden glow on his olive face
that made him wonderfully handsome. "_Mignonne_!" he said eagerly, and
then as swiftly checked himself. "Ah, no, I will not say it! You do not
love the French."

"But I want to hear about your _fiancée_," she protested. "I can't think
why you haven't told me."

He had straightened himself again, and there was something rather
mournful in his look. "I have no _fiancée_, little one," he said.

"No?" Chris smiled all over her sunny face. She looked the merest child
standing before him wrapped in the mackintosh that flapped about her bare
ankles, the ruddy hair all loose about her back. "Then whatever made you
pretend you had?" she said.

He smiled back, half against his will, with the eloquent shrug that
generally served him where speech was awkward.

"And the woman you fought about?" she continued relentlessly.

"Mademoiselle Christine," he pleaded, "you ask of me the impossible. You
do not know what you ask."

"Don't be silly," said Chris imperiously. The matter had somehow become
of the first importance, and she had every intention of gaining her end.
"It isn't fair not to tell me now, unless," with sudden doubt, "it's
somebody whose acquaintance you are ashamed of."

He winced at that, and drew himself up so sharply that she thought for a
moment that he was about to turn on his heel and walk away. Then very
quietly he spoke.

"You will not understand, and yet you constrain me to speak.
Mademoiselle, I am without shame in this matter. It is true that I fought
in the cause of a woman, perhaps it would be more true if I said of a
child--one who has given me no more than her _camaraderie_, her
confidence, her friendship, so innocent and so amiable; but these things
are very precious to me, and that is why I cannot lightly speak of them.
You will not understand my words now, but perhaps some day it may be my
privilege to teach you their signification."

He stopped. Chris was gazing at him in amazement, her young face deeply
flushed.

"Do you mean me?" she asked at last. "You didn't--you couldn't--fight on
my account!"

He made her a grave bow. "I have told you," he said, "because otherwise
you would have thought ill of me. Now, with your permission, since there
is no more to say upon the subject, I will return to my friends."

He would have left her with the words, but she put out an impulsive hand.
"But, Bertie--"

He took the hand, looking straight into her eyes, all his formality
vanished at a breath. "Ask me no more, little one," he said. "You have
asked too much already. But you do not understand. Some day I will
explain all. Run home to _Mademoiselle la gouvernante_ now, and forget
all this. To-morrow we will play again together on the shore, draw the
pictures that you love, and weave anew our rope of sand."

He smiled as he said it, but the tenderness of his speech went deep into
the girl's heart. She suffered him to take leave of her almost in
silence. Those words of his had set vibrating in her some chord of
womanhood that none had ever touched before. It was true that she did not
understand, but she was nearer to understanding at that moment than she
had ever been before.



CHAPTER VIII

THE ENGLISHMAN


Chris returned quite soberly to the little house on the _plage_. The
morning's events had given her a good deal to think about. That any man
should deem it worth his while to fight a duel for her sake was a novel
idea that required a good deal of consideration. It was all very
difficult to understand, and she wished that Bertrand had told her more.
What could his adversary of the scowling brows have found to say about
her, she wondered? She had never so much as seen the man before. How had
he managed even to think anything unpleasant of her? Recalling Bertrand's
fiery eyes, she reflected that it must have been something very
objectionable indeed, and wondered how anyone could be so horrid.

These meditations lasted till she reached the garden gate, and here they
were put to instant and unceremonious flight, for little Noel hailed her
eagerly from the house with a cry of, "Hurry up, Chris! Hurry up! You're
wanted!"

Chris hastened in, to be met by her young brother, who was evidently in a
state of great excitement.

"Hurry up, I say!" he repeated. "My word, what a guy you look! We've just
had a wire from Jack. He will be in Paris this evening, and we are to
meet him there. We have got to catch the Paris express at Rennes, and the
train leaves here in two hours."

This was news indeed. Chris found herself plunged forthwith into such a
turmoil of preparation as drove all thought of the morning's events from
her mind.

Her brothers were overjoyed at the prospect of immediate departure;
Mademoiselle was scarcely less so; and Chris herself, infected by the
general atmosphere of satisfaction, entered into the fun of the thing
with a spirit fully equal to the occasion. The scramble to be ready was
such that not one of the party stopped to breathe during those two hours.
They bolted refreshments while they packed, talking at the tops of their
voices, and thoroughly enjoying the unwonted excitement. Mademoiselle was
more nearly genial than Chris had ever seen her. She did not even scold
her for taking an early dip. At the time Chris was too busy to wonder at
her forbearance; but she discovered the reason later, without the
preliminary of wondering, when she came to know that it was
Mademoiselle's urgent representations at headquarters regarding her own
delinquencies that had impelled this sudden summons.

The thought of meeting her cousin added zest to the situation. Though ten
years her senior, Jack Forest had long been the best chum she had--he was
best chum to a good many people.

Only when by strenuous effort they had managed to catch the one and only
train that could land them at Rennes in time for the Paris express, only
when the cliffs and the dear blue shore where she had idled so many hours
away were finally and completely left behind, did a sudden stab of
realization pierce Chris, while the quick words that her playmate of the
beach had uttered only that morning flashed torch-like through her brain.

Then and only then did she remember him, her _preux chevalier_, her
faithful friend and comrade, whose name she had never heard, whom she had
left without word or thought of farewell.

So crushing was her sense of loss, that for a few seconds she lost touch
with her surroundings, and sat dazed, white-faced, stricken, not so much
as asking herself what could be done. Then one of the boys shouted to her
to come and look at something they were passing, and with an effort she
jerked herself back to normal things.

Having recovered her balance, she managed to maintain a certain show of
indifference during the hours that followed, but she looked back upon
that journey to Paris later as one looks back upon a nightmare. It was
her first acquaintance with suffering in any form.

Jack Forest, big, square, and reliable, was waiting for them at the
terminus.

The two boys greeted him with much enthusiasm, but Chris suffered her own
greeting to be of a less boisterous character. Dear as the sight of him
was to her, it could not ease this new pain at her heart, and somehow she
found it impossible to muster even a show of gaiety any longer.

"Tired?" queried Jack, with her hand in his.

And she answered, "Yes, dreadfully," with a feeling that if he asked
anything further she would break down completely.

But Jack Forest was a young man of discretion. He smiled upon her and
said something about cakes for tea, after which he transferred his
attention to more pressing matters. Quite a strategist was Jack, though
very few gave him credit for so being.

Later, he sat down beside his forlorn little cousin in the great buzzing
vestibule of the hotel whither he had piloted the whole party, and gave
her tea, while he plied the boys with questions. But he never noticed
that she could not eat, or commented upon her evident weariness.
Mademoiselle did both, but he did not hear.

Chris would have gladly escaped the ordeal of dining in the great
_salle-à-manger_ that night, but she could muster no excuse for so doing.
At any other time it would have been an immense treat, and she dared not
let Jack think that it was otherwise with her to-night.

So they dined at length and elaborately, to Mademoiselle's keen
satisfaction, but she was aching all the while to slip away to bed and
cry her heart out in the darkness. She could not shake free from the
memory of the friend who would be waiting for her on the morrow, drawing
his pictures in the sand for the playfellow who would never see them--who
would never, in fact, be his playfellow again.

Returning to the vestibule after dinner to listen to the band was almost
more than she could bear; but still she could not frame an excuse, and
still Jack noticed nothing. He sent the boys to bed, but, as a matter of
course, she remained with Mademoiselle.

They found a seat under some palms, and Jack ordered coffee. He got on
very well with Mademoiselle as with the rest of the world, and there
seemed small prospect of an early retirement. But at this juncture poor
Chris began to get desperate. She had refused the coffee almost with
vehemence, and was on the point of an almost tearful entreaty to be
allowed to go to bed, when suddenly a quiet voice spoke close to her.

"Excuse me, Forest! I have been trying to catch your eye for the past ten
minutes. May I have the pleasure of an introduction?"

Chris glanced quickly round at the first deliberate syllable, and saw a
tall, grave-faced man of possibly thirty, standing at Jack's elbow.

Jack looked round too, and sprang impulsively to his feet. "You, Trevor!
I thought you were on the other side of the world. My dear chap, why on
earth didn't you speak before? You might have dined with us. Mademoiselle
Gautier, may I present my friend, Mr. Mordaunt?"

Mademoiselle acknowledged the introduction stiffly. She had no liking for
strange men.

But Chris looked at the new-comer with frank interest, forgetful for the
moment of her trouble. His smooth, clean-cut face attracted her. His grey
eyes were the most piercingly direct that she had ever encountered.

"My little cousin, Miss Wyndham," said Jack. "Chris, this is the greatest
newspaper man of the age. Join us, Mordaunt, won't you? I wish you had
come up sooner. Where were you hiding?"

Mordaunt smiled a little as he took a vacant chair by Chris's side. "I
have been quite as conspicuous as usual during the whole evening," he
said, "but you were too absorbed to notice me. Are you enjoying the
music, Miss Wyndham, or only watching the crowd?"

Chris did not know quite what to answer, since she had been doing
neither, but he passed on with the easy air of a man accustomed to fill
in conversational gaps.

"I believe I saw you arrive this evening. Haven't you got a small dog
with a turned-up nose? I thought so. Are you taking him for a holiday?
How do you propose to get him home again?"

That opened her lips, and quite successfully diverted her thoughts. "He
has had his holiday," she explained, "and we are taking him back. I don't
know in the least how we shall do it. Jack will have to manage it
somehow. Can you suggest anything? The authorities are so horribly strict
about dogs, and I couldn't let him go into quarantine. He would break his
heart long before he came out."

"A dog of character evidently!" The new acquaintance considered the
matter gravely. "When are you crossing?" he asked.

"To-morrow," said Jack. "I'm sorry, Chris, but I came off in a hurry, as
matters seemed urgent, and I have to be back by the end of the week."

"I wonder if you would care to entrust your dog to me," said Mordaunt. "I
am fairly well known. I think I could be relied upon with safety to
hoodwink the authorities."

He made the suggestion with a smile that warmed Chris's desolate heart.
Not till long afterwards did she know that this man had crossed the
Channel only that day, and that he proposed to re-cross it on the morrow
because of the trouble in a child's eyes that had moved him to
compassion.

They spent the next half-hour in an engrossing discussion as to the best
means to be adopted for Cinders' safe transit, and when Chris went to bed
at last she was so full of the scheme that she forgot after all to cry
herself to sleep over the thought of her _preux chevalier_ drawing his
sand-pictures in solitude.

She dreamed instead that he and the Englishman with the level, grey eyes
were fighting a duel that lasted interminably, neither giving ground,
till suddenly Bertrand plunged his sword into the earth and abruptly
walked away.

She tried to follow him, but could not, for something held her back. And
so presently he passed out of her sight, and turning, she found that the
Englishman had gone also, and she was alone.

Then she awoke, and knew it was a dream.



PART I



CHAPTER I

THE PRECIPICE


The angry yelling of a French mob rose outside the court--a low, ominous
roar, pierced here and there with individual execrations, and the
prisoner turned his head and listened. There was a suspicion of contempt
on his face, drawn though it was. What did they care for justice? It was
only the instinct to hunt the persecuted that urged them. Were he proved
innocent ten times over, they would hardly be convinced or cease from
their reviling.

But he knew that no proof of innocence would be forthcoming. He was
hedged around too completely by adverse circumstances for that.
Everything pointed to his guilt, and only he himself and one other knew
him to be the victim of a deliberate plot devised to compass his
destruction. He was too hopelessly enmeshed to extricate himself, and the
other--the only man in the world who could establish his innocence--was
the man who had set the snare.

Bertrand de Montville, gunner and genius, had faced this fact until he
was in a measure used to it. There was to be no escape for him. He, who
had dared to scale the heights of Olympus and had diced with the gods,
was to be hurled into the mire to rise therefrom no more for ever. He had
climbed so high; almost his feet had reached the summit. He had completed
his invention, and it had surpassed even his most sanguine hopes of
success. At four-and-twenty he had been acclaimed by his superiors as the
greatest artillery engineer of his time. His genius had won him a footing
that men more than twice his age, and far above him in military rank,
might have envied. He had been honoured by the highest.

And then at the very zenith of his prosperity had come his downfall. His
gun, the cherished invention that was to place the French artillery at
the head of the list, the child of his brain, his own peculiar treasure,
was discovered to have been purchased by another Government three months
before he had offered it to his own.

None but himself--so it was believed, so it was ultimately to be proved
to the satisfaction of impartial judges--had been in a position at that
time to betray the secret, for none but himself had then possessed it.
And a great storm of indignation went through the whole country over the
revelation.

Passionately but uselessly he protested his innocence. There were a few,
even among his judges, who secretly believed him; but the proof was
incontestable. Inch by inch he had been forced down from the heights that
he had so gallantly scaled, and now he was on the brink of the precipice,
no longer fighting, only waiting with the unflinching courage of the
French aristocrat to be hurled headlong into the abyss that yawned below.

The yelling of the crowd outside the court was only a detail of the
bitter process that was gradually compassing his condemnation. He knew he
was to be convicted. It was written in varying characters upon every
face; pity, severity, disgust--he met them on every hand. And so on this
the fifth and last day of his court-martial he confronted destiny--that
destiny that he had once so gaily dared--with closed lips and eyes that
revealed neither misery nor despair, only the indomitable pride of his
race. Do what they would to him, they would never quench that while life
remained. The worst indignity that man could inflict would provoke no
outcry here. He had protested his innocence in vain, and he had no proof
thereof to offer. It remained for him to face dishonour as an honourable
man, steady and undismayed. Doubtless there were those who would deem his
bearing brazen, but not his worst enemy should call him coward.

Across the court an Englishman, with keen grey eyes that took in every
detail, sat and sketched him--sketched the proud, fearless pose of the
man and the hard young face, with its faint, patrician smile. The sketch
was little more than outline, a few bold strokes; but the people in
England who saw it a couple of days later felt as if the artist had
deliberately lifted a curtain and shown to them a man's wrung soul. And
everyone who saw it said, "That man is innocent!"

Trevor Mordaunt said it himself many times that day before and after the
making of the sketch. He knew, as well as did the prisoner himself, that
there would be no acquittal. Almost from the commencement of the trial he
had known it. But he knew also that two at least of the judges were
disposed towards leniency, and upon this fact he based such slender hopes
as he entertained on the prisoner's behalf. As a fellow-correspondent--a
Frenchman--had remarked to him earlier in the trial, whatever the
verdict, they would hardly martyrize the man lest at a later date further
question as to his guilt should arise and all Europe be set bubbling anew
upon that much-discussed topic--French justice.

Mordaunt was of the same opinion; but, as he watched the young officer
throughout the whole of the day's proceedings, he came to the conclusion
that the verdict was everything in this man's estimation and the sentence
less than nothing. If he were condemned to be blown from his own gun, he
would face the ordeal unshrinking, almost with indifference. Deprived of
honour, what else was there in life?

So when the end came at last, and the inevitable verdict was pronounced,
Mordaunt shut his note-book with a feeling that there was no more to be
recorded.

As a matter of fact the sentence was not pronounced at the time, and only
transpired two days later, when it was officially made public--expulsion
from the army and incarceration in a French fortress for ten years.

"That, of course, will be commuted," said one who knew the probabilities
of the case to Mordaunt when the sentence was made known. "They will
release him _au secret_ in a few years and banish him from the country on
peril of arrest. They are bound to make an example of him, but they won't
keep it up. The verdict was not unanimous. And, above all, they won't
make a martyr of him now. The other _affaire_ is too recent."

Mordaunt agreed as to the likelihood of this, but he did not find it
particularly consolatory. He had seen the prisoner's face as he was
guarded through the surging, hostile crowd; and he knew that for Bertrand
de Montville the heavens had fallen.

An innocent man had been found guilty, and that was the end. He was
beyond the reach of any lenient influence now that justice had failed
him. They had pushed him over the edge of the precipice--this man who had
dared to climb so high; and in the hissings and groanings of the crowd he
heard the death-knell of his honour.

In silence he went down into the abyss. In silence he passed out of
Trevor Mordaunt's life. Only as he went, for one strange second, as
though drawn by some magnetic force, his eyes, dark and still, met those
of the Englishman, with his level, unfaltering scrutiny. No word or
outward sign passed between them. They were utter strangers; it was
unlikely that they would ever meet again. Only for that one second
something that was in the nature of a message went from one man's soul to
the other's. For that instant they were in communion, subtle but
curiously distinct.

And Bertrand de Montville went to his martyrdom with the knowledge that
one man--an Englishman--believed in him, while Trevor Mordaunt was aware
that he knew it, and was glad.

For he had studied human nature long enough to realize that even a
stranger's faith may make a supreme difference in the hour of a man's
most pressing need.



CHAPTER II

THE CONQUEST


It was a sunny morning in the end of June, and Chris was doing her hair
in curls, for she was expecting a visitor. It took a very long time to
do, for there was so much of it; and she looked very worried over the
process. She would have liked to have borrowed Aunt Philippa's maid, but
this was a prohibited luxury except on very exceptional occasions. And
Hilda--dear, gentle Cousin Hilda--was away in Devon with her _fiancé's_
people. So Chris had to wrestle with her difficulties in solitude.

It was the middle of her first season, and, with a few reservations, she
was enjoying it immensely. The reservations were all directly or
indirectly connected with Aunt Philippa, for whom Chris's feeling was
that of an adventurous schoolboy for a somewhat severe headmaster. She
was not exactly afraid of her, but she was instinctively wary in her
presence. She knew quite well that Aunt Philippa had given her this
season as her one and only chance in life, and had done it, moreover,
more than half against her will, impelled thereto by the urgent
representations of her son and daughter, who looked upon their merry
little cousin as their joint _protégée_. She ought, doubtless, to have
come out the previous year, but her aunt's ill-health had precluded this,
and the whole summer had been spent in the country.

That excuse, however, would not serve Mrs. Forest this year. She had
taken a house in town, and there was no other course open to her than to
launch her brother's child into society, however sorely against her will.
Her main anxiety had fortunately by that time ceased to exist. There was
no likelihood of Chris, with her brilliant, vivacious ways, outshining
her own daughter. For Hilda was engaged to Lord Percy Davenant, who
plainly had eyes and thoughts for none other, and the marriage was to be
one of the events of the season.

Chris was therefore accorded her chance upon the tacit understanding that
she was to make the most of it, since Mrs. Forest still maintained her
attitude of irresponsibility where her brother's children were concerned,
although the said brother had drifted to Australia and died there, no one
quite knew how, leaving next to nothing behind him.

His sons and Chris had been brought up upon their mother's fortune, a sum
which had been set aside for their education by their father at her
death, after which, beyond providing them with a home--the ramshackle
inheritance that had come to him from his father--he had made little
further provision for them. His eldest son, Rupert, was a subaltern in a
line regiment. No one knew whether he lived on his pay or not, and no one
inquired. The second son, who possessed undeniable brilliance, had earned
a scholarship, and was studying medicine. And Noel, now aged sixteen, was
still at school, distinguishing himself at sports and consistently
neglecting all things that did not pertain thereto.

Undoubtedly they were a reckless and improvident family, as Mrs. Forest
so often declared; but perhaps, all things considered, they had never had
much opportunity of developing any other qualities, though it was
certainly hard that she should be regarded as in any degree responsible
for them. She and her brother had always been as far asunder as the poles
in disposition, and neither had ever felt or so much as professed to feel
the faintest affection for the other.

It vexed her that Jack and Hilda should take so lively an interest in
Chris, who was bound to turn out badly. Had she not already shown herself
to be incorrigibly flighty? But since it vexed her still more that anyone
should regard her actions as blameworthy, she had yielded to their
persuasions. And thus Chris had been given her chance.

She was thoroughly appreciating it. Everyone was being kind to her, and
it was all extremely pleasant. She was looking forward keenly to the
coming that morning of Trevor Mordaunt, who had been regarded as a
privileged friend ever since he had smuggled Cinders back into England
three years before, secreted in an immense pocket in the lining of a
great motor-coat. Not that she had seen very much of him since that
memorable occasion. In fact, until the present summer they had scarcely
met again. He was a celebrated man in the literary world, and he
travelled far and wide. He was also immensely wealthy. Men said of him
that whatever he touched turned to gold. And fame, wealth, and a certain
unobtrusive strength of personality had combined to make him popular
wherever he went.

He was more often out of England than in it, and there were even some who
suspected him of being an empire-builder, though their grounds for doing
so were but slight.

It was, however, characteristic of Chris that she never forgot her
friends, a characteristic which Trevor Mordaunt also possessed to a
marked degree. Therefore it was not surprising that soon after her first
appearance in London society he had claimed and had been readily accorded
the privileges of old acquaintanceship.

Since that day they had met casually at several functions, and people
were beginning to wonder a little at Mordaunt's unusual energy in a
social sense, for it was several years since he had brought himself to
tread the mill of a London season.

Chris always hailed his appearance with obvious pleasure, though she was
very far from connecting it in any sense with herself. He was always kind
to her, always ready to make things go smoothly for her, and she never
knew an awkward moment in his society. There were plenty of people who
spoke of him with awe, but Chris was not one of these. She never found
him in the least formidable.

And so it was with ingenuous pleasure that she anticipated his advent
that morning. They had met at a dance on the previous evening, and her
card had been full before his arrival. It had not occurred to her to save
a dance for him.

"I never thought you would come," she had told him in distress. "I wish I
had known!"

And then he had looked at her quietly for a moment with those intent grey
eyes of his that never seemed to miss anything, and had asked her if he
might call on the following morning, since he was to see nothing of her
that night.

She had responded with a pressing invitation to do so, and he had simply
thanked her and departed.

And so when the morning came Chris was still struggling with her hair
when he arrived, having breakfasted in bed and finally arisen at a
scandalously late hour. But that she knew Aunt Philippa to be also in
bed, she would scarcely have ventured upon such a proceeding. Aunt
Philippa knew nothing of the expected visitor. As a matter of fact Chris,
in her airy fashion, had quite forgotten to mention the matter. Mrs.
Forest, being still uncertain as to Mordaunt's state of mind, had
discreetly foreborne to put the girl on her guard. She had at the
beginning of things carefully instilled into her that it was essential
that she should miss no opportunity of making a wealthy marriage, and she
hoped that Chris would have the sense to bear this in mind.

Had she known of Mordaunt's coming she would probably have drilled her
carefully beforehand, but luckily Chris's negligence spared her this. And
so on that sunny summer morning she was sublimely unconscious of what was
before her, and entered Mordaunt's presence at length almost at a run.
Chris at twenty was very little older than Chris at seventeen.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," was her greeting. "Really I
couldn't help it. I just couldn't get up this morning. You know how one
feels after going to bed at four. It was very nice of you to come so
early. Have you had any breakfast?"

All this was poured out while her hand lay in his, her gay young face
uplifted, half-merry, half-confiding.

Yes, Mordaunt had breakfasted. He told her so with a faint smile. "And
please don't apologize for being late," he added. "It is I who am early.
I came early on purpose. I wanted to see you alone."

"Oh?" said Chris.

She looked at him interrogatively and then quite suddenly she knew what
he had come to say, and turned white to the lips. For the first time she
was afraid of him.

"Oh, please," she gasped rather incoherently, "please--"

"Shall we sit down?" he said gently. "I am not going to do or say
anything that need frighten you. If you were a little older you would
realize that I am at your mercy, not you at mine."

She looked at him wide-eyed, imploring. "Please, Mr. Mordaunt, can't
we--can't we wait a little? I am afraid, I am so afraid of--of making a
mistake."

The faint smile was still upon his face, though it did not reach his
eyes. He laid a reassuring hand upon her shoulder.

"My dear little Chris," he said, "I won't let you do that."

That comforted her a little, though she still looked doubtful. She
suffered him to lead her to a sofa and sit beside her, but she avoided
his eyes. The crisis had come upon her so suddenly, she knew not how to
deal with it.

"Has no one ever proposed to you before?" he said.

"No," she whispered.

"Well, it's all right," he said kindly. "Don't think I am going to trade
on your inexperience. If you want to say 'No' to me, say it, and I'll go.
I shall come back again, of course. I shall keep on coming back till you
say 'Yes' either to me or to some other man. But I hope it won't be
another man, Chris. I want you so badly myself."

"Do you?" she said. "How--how funny!"

"Why funny?" he asked.

She glanced at him speculatively; her panic was beginning to subside.
"You must be ever so much older than I am," she said.

"I am thirty-five," he said.

"And I'm not quite twenty-one." A sudden dimple appeared in the cheek
nearest to him. "Fancy me getting married!" said Chris, with a chuckle.
"I can't imagine it, can you?"

"You will soon get used to the idea," he said. "Anyhow, there is nothing
in it to frighten you--that is, if you marry the right man."

She nodded thoughtfully, her brief mirth gone. "But, Mr. Mordaunt, how is
one to know?"

He leaned towards her. "I believe I can teach you," he said, "if you will
let me try."

She slipped a shy hand into his. "But you won't ask me to marry you for a
long while yet, will you?" she said pleadingly.

"Not until you have quite made up your mind to be engaged to me," said
Mordaunt.

She looked at him quickly. "No, not then either. Not--not till I say you
may."

He laughed a little; but there was something very protecting,
infinitely reassuring, in his grasp. "And if I accept that condition,"
he said--"it's a very despotic one, by the way--but if I accept it,
may I consider that you are engaged to me?"

Chris hesitated.

"Not if I tell you that I love you," he said, "that I want you more than
anything else in life, that I would give the soul out of my body to make
you happy?"

His voice was sunk very low. There was more of restraint than emotion in
his utterance. He spoke as a man who knows himself to be upon holy
ground.

And Chris was awed. The very quietness of the man made her tremble. She
knew instinctively that here was something colossal, something that
dominated her, albeit half against her will.

She closed her fingers very tightly upon his hand, but she said nothing.

He sat silent for several seconds, closely watching her, seeking to read
her downcast eyes. But she would not raise them. Her heart was beating
very quickly, and her breath came and went like the breath of a
frightened bird.

At last very gently he moved, drew her to him, put his arm about her.
"Are you afraid of me, Chris?"

She nestled to him with a little gesture that was curiously pathetic.
With her face securely hidden against him, she whispered, "Yes."

"My darling, why?" he said very tenderly.

"I don't know why," murmured Chris.

"Surely not because I love you?" he said.

She nodded against his shoulder. "You ought not to love me like that.
It's too much. I'm not good enough."

"My little girl," he said, "I am not worthy to hold your hand in mine."

His hand was on her hair, stroking, fondling, caressing. She nestled
closer, without lifting her face.

"You don't know me in the least. I'm not a bit nice really. I get up to
all sorts of pranks. I'm wild and flighty. Ask Aunt Philippa if you want
to know."

"I know you better than Aunt Philippa, dear," he said.

"Oh no, you don't. You've only seen my good side. I'm always on my best
behaviour with you."

"Another excellent reason for marrying me," said Mordaunt.

"Oh, but I shan't be always. That's just it. You--you will be quite
shocked some day."

"I will take the risk," he said.

"I don't think you ought to," murmured Chris. "It doesn't seem quite
fair."

His hand pressed her head very gently. "Meaning that you don't love me?"
he said.

She made a vehement gesture of denial. "Of course not. I--I'd be a little
beast if I didn't, specially after the way you helped me with Cinders
long ago. I never forgot that--never! Only I do think--before you marry
me--you ought to know how horrid I can be. It--it's buying a pig in a
poke if you don't."

He laughed again at that in a fashion that emboldened Chris to raise her
head.

"I am quite in earnest," she told him, in a tone that tried to be
indignant. "You'll find me out presently. And when you do--"

She stopped with a gasp. His arms were about her, holding her as she
sat. He looked straight down into the shining blue eyes. "When I do,
Chris--" he said.

She met his look quite bravely. She was even smiling rather tremulously
herself. "You will get a stick and beat me," she said. "I know. People
who have eyes like steel never make allowances for those who haven't!"

She got no further, for quite suddenly Trevor Mordaunt dropped his
self-restraint like an impeding cloak and caught her to his heart. For
the fraction of a second her fear came back, she almost made as if she
would resist him; and then in a moment it was gone, lost in a wonder that
left no room for anything else. For he kissed her, once and once only, so
passionately, so burningly, so possessively, that it seemed to Chris as
if, without her own volition, even half against her will, she thereby
became his own. He had dominated her, he had won her, almost before she
had had time to realize that there was a stranger within her gates.



CHAPTER III

THE WARNING


"Well, all I have to say is, 'Bravo, young un!'" Rupert Wyndham stretched
out a careless arm and encircled his sister's waist therewith. She was
perched on the arm of his chair, and she tweaked his ear airily in
response to this encouragement.

"Oh, you're pleased, are you?" she said. "That's very nice of you."

"Pleased is a term that does not express my feelings in the least," he
declared. "I am transported with delight. You are the last person I
should have expected to retrieve the family fortunes, but you have done
it right nobly. I'm told the fellow is as rich as Croesus. It's to be
hoped that he is quite resigned to the fact that he is going to have
plenty of relations when he marries. By the way, hasn't he any of his
own?"

"None that count--only cousins and things. Such a mercy!" said Chris.
"And oh, Rupert, isn't it a blessing now that we never managed to sell
Old Park, or even to let it? We shall be able to live there ourselves and
turn it into a perfect paradise."

"He wants to buy it, eh?" Rupert glanced up keenly.

Chris nodded. "It's only in the clouds at present. He said something
about giving it to me when we marry. But of course," rather hastily,
"we're not going to be married for ever so long. It would have to belong
to him till then. He is going to talk to you about it presently. You
wouldn't object, would you? You are entitled to your share now, he says,
and Max will come into his directly. But Noel's will have to go into
trust till he is of age."

"An excellent idea!" declared Rupert. "I'm damnably hard up, as your
worthy _fiancé_ has probably divined. But why this notion of not getting
married for ever so long? I don't quite follow the drift of that."

"Oh, don't be silly!" said Chris, colouring very deeply. "How could we
possibly? Everyone would say I was marrying him for his money?"

"And that is not so?" questioned Rupert.

"Of course it isn't!" She spoke with a vehemence almost fiery. "I--I'm
not such a pig as that!"

"No?" He leaned his head back upon the cushion and gazed up at her
flushed face. "What are you marrying him for?" he asked.

Chris looked back at him with a hint of defiance in her blue eyes. "What
do most people marry for?" she demanded.

He laughed carelessly. "Heaven knows! Generally because they're stupid
asses. The men want housekeepers and the women want houses, and neither
want to pay for such luxuries. Those are the two principal reasons, if
you ask me."

Chris jumped off the arm of his chair with an abruptness that seemed to
indicate some perturbation of spirit. She went to one of the long windows
that looked across the quiet square.

"Those are not our reasons, anyhow," she said, after a moment, with her
back to the cynic in the chair.

He turned his head at her words and smiled, a mischievous boyish smile
that proclaimed their relationship on the instant.

"Ye gods!" he ejaculated. "Is it possible that you're in love with him?"

Chris was silent. She seemed to be watching something in the road below
her with absorbing interest.

"You needn't trouble to keep your back turned," gibed the brotherly voice
behind her. "I can see you are the colour of beetroot even at this
distance. Curious, very! But I'm glad you are so becomingly modest. It's
the first indication of the virtue that I have ever detected in you."

"You beast!" said Chris.

She whirled suddenly round, half-laughing, half-resentful, seized a book
from a table near, and hurled it with accurate aim at her brother's head.

He flung up a dexterous hand and caught it just as the door opened
to admit Mordaunt, who had been asked to dine to meet his future
brother-in-law.

Rupert was on his feet in a moment. With the book pressed against his
heart, he swept a low bow to the advancing stranger.

"You come in the nick of time," he observed, "to preserve me from my
sister's fratricidal intentions. Perhaps you would like to arbitrate. The
offence was that I accused her of being in love--with you, of course. She
seems to think the assertion unwarrantable."

"Oh, Trevor, don't listen!" besought Chris. "He only goes on like that
because he thinks it's clever. Do snub him as he deserves!"

"Pray do!" said Rupert. "Begin by asking him how old he is, and whether
he knows his nine-times backwards yet. Also--"

"Also," broke in Mordaunt, with a smile, "if he can't find something more
profitable to do than to tease his small sister." He extended a quiet
hand. "I have been wanting to make your acquaintance for some time. In
fact, I was contemplating running down to Sandacre for the purpose."

"Very good of you," said Rupert. He dropped his chaffing air and grasped
the proffered hand with abrupt friendliness. There was something about
this man that caught his fancy. "You would be very welcome at any time.
It isn't much of a show down there, but if you don't mind that--"

"I shouldn't come for the sake of the show," said Mordaunt. "I'd sooner
see a battalion at work than at play."

"Ah! Wouldn't I, too!" said Rupert, with sudden fire. "We hope to be
ordered to India next year. That wouldn't be absolute stagnation, anyhow.
I loathe home work."

Mordaunt looked at the straight young figure brimming with activity, and
decided that the more work this boy had to do the better it would be for
him morally and physically.

"Keeps you in training," he suggested.

"Oh, I don't know. One is apt to get unconscionably slack. It's a fool of
a world. The work is all wrongly distributed; some fellows have to work
like niggers and others that want to work never get a look in." Rupert
broke off to laugh. "I'm a discontented beggar, I tell you frankly," he
said. "But I don't expect any sympathy from you, because, being what you
are, you wouldn't reasonably be expected to understand."

"My good fellow, I haven't always been prosperous," Mordaunt assured him.
"I've had luck, I admit. It comes to most of us in some form if we are
only sharp enough to recognize it. Perhaps it hasn't come your way yet."

"I'll be shot if it has!" said Rupert.

"But it will," Mordaunt maintained, "sooner or later."

"Oh, do you believe in luck?" broke in Chris eagerly. "Because there's
the new moon coming up over the trees, and I've just seen it through
glass. Don't look, Trevor, for goodness' sake! No, no, you shan't! Shut
your eyes while I open the window. You shall see it from the balcony."

She sprang to the window, and Mordaunt followed with an indulgent smile.

Rupert scoffed openly. "Chris is mad on charms of every description. If
she hears a dog howl in the night she thinks there is going to be an
earthquake. You had better not encourage her, or there will be no end to
it."

But Chris, with her _fiancé's_ hand fast in hers, was already at the
window.

"If you don't believe in it, don't come!" she threw back over her
shoulder. "Now, Trevor, you've got to turn your money, bow three times,
and wish. Do wish for something really good to make up for my bad luck!"

Mordaunt complied deliberately with her instructions, her hand still in
his.

"I have wished," he announced at length.

"Have you? What was it? Yes, you may tell me as I'm not doing any. Quick,
before Rupert comes!"

Her eager face was close to his. He looked into the clear eyes and
paused. "I don't think I will tell you," he said finally.

"Oh, how mean! And you would have missed the opportunity but for me!"

He laughed quietly. "So I should. Then I shall owe it to you if it comes
true. I will let you know if it does."

"You are sure to forget," she protested.

"No. I am sure to remember."

She regarded him speculatively. "I don't like secrets," she said.

"Haven't you any of your own?" he asked.

"No. At least--" she suddenly coloured vividly under his eyes--"none that
matter."

He sat down upon the balustrade of the balcony, bringing his eyes on a
level with hers. "None that you wouldn't tell me," he suggested, still
faintly smiling.

She recovered from her confusion with a quick laugh. "I shouldn't dream
of telling you--some things," she said.

Her hand moved a little in his as though it wanted to be free, but he
held it still. He bent towards her, his grey eyes no longer searching,
only very soft and tender.

"You will when we are married, dear," he said.

But Chris shook her head with much decision. "Oh, no! I couldn't
possibly. You would disapprove far too much. As Aunt Philippa says, you
would be 'pained beyond expression.'"

But Mordaunt only drew her nearer. "You--child!" he said.

She yielded, half-protesting. "Yes, but I'm not quite a baby. I think you
ought to remember that. Shall we go back? I know Rupert is sniggering
behind the curtain."

"I'll break his head if he is," said Mordaunt; but he let her go, as she
evidently desired, and prepared to follow her in.

They met Rupert sauntering out "to pay his respects," as he termed it,
though, if there were any luck going, he supposed that his future
brother-in-law had secured it all.

"Thought you didn't believe in luck," observed Mordaunt.

"I believe in bad luck," returned Rupert pessimistically. "I only know
the other sort by hearsay."

"Isn't he absurd?" laughed Chris. "He always talks like that. And there
are crowds of people worse off than he is."

"Query," remarked her brother, with a shrug of the shoulders; but an
instant later, aware of Mordaunt's look, he changed the subject.

They were a small party at dinner, for there remained but Hilda Forest to
complete the number. She had only that afternoon returned to town. Mrs.
Forest was dining out, to Chris's unfeigned relief. For Chris was in high
spirits that night, and only in her aunt's absence could she give them
full vent.

But, if gay, she was also provokingly elusive. Mordaunt had never seen
her so effervescent, so sublimely inconsequent, or so naïvely bewitching
as she was throughout the meal. Rupert, reckless and _débonnaire_,
encouraged her wild mood. As his youngest brother expressed it, he and
Chris 'generally ran amok' when they got together. And Hilda, the sedate,
rather pensive daughter of the house, was far too gentle to restrain
them.

It was impossible to hold aloof from such light-hearted merry-making, and
Mordaunt went with the tide. Perhaps instinct warned him that it was the
surest way to overcome that barrier of shyness, unacknowledged but none
the less existent, that kept him still a stranger to his little
_fiancée's_ confidence. Her dainty daring notwithstanding, he was aware
of the fact that she was yet half afraid of him, though when he came to
seek the cause of this he was utterly at a loss.

When he and Rupert were left alone together after dinner, they were
already far advanced upon the road to intimacy. It was the result of his
deliberate intention; for though a girl might keep him outside her inner
sanctuary, it seldom happened in the world of men that Trevor Mordaunt
could not obtain a free pass whithersoever he cared to go.

Rupert tossed aside his gaiety with characteristic suddenness almost as
soon as the door had closed upon his sister and cousin.

"I suppose you want to get to business," he said abruptly. "I'm ready
when you are."

Mordaunt moved into an easy-chair. "Yes, I want to make a suggestion," he
said deliberately. "But it is not a matter that you and I can carry
through single-handed. I want to talk about it, that's all."

Rupert, his elbows on the table, nodded and stared rather gloomily into
his coffee-cup. "I suppose it'll take about a year to fix it up. Anything
with a lawyer in it does."

Mordaunt watched him through his cigarette smoke for a few seconds in
silence, until in fact with a slight movement of impatience Rupert
turned.

"I'm no good at fencing," he said, rather irritably. "You want Kellerton
Old Park, Chris tells me. Have you seen it?"

"No."

"Then"--he sat back with a laugh that sounded rather forced--"that ends
it," he declared. "The place has gone to rack and ruin. You can't walk up
the avenue for the thistles. They are shoulder high. And as for the
house, it's not much more than a rubbish-heap. It would cost more than
it's worth to make it habitable. We have been trying to get rid of the
place ever since my father's death, but it's no manner of use. People get
let in by the agent's description and go and see it, but they all come
away shuddering. You'll do the same."

"I shall certainly go and see it," Mordaunt said. "Perhaps I shall
persuade Chris to motor down with me some day. But in any case, if you
are selling--I'm buying."

Rupert jumped up suddenly. "I won't take you seriously till you've seen
it," he declared.

"Oh yes, you will," Mordaunt returned imperturbably. "Because, you see, I
am serious. But we haven't come to business yet. I want to know what
price you are asking for this ancestral dwelling of yours."

"We would take almost anything," Rupert said.

He had begun to fidget about the room with a restlessness that was
feverish. Mordaunt remained in his easy-chair, calmly smoking, obviously
awaiting the information for which he had asked.

"Almost anything," Rupert repeated, halting at the table to drink some
coffee.

The hand that held the cup was not over-steady. Mordaunt's eyes rested
upon it thoughtfully.

"I should like to know," he said, after a moment.

Rupert gulped his coffee and looked down at him. "Murchison said ten
thousand when my father died," he said. "He would probably begin by
saying ten now, but he would end by taking five."

"Murchison is your solicitor?"

"And trustee up to a year ago."

"I see." Mordaunt reached for his own coffee. "And you? You think ten
thousand would be a fair price?"

Rupert broke again into his uneasy laugh. "I think it would be an
infernal swindle," he said.

"I will talk it over with Mr. Murchison," Mordaunt said quietly. "I only
wanted to be sure that you were quite willing to sell before doing so."

Rupert took a turn up the room. He looked thoroughly ill-at-ease. Coming
back, he halted by the mantelpiece and began to drum a difficult tattoo
upon the marble.

"I don't want you to be let in by Murchison," he said suddenly. "You will
find him damnably plausible. If he thinks you really want the place he
will squeeze you like a sponge."

"Thanks for the warning!" There was a note of amusement in Mordaunt's
voice. He finished his coffee and rose. "You have done your best to
handicap your man of business, but I think he will get his price in spite
of it. You see, I really do want the place."

"Without seeing it!"

"Yes."

Rupert whizzed round on his heels, and faced him. "Sounds
rather--eccentric," he suggested.

Mordaunt smiled in his quiet, detached way. "I can afford to be
eccentric," he said. "And now look here, Wyndham. You said something just
now about having to wait a year to fix things up. I don't see the
necessity for that, situated as we are. Since you are willing that I
should buy Kellerton Old Park, and since we are agreed upon the price, I
see no reason to delay payment. I will write you a cheque for your share
to-night."

"What?" said Rupert.

He stood up very straight, staring at the man before him as if he were an
entirely novel specimen of the human race.

"Is it a joke?" he asked at length.

Mordaunt flicked the ash from his cigarette without looking at him.
Perhaps he felt that he had studied him long enough.

"No," he said. "I don't see any point in jokes of that sort. Of course, I
know it's not business, but the arrangement is entirely between
ourselves. I don't see why even Murchison should be let into it. We can
settle it later without taking him into our confidence."

"It's a loan, then?" said Rupert quickly.

"If you like to call it so."

"May as well call it by its name," the boy returned bluntly. "You're
deuced generous, Mr. Mordaunt."

"I know what it is to be hard up," Mordaunt answered. "And since we are
to be brothers we may as well behave as such, eh--Rupert?"

Rupert's hand came out and gripped his impulsively. For a second he
seemed to be at a loss for words, then burst into headlong speech.

"Look here! I think I ought to tell you, before you take us in hand to
that extent, that we're a family of rotters. We're not one of us sound.
Oh, I'm not talking about Chris. She's a girl. But the rest of us are
below par, slackers. Our father was the same. There's bad blood
somewhere. You are bound to find it out sooner or later, so you may as
well know it now."

Mordaunt's grey eyes looked his full in the face. "Is that intended as a
warning not to expect too much?" he asked.

Rupert's eyelids twitched a little under that direct look. "Yes," he said
briefly.

"And if I don't listen to warnings of that description?"

"You will probably get let down."

Rupert spoke recklessly, yet almost as if he could not help it.
Undoubtedly there was something magnetic about Trevor Mordaunt at times,
something that compelled. He was conscious of relief when the steady eyes
ceased to scrutinize him.

"Not by you, I think," Mordaunt said, with his quiet smile. "You may be a
rotter, my boy, but you are not one of the crooked sort."

"I've never robbed anyone, if that's what you mean." Rupert's laugh had
in it a note of bitterness that was unconsciously pathetic. "But I'm up
to the eyes in debt and pretty desperate. If I could have persuaded
Murchison to raise money on the estate, I'd have done it long ago. That's
why this offer of yours seemed too good to be true."

Mordaunt nodded. "I thought so. It's foul work floundering in that sort
of quagmire. I wonder now if you will allow me to have a look into your
affairs, or if you prefer to go to the devil your own way."

Rupert coloured and threw back his shoulders, but he did not take
offence. The leisurely proposal held none. "I'm not over keen on going to
the devil," he said. "But neither am I going to let you pay my debts,
thanks all the same."

Mordaunt glanced at him and smiled. "I think you will cancel that 'but,'"
he said, "in view of our future relationship."

Rupert hesitated, obviously wavering. "It's jolly decent of you," he said
boyishly. "You make it confoundedly difficult to refuse."

"You are not going to refuse," said Mordaunt. "No one knows better
than I do that it's ten times pleasanter to give than to receive. But
that--between friends--is not a point worth considering."

"I should think you have a good many friends," said Rupert.

"I believe I have."

"Well,"--the boy spoke with a tinge of feeling beneath his
banter--"you've added to the list to-night, and I wish you joy of your
acquisition! But don't say I didn't warn you."

"No," said Mordaunt quietly. "I won't say that." He added a moment later,
as he dropped the end of his cigarette into his coffee-cup, "I believe in
my friends, Rupert."

"Till they let you down," suggested Rupert.

"They never do."

"Then allow me to say that you are one of the luckiest fellows I have
ever met."

"Perhaps."

"And the best," Rupert added impulsively.

There was a moment's silence, then, "Shall we join the ladies?" suggested
Trevor Mordaunt, in a tone that sounded rather bored.



CHAPTER IV

DOUBTS


"He's nice, isn't he?" said Chris.

She was seated on a hassock close to her cousin's knee, a favourite
position of hers.

Hilda's fingers fondled the sunny hair. Her eyes looked thoughtful. "I am
so glad for you, dear," she said.

"I knew you would be," chuckled Chris. "Aunt Philippa is delighted too.
It's the first time I've ever known her pleased with me. It feels so
funny. Ah! There is my sweet Cinders! I must just let him in."

She sprang up to admit her favourite, whose imperious scratch at the door
testified to the fact that he was not accustomed to being kept waiting.
There ensued a tender if somewhat pointless conversation between himself
and his mistress before she returned to her seat and her confidences.

"Did you ever refuse to marry anybody, Hilda?" she wanted to know then.

"Yes, dear."

"Many?"

"Three," said Hilda.

"Goodness!" Chris looked up with shining eyes of admiration. "How ever
did you do it?"

"I wasn't in love with them," said Hilda simply.

"Oh! And you are in love with Percy?"

"Yes, dear." Again with the utmost simplicity the elder girl made answer.

"How nice!" said Chris. "But I can't think how you knew," she said, after
a moment.

Hilda leaned forward to look into the clear eyes. A faint gleam of
anxiety showed for a moment in her own. "But surely you know, Chris!" she
said.

"I!" said Chris, with a gay shake of the head. "Oh, no, I don't. You
know, I don't believe it's in me to fall in love in the ordinary way. I
was quite angry with Rupert only this evening for jeering at me, as if I
were. Oh, no, Hilda, I'm not in love like that."

"But, my dear--" Hilda looked down in grave perplexity, not unmixed with
apprehension.

Chris leaned back against her quite unconcernedly, her hands clasped
round her knees, and laughed like an elf. "Darling, don't look at me like
that! It's too funny. Don't you know that it's only you staid, good
people who ever fall in love properly? The rest of us only pretend.
That's where the romance comes in."

"But, dear, Trevor Mordaunt is in love with you," Hilda reminded her
gently.

"Oh yes," said Chris, "I know. That's why I had to accept him. I don't
believe even you could have said No to him."

Hilda's face cleared a little. She pinched the soft cheek nearest to her.
"After that, don't talk to me about not being in love!"

"Oh, but really I don't think I am," Chris assured her quite seriously.
"I have only once in my life met anyone with whom I could possibly
imagine myself falling in love. And he was not a bit like Trevor."

"What was he like?" asked Hilda. "A sort of fancy person? Or someone out
of a book?"

"Oh no, he was quite real--the nicest man." A faraway look came into
Chris's eyes; she suddenly spoke very softly as one in the presence of a
vision. "I think--I am not sure--that he belonged to the old French
_noblesse_. He was not tall, but beautifully made, just right in every
way, and very handsome, with eyes that laughed--the sort of man one
dreams of, but never meets."

"And yet he was real," Hilda said.

"Oh yes, he was real. But it was ages and ages ago. He may have changed
by this time. He may even be dead--my _preux chevalier_." Chris came out
of her dream with a shaky little laugh. "Ah, well, I've given up crying
for him," she said. "Anyhow it was only a game. Let's talk of something
else."

"It was the man at Valpré," said Hilda.

"Yes, it was the man at Valpré. I never told you about him, did I? I
never told anyone. Somehow I couldn't. People made such a horrid fuss.
But the very thought of him used to make me cry at one time. Wasn't it
silly? But I missed him so. I couldn't help it. We won't talk about him
any more. It makes me melancholy. Hilda, wouldn't it be a novel idea if
your bridesmaids carried fans instead of Prayer Books? You could have the
marriage service printed on them in gold with illuminated capitals. Would
Aunt Philippa think it immoral, do you think?"

To anyone who did not know Chris this sudden change might have seemed
bewildering; but Hilda was never taken unawares by her swift transitions.
She did not even deem her flippant, as did her mother. For Chris was very
dear to her. She knew and loved her in all her lightning moods. It was
possible that even she did not wholly understand her, but she was nearer
to doing so than any other in Chris's world just then.

When Chris danced across to the piano and began her favourite waltz to
the accompaniment of muffled howls from Cinders, she knew that the hour
for confidences was past. Nor had she any desire to prolong it, for it
seemed better to her to leave the hero of Chris's girlhood in obscurity.
She had not the smallest doubt that her young cousin invested him with
all the glamour of a vivid imagination. He was fashioned of the substance
of dreams, and she fancied that Chris herself was more than half aware of
this.

But still her faint misgiving did not wholly die away. Though Trevor
Mordaunt had secured for himself the girl of his choice, she could not
suppress a grave doubt as to whether he had yet succeeded in winning her
heart. He would ultimately win it; she felt convinced of that. He was a
man who was bound sooner or later to rule supreme. And thus she strove to
reassure herself; but still, in spite of her, the doubt remained. Chris
was so young, so gay, so innocent. She could not bear to think of the
troubles and perplexities of womanhood descending upon her. She was so
essentially made for the joy of life.

She sat and watched her unperceived, the slim young figure in the shaded
lamplight, the shining hair, the slender neck--all vivid, instinct with
life; and she comprehended the witchery that had caught Mordaunt's heart.
Of the man himself she knew but little. He was not expansive, and
circumstances had not thrown them together. But what she knew of him she
liked. She was aware that her brother valued his friendship very
highly--a friendship begun on a South African battlefield; and though
they had met but seldom since, the intimacy between them had remained
unshaken.

Trevor Mordaunt was a man of many friends--friends in all ranks and of
many nationalities. No one knew quite how he made them; no one ever saw
his friendships in the making. But all over the world were men who hailed
his coming with pleasure and saw him go with regret.

She supposed him capable of a vast sympathy, a wide understanding. It
seemed the only explanation. But would he understand her little Chris?
she wondered. Would he make full allowance for her dear caprices, her
whimsical fancies, her butterfly temperament? Would he ever thread his
way through these fairy defences to that hidden shrine where throbbed her
woman's heart? And would he be the first to enter there? She hoped so;
she prayed so.

"Hilda"--imperiously the gay voice broke through her reverie--"if Percy
wants to know what sort of pendants to give the bridesmaids, be sure you
say turquoise and pearl. It's most important."

She was still strumming her waltz, and did not hear Mordaunt enter behind
her.

"I saw a most lovely thing to-day," she went on. "One of those
heart-shaped things that are still hearts even if you turn them upside
down."

"Is that an advantage?" asked Mordaunt.

She whizzed round on the music-stool. "Trevor! I wish you wouldn't make
me jump. Of course it is an advantage if a thing never looks wrong way
up. You will remember, won't you, Hilda? Turquoise and pearl."

"Are you going to be chief mourner?" asked Rupert.

"Don't be horrid! I'm going to be chief bridesmaid, if that's what you
mean?"

"And turquoise and pearl is to be the order of the day?" queried
Mordaunt.

"A white muslin frock and a blue sash, I suppose," supplemented Rupert.
"Hair worn long and tied with a blue bow rather bigger than an
ordinary-sized sunshade. No shoes and no stockings, but some pale blue
sandals over white lace socks. Result--ravishing!"

Chris glanced round for a missile, found none, so decided to ignore him.

"Yes," she said to her _fiancé_, "and we are going to carry bouquets of
wheat and cornflowers."

"Sounds like the ingredients of a pudding," said Rupert.

Chris rose from the piano in disgust, and her brother instantly slipped
into her place. "I say, Hilda," he called, "come and sing! There's no one
to listen to you but me; but that's a detail. Trevor and Christina, pray
consider yourselves excused."

"We don't want to be excused," said Chris mutinously "Do stop, Rupert!
Cinders doesn't like it."

Rupert, however, was already crashing through Mendelssohn's Wedding
March, and turned a deaf ear. She picked the discontented one up to
comfort him, and as she did so Trevor moved up to her. He stood beside
her for a few seconds, stroking the dog's soft head.

Chris looked hot and uncomfortable, as if Rupert's music pounded on her
nerves; but yet she would not make a move. She stood hushing Cinders as
if he had been an infant.

"Shall we go outside?" Mordaunt said at last.

She shook her head.

"Come!" he said gently.

She turned without a word, laid the dog tenderly in a chair, whispered to
him, kissed him, and went to the open window.

They stepped out together, and the curtains met behind them.

The moon had passed out of sight behind the houses, but the sky was
alight with stars. A faint breeze trembled through the trees in the quiet
square garden, and the faint, wonderful essence of summer came from them.
From a distance sounded the roar of countless wheels--the deep chorus of
London's traffic.

They stood side by side in silence while behind them Rupert played the
Wedding March to a triumphant end. Then quiet descended, and there came a
long pause.

Chris broke it at last, moved, and shyly spoke. "Trevor!"

"What is it, dear?"

She drew slightly towards him, and at once he put a quiet arm about her.
"I want to tell you something," she said.

"Something serious?" he questioned.

"I--I don't know." A faint note of distress sounded in her voice. She
laid her cheek suddenly against his shoulder with a very confiding
gesture. "I'm not quite happy," she said.

He held her closer. "Tell me, Chris!" he said very tenderly.

She uttered a little laugh that had a sob in it. "It's only that--that I
can't help feeling that you're making rather a bad bargain. You know, the
other day--when--when you proposed to me--I didn't have time to think.
I've been thinking since."

"Yes?" he said.

"Yes. And now and then--only now and then--I feel rather bad. I--I like
fair play, Trevor. It isn't right for me to take so much and give--so
little." Her voice quivered perceptibly, and she ceased to speak. He
pressed her closer to him, but he remained silent for several seconds.

At last, "Chris," he said, "will it comfort you to know that what you
call a little is to me the greatest thing on earth?"

His voice was deep and very quiet, yet a tremor went through her at his
words.

"That's just what frightens me," she said.

"It shouldn't frighten you," he said. "It need not."

"But it does," said Chris.

He was silent for another space, still holding her closely. In the room
behind them they could hear the cousins talking; but they were alone
together, shut off, as it were, from ordinary converse, alone under the
stars.

"Suppose," said Mordaunt gently, "you leave off thinking for a bit, and
take things as they come."

"Yes?" she said rather dubiously.

He bent down to her. "Chris, I will never ask more of you than you are
able to give."

She moved at that in her quick, impulsive way, reached up and clasped his
neck. "Oh, Trevor, I do love you!" she said, with a catch in her voice.
"I do want you to have--the best!"

Her face was raised to his. For the first time she offered him her lips.
They were nearer to understanding each other at that moment than they had
ever been before.

But as he bent lower to kiss her the notes of the piano floated out to
them again, this time in a soft melody, inexpressibly sweet, full of a
subtle charm, the fairy gold of romance.

She kissed him indeed--and it was the first kiss she had ever given him;
but he felt her stiffen in his hold even as she did it. And the next
moment, almost with passion, she spoke--

"I wish Rupert wouldn't play that thing! He knows--he knows--that I can't
bear it!"

"What is it?" Mordaunt asked in surprise.

She answered him with a laugh that did not ring quite true. "It is the
'_Aubade à la Fiancée_.' He is only playing it to torment us. Let us go
in and stop him!"

She turned inwards with the words, disengaging herself from his arm as
casually as she might have pushed aside a chair. Mordaunt followed her in
silence. There were no further confidences between them that night.



CHAPTER V

DE PROFUNDIS


It was pouring with rain, and the man with the flute at the corner
shivered and pulled his rags more closely about him. He had not been
lucky that day, or, indeed, for many days, as the haggard eyes that
stared out of his white face testified.

He had spent the past three nights in the open, but to-night--to-night
was cruelly wet. He questioned with himself what he should do.

In his pocket was that which might procure a night's lodging or a meagre
supper; but it would not supply both. He had to decide between the two,
unless he elected to go on playing till midnight in the drenching rain on
the chance of augmenting his scanty store.

Though it was June, he was chilled to the bone. In the intervals between
his flute-playing his teeth chattered. He looked horribly ill, but no one
had noticed that. Men who wander about the streets with musical
instruments seldom have a prosperous appearance. Passers-by may fling
them a copper if they have one handy, but otherwise they do not even look
at them. There are so many of these luckless ones, and each looks more
wretched than the last. Most of them look degraded also, but, save for
his rags, this man did not. There was a foreign air about him, but he did
not look the type of foreigner that lives upon English charity. There was
nothing hang-dog about him. He only looked exhausted and miserable.

At the suggestion of a policeman he abandoned his corner. After all, he
was doing no good there. It was not worth a protest. He turned and
trudged up a side-street, with head bent to the rain.

It was growing late, high time to seek some shelter for the night if that
were his intention. But he pressed on aimlessly with dragging feet.
Perhaps he had not yet decided whether to perish from cold or hunger, or
perhaps he regarded the choice as of small importance. Possibly even, he
had forgotten that there was a choice to be made.

The street he travelled was deserted, but he heard the buzz of a motor at
a cross-road, and mechanically almost he moved towards it. He was not
quite master of himself or his sensations. He may have vaguely remembered
that there is sometimes money to be earned by opening the door of a taxi,
but it was not with this definite end in view that he took his way. For,
as he went, he put his flute once more to his lips, and poured a sudden,
silvery melody--the "_Aubade à la Fiancée_"--that a young French officer
had onced hummed so gaily among the rocks of Valpré--into the rain and
the darkness.

It began firm and sweet as the notes of a thrush, exquisitely delicate,
with the high ecstasy that only music can express. It swelled into a
positive paen of rejoicing, eager, wonderful, almost unearthly in its
purity. It ended in a confused jumble like the glittering fragments of a
beautiful thing shattered to atoms at a blow. And there fell a silence
broken only by the throbbing of the taxi, and the drip, drip, drip, of
the rain.

The taxi came to a stand close to the lamp-post against which the
flute-player leaned, but he made no move to open the door. The light
flared on his ashen face, showing it curiously apathetic. His instrument
dangled from one nerveless hand.

A man in evening dress stepped from the taxi. His look fell upon the
wretched figure that huddled against the lamppost. For a single instant
their eyes met. Then abruptly the new-comer wheeled to pay his fare.

"He's in for a wet night by the looks of him," observed the chauffeur
facetiously.

"The gentleman is a friend of mine," curtly responded the man in evening
dress.

And the taxi-cab driver, being quite at a loss, shot away into the
darkness to hide his discomfiture.

The flute-player straightened himself with a manifest effort and turned
away. If he had heard the words, he had not comprehended them. His wits
seemed to be wandering that night, but he would not even seem to beg an
alms.

But a hand on his shoulder detained him. "Monsieur de Montville!" a quiet
voice said.

He jerked round, bringing his heels together with instinctive precision.
Again, in the glare of the lamp-post their eyes met.

"I have not--the pleasure," he muttered stiffly.

"My name is Mordaunt," the other told him gravely. "You will remember me
presently, though not probably by name. Come in out of the rain. It is
impossible to talk here."

He spoke with a certain insistence. His hand held the Frenchman's arm. It
was obvious that he would listen to no refusal. And the man in rags
attempted none. He went with him meekly, as if bewildered into docility.
His single flash of pride had died out like the final flicker of a match.

With the Englishman's hand supporting him, he stumbled up a flight of
steps that led to the door of one of the houses in the quiet street,
waited till the turning of a latch-key opened the door, and again numbly
yielded to the steady insistence that drew him within.

He stood on a mat under a glaring electric lamp. The wet streamed down
him in rivulets; he was drenched to the skin.

Mechanically he pulled the cap from his head and tried to still his
chattering teeth. His lips were blue.

"This way," said the quiet voice. "Take my arm."

"But I am so damp, monsieur," he protested shakily. "It will make you
damp also."

"What of it? I daresay I shall survive it if you do." Very kindly the
voice made answer. He could not see the speaker plainly, for his brain
was in a whirl. He even wondered in a dull fashion if it were all a
dream, and if he would wake in a moment from his uneasy slumber to hear
the rain splashing down the gutters and the voice of a constable in his
ear bidding him move on.

He went up a flight of stairs, moving almost without his own volition,
the Englishman's arm around him, urging him upwards.

They came to the threshold of a room of which Mordaunt switched on the
light at entering, and in a moment more the tottering Frenchman found
himself pressed down into a chair. He covered his face with his hands and
sat motionless, trying to still the confusion in his brain. He was
shivering violently from head to foot.

There followed a pause of some duration, during which he must have been
alone; then again his unknown friend touched him, patted his shoulder,
spoke.

"Here's a hot drink. You will feel better when you have had it.
Afterwards you shall go to bed."

He raised his head and stared about him. Mordaunt, holding a cup of
steaming milk that gave out a strong aroma of brandy, was stooping over
him. There was another man in the room, evidently a servant, engaged in
kindling a fire.

Slowly the vagabond's gaze focussed itself upon Mordaunt's face. He saw
it clearly for the first time and gave a slight start of recognition.

"I have seen you before," he muttered, frowning uncertainly. "Where?
Where?"

"Never mind now," returned the Englishman gently. "Drink this. You need
it."

He lifted a shaking hand and dropped it again. All the strength seemed to
have gone out of him.

"Monsieur will pardon my feebleness," he murmured almost inarticulately.
"I am--a little--fatigued. It is nothing. It will pass."

"Drink!" Mordaunt said insistently.

He held the rim of the cup against the trembling lips, and perforce the
Frenchman drank, at first slowly, then with avidity, till at last he
clasped the cup in both his quivering hands and drained it.

His eyes sought Mordaunt's apologetically as he gave it back. The apathy
had gone out of them. They looked out of his pinched face with
brightening intelligence. His lips were no longer blue.

"Ah!" he said, with a deep breath. "But how it was good, monsieur!"

He glanced downwards, discovered himself to be sitting in a
chintz-covered chair, and blundered hastily to his feet.

"Tenez!" he exclaimed almost incoherently. "But how I forget! See, I
have--I have--"

He groped out before him suddenly, words failing him, and only Mordaunt's
promptitude spared him a headlong fall.

"Bit light-headed, sir?" suggested the servant, glancing round with an
inscrutable countenance.

"No, he'll be all right. Go and turn on the hot water," said Mordaunt.

To the Frenchman as the man departed he spoke as to an equal. "Monsieur
de Montville, I am offering you the hospitality of a friend, and I hope
you will accept it. In the morning if you are well enough we will talk
things over. But to-night you are not fit for anything beyond a hot bath
and bed."

The Frenchman nodded. Certainly his senses were returning to him. His
eyes were growing brighter every instant. "It is true," he said. "I was
ill. But your--so great--kindness has revived me. I will not, then,
trespass upon you longer, except to render to you a thousand thanks. I am
well now. I will go."

"No," Mordaunt said gently. "You will stay here till morning. You are not
well. You are feverish. And the sooner you get to bed the better. Come!
We are not strangers. Need we behave as if we were?"

Again de Montville looked at him doubtfully. "I wish that I could
recall--" he said.

"You will presently," Mordaunt assured him. "In the meantime, it really
doesn't matter, and it is not the time for explanations. I am very glad
to have met you. You surely will not refuse to be my guest for a few
hours."

He spoke with the utmost kindness, but also with inflexible
determination. The Frenchman still looked dubious, but quite obviously he
did not feel equal to a battle of wills with his resolute host. He
uttered a sigh and said no more.

He firmly declined the assistance of Mordaunt's man, however, and it was
Mordaunt himself who waited upon him, ignoring protest, till his
shivering _protégé_ was safe in bed.

He seemed to resign himself to his fate then, being too exhausted to do
otherwise. A heavy drowsiness came upon him, and he very soon fell into a
doze.

Mordaunt sat in an adjoining room, opening and answering letters. His
demeanour was quite serene. Save that he paused now and then and leaned
back in his chair to listen, there was nothing about him to indicate that
anything unusual had taken place.

It was nearing midnight when his man came softly in with a cup of
beef-tea.

"All right, Holmes! I'll see to him. You can go to bed," he said then.

Holmes paused. "I've made up the bed in the spare-room, sir," he said.

"Oh, thanks! I shall not want it though. I will sleep on the sofa here."

"Very good, sir." Holmes still paused. He never expressed surprise at
anything his master saw fit to do; he only did his utmost to give his
proceedings as normal an aspect as possible. His acquaintance with
Mordaunt also dated from a South African battlefield; they knew each
other very well indeed.

"I was only thinking to myself," he said, in answer to Mordaunt's look,
"I could just as easy attend to the gentleman as you could, sir. I'm more
or less up in night duty, as you might say, and I'll guarantee as he
wants for nothing if you'll put him in my charge."

Holmes had been a hospital orderly in his time, and Mordaunt knew him to
be absolutely trustworthy in a responsible position. Nevertheless he
declined the offer.

"Very good of you, Holmes! But I would rather you went to bed. I
shouldn't be turning in yet in any case. I have work to do. I don't fancy
he will give any trouble. If he does, I will call you."

Holmes withdrew without further argument, and a few minutes later
Mordaunt, armed with the beef-tea, went to his guest's bedside.

He found him dozing, but he awoke at once, looking up with fever-bright
eyes to greet him.

"Ah! but you are too good--too good," he said. "And I have no hunger now.
I am only yet a little fatigued. I shall repose myself, and I shall find
myself well."

"Yes, you will be better after a sleep," Mordaunt said. "You shall settle
down when you have had this, and sleep the clock round."

He was aware once more of the Frenchman's puzzled eyes watching him as he
submissively took the nourishment, but he paid no heed to them. It was
not his intention to encourage any discussion just then.

Outside, the rain pattered incessantly, beating against the windows. At a
sudden gust of hail de Montville shivered.

"Monsieur," he said, choosing his words with care, "your great kindness
is such as I can never hope to repay, but permit me to assure you that my
gratitude will constrain me to regard myself your debtor till death. If
it is ever in my power to serve you, I will render that service, cost
what it may. You have called me by my name. It appears that you know me?"

He paused for an answer.

"Yes, I know you," Mordaunt said.

"And for that you extend to me the hand of friendship?" questioned the
Frenchman, his quick eyes still searching the Englishman's quiet face.

Mordaunt's eyes looked gravely back. "I also happen to believe in you,"
he said. "Otherwise I should probably have helped you because you needed
it; but I most certainly should not have brought you here."

"Ah!" Sudden understanding flashed into de Montville's face; he leaned
forward, stuttering with eagerness. "You--you--I know you now! I know
you! You are the English journalist, the man who believed in me even
against reason, against evidence--in spite of all! I remember you
well--well! I remember your eyes. They sent me a message. They gave me
courage. They told me that you knew--that you were my friend--the only
friend, monsieur, that was not ashamed of me. And I thanked _le bon Dieu_
that night--that terrible night--simply because I had looked into your
eyes."

He broke off in quivering agitation. Trevor Mordaunt's hand was on his
shoulder. "Easy--easy!" the quiet voice said. "You are exciting yourself,
my dear fellow, and you mustn't. You must go to sleep. This matter will
very well keep till morning."

De Montville's face was hidden in his shaking hands. "If I could thank
you--if I could make you comprehend--" he murmured brokenly.

"I do comprehend. I comprehend perfectly." Mordaunt's voice was soothing
now, almost motherly. He stroked the bent shoulders with a consoling
touch. "Come, man! You are used up; you are ill. Lie down and rest."

He coaxed his forlorn guest down upon the pillows again and drew the
bedclothes over him. Then for a space he sat beside him, divining that he
would recover his self-command more quickly with him there than left to
his own devices.

A nervous hand, bony as a skeleton's, came hesitatingly forth to him at
length, and he gripped and held it for several quiet seconds more.

Finally he rose. "I'll leave you now. If you are wanting anything, you
have only to ask for it. I shall be in the next room. Quite comfortable?"

Yes, he was quite comfortable. He assured him of this in unsteady tones,
and begged that Mr. Mordaunt would give himself no further trouble on his
account. He would sleep--he would sleep.

As the assurance was uttered somewhat incoherently, through lips half
closed, Mordaunt judged that he could be trusted to carry out this
intention, and so left him, to return to his writing-table in the
adjoining room.

Ten minutes later he crept back noiselessly and found him in a deep
sleep. He stood a moment to watch him, and noted with compassion a faint,
pathetic smile that rested on the worn features.

But he did not guess that Bertrand de Montville had returned in his
dreams to a land of enchantment, where the sun was always shining, and
the sea was at peace, even that land where first he had forgotten the
great goal of his ambition and had halted by the way to listen to a
girl's light laughter while he drew for her his pictures in the sand.



CHAPTER VI

ENGAGED


"My dear Trevor, do let me warn you against making yourself in any way
responsible for Chris's brothers."

Mrs. Forest spoke impressively. She was rather fond of warning people. It
was in a fashion her attitude towards life.

"You will find," she continued, "that Chris herself will need a firm
hand--a very firm hand. Though so young, she is not, I fear, very
pliable. I have known her do the most unheard-of things, chiefly, I must
admit, from excess of spirits. They all suffer from that upon occasion.
It is a most difficult thing to cope with."

"But not a very serious failing," said Mordaunt, with his tolerant smile.

"It leads to very serious complications sometimes," said Mrs. Forest, in
the tone of one who could reveal much were she so minded.

But Mordaunt did not seem to hear. His eyes had wandered to a light
figure in the doorway--a girl with wonderful hair that shimmered like
burnished copper, and eyes that were blue as a summer sea. It was a
Sunday afternoon, and several people had dropped in to tea. The
engagement had been announced the previous day, and Mordaunt had dropped
in also to give his young _fiancée_ the benefit of his support. Chris,
however, was not, to judge by appearances, needing any support. She
seemed, in fact, to be frankly enjoying herself. The high spirits which
her aunt deplored were very much in evidence at that moment. Her gay
laugh reached him where he sat. Being engaged was evidently the greatest
fun.

"They are all like that," continued Mrs. Forest, with her air of one
fulfilling an unpleasant duty--"all except Max, who is frankly
objectionable. Gay, _débonnaire_, fascinating, I grant you, but so
deplorably unstable. Those boys--well, I have never dared to encourage
them here, for I know too well what it would mean. If you are really
thinking of buying their old home for yourself and Chris, do be on your
guard or you will never keep them at arms' length."

"Kellerton Old Park will be Chris's property exclusively," Mordaunt
replied gravely. "If she cares to have her brothers there, she will be
quite at liberty to do so."

"My dear Trevor, you are far too kind," protested Mrs. Forest. "I see you
are going to spoil them right and left. They will simply live on you if
you do that. You won't find yourself master in your own house."

"No?" said Mordaunt, with a smile.

Chris was coming towards him. He rose to meet her.

"Oh, Trevor," she said eagerly, "I can go down to Kellerton with you
to-morrow, and Max has written to say he will join us there. I am so glad
he can get away. I haven't seen him since Christmas."

"Isn't he coming to your birthday party?" asked Jack Forest, strolling up
at that moment.

He addressed Chris, but he looked at his mother, who, after the briefest
pause, made reply, "Of course Chris can ask whom she likes."

"Oh, can I?" exclaimed Chris. "How heavenly! Then I will get Rupert to
come too. I wish Noel might, but I suppose he is out of the question."

She slipped a hand surreptitiously inside Jack's arm as her aunt moved
away, and squeezed it. She knew quite well that the party itself had been
of his devising--an informal dance to celebrate her twenty-first
birthday, which was less than a fortnight away.

Jack smiled upon her indulgently. "Are you going to ask me to your
birthday party, Chris?"

"No," said Chris. "I shall never ask you anywhere. You have a free pass
always so far as I am concerned."

He made her a low bow. "You listening, Trevor? I'll bet she never said
that to you."

But Chris turned swiftly away towards her _fiancé_. "There is no need to
say anything of that sort to Trevor," she said, in her quick way. "He
understands without."

"Thank you," said Trevor quietly.

Jack laughed. "One to you, my boy! I admit it frankly. By the way, I
heard a funny story about you yesterday. Someone said you were turning
your rooms in Clive Street into a home for sick organ-grinders. Is it
true by any chance?"

"Not strictly," said Mordaunt.

"Nor strictly untrue either," commented Jack. "I know the sort of thing.
You are always doing it. Was it a child or a woman or a monkey this
time?"

"It was a man," said Mordaunt.

"A man! A friend of yours, I suppose?" Jack smiled over the phrase. He
had heard it on Mordaunt's lips more than once.

"Exactly. A friend of mine." The tone of Mordaunt's reply did not
encourage further inquiries.

Chris, glancing at him, saw a slight frown between his brows, and
promptly changed the subject.

"It's really rather good of Aunt Philippa to let me have the boys here,"
she said later, when they were alone together for a moment just before he
took his departure. "She never gets on with them, especially Max. Of
course it's partly his fault. I hope you will like each other, Trevor."

By which sentence Trevor divined that this was her favourite brother.

"We shall get on all right," he said.

"It isn't everyone that likes Max," she said. "But he's tremendously nice
really, and very clever. What time will you be here to-morrow? I must try
not to keep you waiting."

But of course when the morning came she did keep him waiting. With the
best intentions, Chris seldom managed to be ready for anything. And
Mordaunt had nearly half an hour to wait before she joined him.

She raced down at last with airy apology. "I'm very sorry really. But it
was Cinders' fault. We went to be photographed, and I couldn't get him to
sit at the right angle. And then when I got back I had to dress, and
everything went wrong."

She was carrying Cinders under her arm and evidently meant him to join
their expedition. She did not look as if everything had gone wrong with
her, neither did she look particularly penitent. She laughed up at him
merrily, and he--because he could not help it--drew her to him and kissed
her.

"Oh, but you should kiss Cinders too," she said. "I love kissing Cinders.
He is like satin."

"If we don't start we shall never get there," observed Mordaunt.

"What an obvious remark!" laughed Chris. "Let's start at once. I hope you
are going to scorch. Wouldn't it be funny if the motor broke down and we
had to spend the night under a hedge? We should enjoy that, shouldn't we,
Cinders? We would pretend we were gipsies or organ-grinders. Oh, Trevor,
it is a sweet motor! Do let me drive!"

"While I sit behind with Cinders?" he said. "Thanks very much, but I'd
rather not. Do you think we want Cinders, by the way?"

She opened her eyes wide in astonishment. Her motor-bonnet gave her a
very babyish appearance. She hugged her favourite to her as she might
have hugged a doll.

"Of course we want Cinders! Why, he has been looking forward to it for
ever so long. Kellerton is home to him, you know."

"Oh, very well! Jump in," said Mordaunt, with resignation. "Are you going
to sit beside me?"

"Of course we are. We can see better in front. Oh, Trevor, I am horrid. I
quite forgot to thank you for that lovely, lovely ring. I'm wearing it
round my neck, because I had to wash Cinders this morning, and I was
afraid of hurting it. I've never worn a ring before. And it was so dear
of you to remember that I liked turquoise and pearl. I was furious with
Aunt Philippa because--" She broke off abruptly.

Mordaunt was starting the motor, but as they skimmed smoothly away he
spoke. "Aunt Philippa thought it ought to have been diamonds, I suppose?"

"Well, yes," Chris admitted, turning very red. "But I--I didn't agree
with her. Diamonds are not to be compared with pearls."

"You are not old enough for diamonds, dear," he said. "I will give you
diamonds later."

"Oh, but I don't want any." Shyly her hand pressed his knee. "Please
don't give me too much, Trevor," she said. "I shall never dare to ask for
the things I really want if you do. Aunt Philippa thinks I'm getting
horribly spoilt as it is."

"I don't," he said.

"How nice of you, Trevor! Do you know I'm so happy to-day, I want to
sing."

"You may sing to your heart's content when we get out into the country,"
he said.

She laughed. "No, no! Cinders would howl. How cleverly you drive! You
will teach me some day, won't you? Do you know, I dreamt I was driving
your organ-grinder last night. Do tell me about him. Is he really a
friend of yours?"

"Yes, really, Chris."

"How exciting!" said Chris, keenly interested. "And what are you going to
do with him?"

"I haven't decided at present. He has had a pretty bad spell of
starvation. I don't know yet what he is fit for."

"It must be dreadful to starve," said Chris soberly. "It's bad enough not
to have any pocket-money. But to starve--Is he ill, then?"

"He has been. He is getting better."

"And you are taking care of him?"

"Yes, I'm housing him for the present."

"Trevor, it was good of you not to send him to the workhouse."

Mordaunt frowned. "It was not a case for the workhouse. He would probably
have died before he came to that."

"Oh, how dreadful!" A shadow crossed her vivid face. "But--he won't die
now, you think?"

"Not now, no!"

"And you won't let him go organ-grinding any more?"

"No."

"That's all right; though I don't think it would be at all bad on fine
days in the country, if one had a nice little donkey to pull the organ."

"Nice little donkeys have to be fed," Mordaunt reminded her.

"Oh yes. But they eat grass and thistles and things. And they never die.
Isn't that extraordinary? One would think the world would get overrun
with them, wouldn't one?"

"So it is, more or less," observed Mordaunt.

"Trevor! What a disgusting insinuation!" The merry laugh pealed out.
"I've a good mind to turn round and go straight back."

"If you think you could," he said.

"Of course I could!" Chris leaned forward and laid a daring hand on the
wheel.

"Yes," he said. "But that won't do it, you know."

"But if I were in earnest?" she said, a quick note of pleading in her
voice. "If I really wanted you to turn round?"

He kept his eyes fixed ahead. "Are you ever really in earnest, Chris?" he
said.

"Of course I am!"

Mordaunt was silent. They were crossing a crowded thoroughfare, and his
driving seemed to occupy his full attention.

Chris waited till he had extricated the car from the stream of traffic,
then impulsively she spoke--

"Trevor, I didn't think you were like Aunt Philippa. I thought you
understood."

She saw his grave face soften. "Believe me, I am not in the least like
your Aunt Philippa," he said.

"No; but--"

"But, Chris?"

"I think you needn't have asked me that," she said, a little quiver in
her voice. "Even Cinders knows me better than that."

"Cinders ought to know you better than anyone," remarked Mordaunt. "His
opportunities are unlimited."

She laughed somewhat dubiously. "I knew you would think me horrid as soon
as you began to see more of me."

He laughed also at that. "My dear, forgive me for saying so, but you are
absurd--too absurd to be taken seriously, even if you are serious--which
I doubt."

"But I am," she asserted. "I am. I--I am nearly always serious."

Mordaunt turned his head and looked at her with that in his eyes which
she alone ever saw there, before which instinctively, almost fearfully,
she veiled her own.

"You--child!" he said again softly.

And this time--perhaps because the words offered a way of escape of which
she was not sorry to avail herself--Chris did not seek to contradict him.
She pressed her cheek to Cinders' alert head, and said no more.



CHAPTER VII

THE SECOND WARNING


Rupert's description of Kellerton Old Park, though unflattering, was not
far removed from the truth. The thistles in the drive that wound from the
deserted lodge to the house itself certainly were abnormally high, so
high that Mordaunt at once decided to abandon the car inside the great
wrought-iron gates that had been the pride of the place for many years.

"That nice little donkey of yours would come in useful here," he
observed, as he handed his _fiancée_ to the ground.

She tucked her hand engagingly inside his arm. "Ah! but isn't the park
lovely? And look at all those rabbits! No, no, Cinders! You mustn't!
Trevor, you do like it?"

"I like it immensely," he answered.

His eyes looked out over the wide, rough stretch of ground before him
that was more like common land than private property, dwelt upon a belt
of trees that crowned a distant rise, scanned the overgrown carriage-road
to where it ended before a grey turret that was half-hidden by a great
cedar, finally came back to the sparkling face by his side.

"So this is to be our--home, Chris?" he said.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she said proudly. "Oh, Trevor, you don't know what
it means to me to feel it isn't going to be sold after all."

He smiled. "I understood it was going to be sold and presented to my wife
for a wedding-gift."

She turned her face up to his. "Trevor, you don't think I'm ungrateful
too, do you?"

"My darling," he said, "I think that gratitude between you and me is out
of place at any time. Remember, though I give you this and a thousand
other things, you are giving me--all you have."

She pressed his arm shyly. "It doesn't seem very much, does it?" she
said.

He laid his hand upon hers. "You can make it much," he said very gently.

"How, Trevor?"

"By marrying me," he said.

"Oh!" Her eyes fell instantly, and he saw the hot colour rise and
overspread her face. "Oh, but not yet!" she said, almost imploringly.
"Please, not yet!"

His own face changed a little, hardened almost imperceptibly, but he gave
no sign of impatience. "In your own time, dear," he said quietly. "Heaven
knows I should be the last to persuade you against your will."

"Aunt Philippa is always worrying me about it," she told him, with a
catch in her voice. "And I--I--after all, I'm only twenty-one."

"What does she worry you for?" he said, a hint of sternness in his voice.

She glanced at him nervously. "Because--because I've no money. She
says--she says--"

"Well, dear, what does she say?"

"I don't want to tell you," whispered Chris.

"I think you had better," he said.

"Yes--I suppose so. She says that as I am bringing you nothing, I have no
right to--to keep you waiting--that beggars can't be choosers, and--and
things like that."

"My dear Chris!" he said. "And you take things like that to heart!"

"You see, they are true!" murmured Chris.

"They are not true. But all the same"--he began to smile again--"I can't
for the life of me imagine why you won't marry me and get it over."

"No?" Chris suddenly looked up again; she was clinging to his arm very
tightly with both hands. "It does seem rather silly, doesn't it?" she
said, with resolute eyes raised to his. "Trevor, I--I'll think about it."

"Do!" he said. "Think about it quietly and sanely. And don't let yourself
get frightened at nothing. As you say, it's silly."

"But you won't--press me?" she faltered. "You--you promised!"

"I keep my promises, Chris," he said.

But he was frowning slightly as he said it, and she was quick to note the
fact. "Ah! don't be vexed with me," she pleaded very earnestly. "I know
I'm foolish. I can't help it. It's the way I'm made."

She was on the verge of tears, and at once his hand closed with a warm
and comforting pressure upon hers. "Chris! Chris! When will you learn not
to be afraid of me?" he said. "I am not vexed with you, child. I am only
wondering."

"Wondering?" she said.

"Wondering if I had better go away for a spell," he answered.

"Go away!" she echoed blankly.

"And give you time to know your own mind," he said.

"Trevor!" She turned suddenly white, so white that he thought for an
instant that she was in physical pain; and then, feeling her clinging to
him, he understood. "Oh, no!" she said vehemently. "No, no! Trevor, you
won't? Say you won't! I--I couldn't bear that. Please, Trevor!"

"My dear," he said, "I shall never go away while you want me. But the
question is, do you want me?"

"I do!" she declared, almost passionately. "I do!"

"You are quite sure?" He looked suddenly deep into her eyes, so suddenly
that she could not avoid the look.

She quivered under it, but he did not release her. He searched her
upturned face closely, persistently, relentlessly, till, with a movement
of entreaty, she stretched up one hand and tremblingly covered his eyes.

"I am--quite sure," she said in a whisper. "And I--I don't like you to
look at me like that."

He stood still, suffering himself to be so blinded, till, gaining
confidence, she took her hand away.

"You won't ask me again, please, Trevor?" she said.

He smiled at her very kindly, but his voice, as he made answer, was
grave. "No, dear, I shall never ask you that again."

She took his arm once more with evident relief. "Let us go up to the
house," she said. "I expect Max is there already, waiting for us."

So they went up the weed-grown drive, and presently came into full sight
of the house. It was a large, rambling building of stone, some of it very
ancient, most of it covered with immense stacks of ivy. Another pair of
iron gates divided park from garden, and as they approached these a
lounging figure sauntered into view and came through to meet them.

Chris uttered a squeak of delight, and sprang forward. "Max!"

"Hullo!" said the new-comer.

He was a thick-set youth, with heavy red brows and a somewhat offhand
demeanour. His eyes were green and very shrewd. They surveyed Mordaunt
with open criticism. He was smoking a very foul-smelling cigarette.

Chris was very rosy. "Max," she said, "this is Trevor!"

"Hullo!" said Max again.

He extended a careless hand and gave his future brother-in-law a hard
grip. There was no particular friendliness in the action, it was
evidently his custom to grip hard.

"Come to investigate your new abode?" he said. "Are you going to pull it
down?"

"It is not my present intention," Mordaunt said.

"Of course he isn't!" said Chris. "Don't be absurd, Max. It is going to
be made lovely inside and out, and we are all going to live here."

"Are we?" said Max, with a sudden grin. "Who says so?"

He glanced at Mordaunt with the words, and it was Mordaunt who answered
him--

"I hope you and your brothers will continue to look upon it as your home
until you have homes of your own."

"Very rash of you!" commented Max, swinging round again to the gate.
"Well, come inside and see it."

They went within, went from room to room of the old place, Max with the
air of a sardonic showman, Mordaunt gravely attentive to details, Chris
light-footed, eager with many ideas for its reformation. The mildewed
walls and partially dismantled rooms, with their moth-eaten furniture and
threadbare carpets, had no damping effect upon her spirits. She had a
boundless faith in her _fiancé's_ power to transform her ancient home
into a palace of delight.

"If you really mean to buy it as it stands, I should recommend you to
make a bonfire of the contents," said Max presently, as they stood all
together in the deep bay window of a room on the first floor that looked
out upon the park, with a glimpse beyond of distant hills. "But the place
itself is an absolute ruin. I can't imagine how you are going to patch it
up."

"I think it can be done," Mordaunt said. He was staring out somewhat
absently, and spoke as if his thoughts were wandering.

Both brother and sister glanced at him. Then, "When are you going to get
married?" asked Max.

Mordaunt came out of his reverie. "That," he said deliberately, "has
still to be decided."

"Who is going to decide? You or Chris?" Max lighted another cigarette and
pitched the match, still burning, from the window.

"Oh, Max!" exclaimed Chris. "How dangerous! Look! There is Cinders
sniffing along the terrace! He is sure to burn his nose!"

She was gone with the words, and Max, with a brief laugh, returned to the
charge.

"I conclude the decision rests with her."

"Well?" said Mordaunt. He spoke curtly; perhaps he resented the boy's
interference, or perhaps he had had enough of the subject for that day.

"Look here," said Max. "I know Chris. She will keep you dangling for the
next ten years if you will put up with it. If you want to be married
soon, you will have to assert yourself."

Mordaunt was silent.

Max waited. Below them Chris flashed suddenly into view, darting with a
butterfly grace of movement to the rescue of her pet.

Abruptly Mordaunt spoke. "I sometimes wonder if she is too young to be
married."

"What?" Max removed his cigarette and stared at him. "She is as old as I
am!"

Mordaunt looked back, faintly smiling. "Yes, I know. But--well, that's no
argument, is it?"

"I suppose not. All the same"--Max leaned back nonchalantly against the
window-frame--"if you mean to wait till she grows up, you'll wait a
precious long time, and she will probably run away with another fellow
while you are thinking about it."

Mordaunt clapped a restraining hand on his shoulder. "My friend," he
said, "I don't permit that sort of thing to be said of Chris."

Maxwell's green eyes twinkled. "You don't, eh? That's rather decent of
you. But, you know, there is such a thing as being too trusting. And the
family of Wyndham are not conspicuously famous for their honourable
scruples. Now, Chris is as much a Wyndham as the rest of us, and--I'm
going to say it whether you like it or not, it's the truth also--she
is a deal more likely to keep out of mischief if she marries young. You
are no fool by the look of you. You know there is reason in what I say."

"You have said enough," Mordaunt said, with a touch of sternness.

"All right. The subject is closed. But--just tell me this. Do you--or do
you not--want to marry her before the summer is over?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to know."

"Well"--Mordaunt's eyes studied him for a few seconds--"it is an
unnecessary question."

"Because I know the answer?" questioned Max.

"Exactly."

"Very well." He straightened himself with a smile. "I think I can manage
that for you."

"Wait!" Mordaunt said. "You mean well, but--I would rather you didn't
attempt it. I would rather that Chris were left to settle this matter for
herself."

"So she will. I know what I'm about, bless your heart! Chris always asks
my advice and generally takes it. She will marry you all right before the
end of the season. You leave it to me."

He turned from the window with the words, still smiling. "Give me five
minutes alone with her," he said.

And Mordaunt, though more than half against his will, yielded the point,
and let him go.

They lunched in the old oak-beamed dining-room--a meal presided over by
Max, who played the host with a half-mocking air, while Chris, still
eager upon the renovations, poured out plans, practicable and otherwise,
for her _fiancé's_ consideration.

"What a pity we have to get back!" she said regretfully when the time for
departure drew near. "I want to begin right away, Trevor. Why can't we
spend the night here? Wire to Aunt Philippa, Max. Say we are busy."

Max grinned. "What says Trevor?"

"Quite impossible," said Mordaunt, with a smile at her ardent face.
"There isn't a bed for you to sleep on."

"I could sleep on the sofa with Cinders," she said. "We can sleep
anywhere."

"They've slept on a heap of stones before now," remarked Max.

"I'm sure we haven't!" She whisked round upon him with a suddenness that
was almost a challenge. "We haven't, Max!" she repeated.

He stuck a cigarette into his mouth. "All right, my dear girl. My
mistake, no doubt. I thought you had."

"Don't be absurd!" ordered Chris, colouring vividly "We never did
anything so--so disreputable." She twined her arm impulsively in
Mordaunt's. "Don't believe him, Trevor!"

"I don't," he said, with his quiet eyes upon her upturned face.

Max laughed aloud. "Why don't you tell him the joke, Chris?"

"Because there isn't any joke, and you're very horrid," she returned with
spirit. "Trevor, let's go!"

"I am ready," he said.

"Very well, then." Chris turned round with relief in her face and hastily
tied her veil. "Please find Cinders, Max," she said. "And bring Trevor's
coat. It's in the billiard-room. I suppose we really must go back this
time, but you will bring me again, won't you, Trevor?"

"As often as you care to come," he said.

"Ah, yes! Only I'm so full of engagements just now. It's such a nuisance.
One can never get away."

"What! Tired of London?" he said.

"Oh no, not really. But I want to be here, too. I love this place. You
won't do anything in it without me, will you?"

"Not without your approval, certainly," he promised.

She turned back to him with her quick smile. "Trevor, thank you! I--I've
decided to marry you as soon as ever I can--as soon as Hilda comes back
from her honeymoon."

He was smoking a cigarette. He took it from between his lips and dropped
it into an ash-tray. For a moment his face was turned from her. He seemed
to be watching the smouldering ash. Then, "Really, Chris?" he said,
looking down at her again.

She was tugging at her gloves. She thrust her hand out to him. "Button
it, please!" she said, rather breathlessly, as if the exertion had
exhausted her somewhat.

He took it, bent over it, suddenly pressed his lips to the soft wrist.

"Oh, don't!" said Chris, and snatched it from him.

When Max came back she was standing by the window, still fumbling at her
glove, with her back turned, while her _fiancé_ leaned against the
mantelpiece, finishing his cigarette.



CHAPTER VIII

THE COMPACT


Wearily Bertrand de Montville turned his head upon the sofa-cushion, and
opened his heavy eyes. He seemed to be listening for something, but
evidently he considered that he had listened in vain, for his eyelids
began to droop again almost immediately. He seemed to drift into a state
of semi-consciousness.

The evening sunlight was screened from his face by blinds, but even so
its deep shadows were painfully distinct. He looked unutterably tired.

There came a slight sound at the door, and again his eyes were open. In a
moment, with incredible briskness, he was off the couch and half-way
across the room before, seized with sudden dizziness, he began to falter.

Trevor Mordaunt, entering, made a dive forward, and held him up.

"Now, my friend, lie down again," he said, "and stay down till further
orders."

"Ah, pardon me!" the Frenchman murmured, clutching vaguely for support.
"I am strong, more strong than you think. I--I--"

"Lie down," Trevor reiterated. "You don't give yourself a chance, man.
You forget you have been a helpless invalid for the past ten days. There!
How's that? Comfortable?"

"You are always so good--so good!" panted de Montville very earnestly. "I
know not how to thank you--how to repay."

"Just obey orders, that's all," said the Englishman, faintly smiling. "I
want to get you well. No, you are not well yet--say what you like, you're
not. I've let you get up for an experiment, but if you don't behave
yourself back you go. Now lie still, quite still, while I open my
letters. When you have quite recovered your breath we will have a talk."

He had assumed this tone of authority from the outset, and de Montville
had submitted, in the first place because he was too ill to do otherwise,
and later because, somewhat to his surprise, he found himself impelled
thereto by his own inclination. It did not in any fashion wound his
pride, this kindly mastery. He wondered at himself for tolerating it, and
yet he offered no resistance. It was too great a thing to resist.

So, still panting a little, he subsided obediently upon Mordaunt's sofa
while the latter busied himself with his correspondence.

There was a considerable pile of letters. Mordaunt opened one after
another with the deliberation that marked most of his actions, but the
pile dwindled very quickly notwithstanding. Some letters he dropped at
once into a waste-paper basket, upon others he scribbled a few notes;
two or three he laid aside for further consideration.

The last of all he held in his hand for several seconds unopened. The
envelope was a large one and stiff, as if it contained cardboard. It was
directed in an irregular, childish scrawl. Mordaunt, sitting at his
writing-table, with his back to his guest, studied it gravely,
thoughtfully. Finally very quietly he broke the seal.

There was a crackle of tissue-paper, and he drew out a photograph--the
photograph of a laughing girl with a diminutive terrier of doubtful
extraction clasped in her arms. Without any change of countenance he
studied this also.

He laid it at last upon his table, and turned in his chair. "Have you had
anything to drink?"

De Montville looked slightly disconcerted by the question. "But no!" he
said. "I have not--that is to say, I would not--"

Mordaunt stretched a hand to the bell. "Holmes should have seen to it.
What do you drink? Afraid I can't offer you absinthe."

"But I never drink it, monsieur."

"No? Whisky and soda, then?"

"What you will, monsieur."

"Very well. Whisky and soda, Holmes, and be quick about it." Mordaunt
glanced at the clock, looked again at the photograph at his elbow,
finally rose. "I want a talk with you, M. de Montville," he said, "if you
feel up to it. Don't get up, please. There is no necessity."

But de Montville apparently thought otherwise, for he drew himself to a
sitting position and faced his benefactor.

"I also," he said, "have desired to talk with you since long."

Mordaunt pulled up a chair. "Do you mind if I talk first?" he said.

"But certainly, monsieur." With quick courtesy the Frenchman made reply.
His dark eyes were very intent. He fixed them upon the Englishman's face
and composed himself to listen.

"It's just this," Mordaunt said. "I think we know each other well enough
to dispense with preliminaries, so I will come to the point at once. Now
you have probably realized by this time that I am a very busy man--have
been for several years past. In my profession there is not much time for
sitting still, nor, till lately, have I wanted it. But there comes a time
in most men's lives when they feel that they would like to get out of the
rash and enjoy a little leisure, take it easy--in short, settle down and
grow old in comfort."

De Montville nodded several times with swift intelligence. "_Alors_,
monsieur contemplates marriage," he said.

Mordaunt laughed a little. "Exactly, _mon ami_, and that speedily."

He broke off at the entrance of his servant, and for the next few seconds
busied himself with the mixing of drinks. De Montville continued to watch
him with keen interest. As Mordaunt handed him his glass he clutched the
sofa-head and stood up.

"I drink to your future happiness," he said, with a sudden smile and bow,
"and to the lady who will be so fortunate as to share it!"

Mordaunt held out his hand. "Thank you. Much obliged. But sit down, my
dear fellow. I haven't quite finished what I want to say. And you are too
shaky to be bobbing up and down. I was just going to point out where you
come in."

De Montville gripped his hand with all his strength. "I can serve you,
then? You have only to speak."

But Mordaunt would not speak till he was recumbent again. Then very
quietly he came to the point.

"The upshot of it is that I want a secretary to take things off my hands
a bit, and since I would rather have a pal than a stranger in that
capacity I am wondering if you will take on the job."

"I!" Utter amazement sounded in de Montville's voice. He sat bolt upright
for a space of seconds, staring into the impassive British face before
him. "But you--you--joke!" he said at last, his voice very low.

"No, I am quite in earnest." Gravely Mordaunt returned his look. "I
believe we might pull together very well. Think it over, M. de Montville,
and if you feel inclined to give it a trial--"

"I wish that you would call me Bertrand," de Montville broke in
unexpectedly. "It would be more convenient. My name is known in England,
and--I do not like publicity. As for your--so generous--suggestion,
monsieur, I have no words. I am your debtor in all things. I know well
that it is of my welfare that you think. For myself I do not need to
consider for a moment. I would accept with joy and gratitude the most
profound. But, I ask you, are you altogether wise in thus reposing your
confidence in a man of whom you know nothing, except that he was tried
and condemned for an offence of which you had the goodness to believe him
innocent? I repeat, monsieur, are you altogether wise?"

"From my own point of view--absolutely." Mordaunt spoke with a smile. He
held up his glass. "You accept, then?"

"How could I do other than accept?" protested the Frenchman, with
outspread hands.

"Then drink with me to the success of our alliance," said Mordaunt. "I
believe it will work very well."

He prepared to drink, but de Montville made a swift movement to arrest
him. "But one moment! First, monsieur, you will give me your promise that
if in any manner I fail to satisfy you, you will at once inform me of
it?"

Mordaunt paused, regarding him steadily. "Yes, I will promise you that,"
he said.

"Ah! Good! Then I drink with you, monsieur, to the success of our
compact. It will be my pleasure and privilege to serve you to the utmost
of my ability."

He drank almost with reverence, and set down his glass with a hand that
trembled.

Mordaunt got up. "That is settled, then. By the way, the question of
salary does not seem to have occurred to you. I don't know if you have
any ideas upon the subject. Four hundred pounds per annum is what I
thought of offering."

"Four hundred pounds!" De Montville stared at him in amazement. "Four
hundred pounds!" he repeated, in rising agitation. "But no, monsieur! It
is too much! I will not--I cannot--take--even from you--a gift so great.
I--I--"

He waxed unintelligible in his distress, and would have risen, but
Mordaunt's hand upon his shoulder kept him down. Mordaunt bent over him,
very quiet and friendly, very sure of himself and of the man he
addressed.

"That's all right, _mon ami_. It is not too much. It's a perfectly
fair bargain, and--to please me if you like--I want you to accept it.
You will find there is plenty to do, possibly more than you anticipate.
So--suppose we consider it settled, eh?"

De Montville was silent.

"We'll call it done," Mordaunt said. "Have a cigarette!"

He held his case in front of the Frenchman, and after a moment de
Montville took one. But he only balanced it in his fingers, still saying
nothing.

"A light?" suggested Mordaunt.

He made a jerky movement, and glanced up for an instant. "Mr. Mordaunt,"
he said, speaking with evident difficulty, "what is--a pal?"

"A pal," Mordaunt said, smiling slightly, "is a special kind of friend,
Bertrand--the best kind, the sort you open your heart to in trouble, the
sort that is always ready to stand by."

"Such a friend as you have been to me?" questioned de Montville slowly.

"Well, if you like to say so," Mordaunt said. "I almost think we might
call ourselves pals by this time. What say you?"

"I, monsieur?" He reached up and grasped the hand that rested on his
shoulder. "For myself I ask no better," he said, in a voice that quivered
beyond control, "than to be to you what you have been to me. And I will
sooner die by my own hand than give you cause to regret your kindness."

"Which you never will," Mordaunt said. "Come, light up, man! Here's a
match!"

He held it up, and de Montville had perforce to place the cigarette
between his lips. His throat was working spasmodically, but with a
valiant effort he managed to inhale a mouthful of smoke. He choked over
it badly the next moment, however, and Mordaunt patted his back with much
goodwill till he was better.

"There, my dear fellow, lie down now and take it easy. I'm dining out;
but Holmes has special orders to look after you; and if you are wanting
anything, in the name of common-sense ask for it."

With that he turned from the sofa, took up the photograph that lay
upon his writing-table, hesitated an instant, then thrust it into his
breast-pocket, and strolled out of the room.



CHAPTER IX

A CONFESSION


"So you don't like my photograph!" said Chris.

"Why do you say that?"

"I could see you didn't. What's the matter with it? Isn't it pretty
enough? It's just like me."

"Yes, it's just like you," Mordaunt admitted.

"Then you don't like me?" suggested Chris.

He smiled at that. "Yes, I like you very much. But--"

"Well?" said Chris, her deep-sea eyes full of eager curiosity. "Go on,
please!"

"Well," he said, "that photograph is not one that I could show to my
friends."

"But why not--if it's just like me?"

He took her chin and turned her face gently to the light. "Try again," he
said, "without Cinders."

"Without Cinders!" She stared at him mystified, then began to laugh.
"Trevor, I believe you are jealous of Cinders!"

"Perhaps," he said. "Anyhow, I should prefer your portrait without him.
You look like a baby of six cuddling a toy."

"I wonder what makes you so anxious to marry me," said Chris
unexpectedly.

Mordaunt still smiled at her. "Strange, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes, I can't understand it in the least." She shook her head with a
puzzled expression. "It's a pity you don't like that photograph. I'm sure
Cinders has come out beautifully. And he isn't a bit like a toy."

"Yes, but I don't want Cinders."

Chris looked at him with sudden misgiving. "But, Trevor, when--when we
are married--"

"Oh, of course," he said at once. "I didn't mean that. I haven't the
smallest wish to part you from him. It's only his photograph I have no
use for."

Her face cleared magically. "Dear Trevor, I quite understand. And I would
go and be done again to-morrow if I had the money, but I haven't."

"Are you very hard up?" he asked.

She nodded. "Horribly. I'm very extravagant, too--at least, Aunt Philippa
says so. I can't bear asking her for money. In fact, I--I--"

She hesitated, avoiding his eyes. "Shall I tell you something, Trevor?"
she said in a whisper. "It's something I haven't told anyone else!"

"Of course tell me!" He took her two hands into his, holding them up
against his heart.

"Well--it's a secret, you know--I--I--" She raised her face in sudden
pleading. "Promise you won't be cross, Trevor."

"I promise, dear," he answered gravely.

"Well, I'm afraid it's rather bad of me. I haven't been paying for things
lately. I simply couldn't. London is a dreadful place for spending money,
isn't it? It's all quite little things, but they mount up shockingly.
And--and--Aunt Philippa is bound to give me some money presently for
my--my trousseau. So I thought--I thought--" She came nearer to him; she
laid her cheek coaxingly against his breast. "Trevor, you said you
wouldn't be cross."

He put his hand on her bright hair. "I am not cross, dear. I am only
sorry."

Chris was inclined to be a little tearful. She did not quite know what
had led her to tell him--it had been the impulse of a moment--but it was
a vast relief to feel he knew.

"I'm not a very good manager, I'm afraid," she said. "But there are
certain things one must have, and they do add up so. I believe it's the
odd halfpennies and farthings that do it. Don't you ever find that?"

"I can quite imagine it," he said.

"Yes, they're so deceptive. I wonder why two-and-elevenpence
three-farthings sound so much less than three shillings. It's a snare and
a delusion. I don't think it ought to be allowed." She raised her head
with her April smile. "I'm very glad I told you, Trevor. You're very nice
about things. I was afraid you would be like Aunt Philippa, but you are
not in the least."

"Thank you, Chris. Now I want to say something very serious to you. Will
you listen--and take it seriously?"

She gave a little sigh. "I know exactly what it is."

"No, you don't know." Mordaunt looked at her with eyes that were gravely
kind. "You are not to jump to conclusions where I am concerned," he said.
"You don't know me well enough. What I have to say is this. I can't have
you in difficulties for want of a little money. Those debts of yours must
be settled at once."

"But, Trevor, Aunt Philippa--"

"Never mind Aunt Philippa. It has nothing to do with her. It is a matter
between you and me. We will settle it without her assistance."

"Oh, Trevor, but--"

"There is no 'but,' Chris," he said, interrupting her almost sternly. "I
am nearer to you than your aunt. Tell me--as nearly as you can--what
those debts amount to."

Chris was looking a little startled. "But I--I don't know," she said.

"Well, find out and tell me." He smiled at her again. "It's all right,
dear. Don't be afraid of me. I know it's hard to keep within bounds when
there is a shortage of means. But I don't like debts. You won't run up
any more?"

Chris still looked at him somewhat doubtfully. "I won't if I can help
it," she said.

"You will be able to help it," he rejoined.

"Yes, but, Trevor, please let me say it. I don't think you ought to--to
give me money before--before--Oh, do understand!" she broke off
helplessly. "You generally do."

"I quite understand," he said, his hand on her shoulder. "But, my child,
I think, considering all things, that you need not let that scruple
trouble you. Since we are to be married in six weeks--"

"In six weeks, Trevor!" Again that startled look that was almost one of
consternation.

"In six weeks," he repeated, with quiet emphasis. "Your cousin will
probably be back from her honeymoon, and it will be the end of the
season. Since, then, our marriage is to take place in six weeks, and that
I shall then be responsible for you, I do not think you need be troubled
about letting me help you out of this difficulty now. No one will know of
it. It will set your mind at rest--and mine also."

"Ah, but, Trevor--" Chris spoke somewhat breathlessly--she was rubbing
her hand nervously up and down his sleeve--"I'm not quite sure that--that
it will set my mind at rest. I'm not sure that--that I want you to do it,
or that I ought to let you even if I did, because, you see, because--"

"Because--?" he said.

She turned her head aside, avoiding his direct look. "Don't be angry,
will you? But just--just supposing something happened, and--and--and we
didn't get married after all?"

She ended rather desperately, in an undertone. But for the quiet hand on
her shoulder she would have moved away from him; she might even have been
tempted to flee altogether. As it was, she stood still, trembling a
little, wondering if she had outrun his patience at last or if he had it
in him still to bear with her.

He did not speak at once. She waited with a beating heart.

"Well?" he said, and at the sound of his voice she thrilled with relief.
"It's as well to look all round a thing, I admit. We will consider that
supposition if you like. Say something happens to prevent our marriage.
What then? Is it to put an end to our friendship also?"

She turned slightly towards him. "I might never be able to repay you,"
she murmured.

"I see. And that would trouble you--even though we remained friends?"

She was silent.

"It has always been a puzzle to me," he said, "why money--which is the
most ordinary thing in life--is the one thing that friends scruple to
accept from each other. Gifts of any other description, all sorts of
sacrifices, down to life itself, are offered and taken with no scruple of
pride. But when it comes to money, which is of very small value in
comparison, people begin to worry. Why, Chris, what are pounds,
shillings, and pence between you and me? Surely we have climbed above
that sort of thing, haven't we?"

The tenderness of his tone moved her, in a fashion compelled her. She
went into his arms impulsively, she clung about his neck. Yet even then
her scruples were not quite laid to rest.

"But--Trevor dear--just supposing we quarrelled? We might, you know,
about Cinders or anything. And then--and then--"

"My dear," he said, "we certainly shall not quarrel about Cinders. I
can't for the life of me picture myself quarrelling with you under any
circumstances whatsoever. And even if we did, I don't think you would
hate me so badly as to grudge me the satisfaction of knowing that I had
been of use to you at an awkward moment. Don't you think we are getting
rather morbid, Chris?"

"I don't know," she said, clinging closer. "I only know that you are
miles and miles too good for me. And whatever makes you want me I can't
think."

He put his hand under her chin, and turned her face up to his own.
"I'll tell you another time. At the present moment I want to talk
about--getting married."

He spoke the last two words very softly, holding her close lest she
should shrink away.

But Chris, with her eyes on his, kept still and silent in his arms. Only
she turned rather white.

He continued with the utmost gentleness. "Your cousin is going to be
married on the fifteenth of this month. Can't we arrange our wedding for
the fifteenth of next?"

"The fifteenth!" said Chris. "Isn't that St. Swithin's Day?"

She spoke so briskly that even Mordaunt was for the moment taken by
surprise.

"St. Swithin's Day!" he echoed. "Well, what of it?"

She broke into her gay laugh. "Oh, please not St. Swithin's Day! Just
imagine if it rained!"

"Chris!" he said. "You're incorrigible!"

His arms had slackened, and she drew away from him, breathing rather
quickly.

"No, but really, wouldn't it be tragic? I shouldn't like a wet honeymoon,
should you? Hadn't we better wait till August? Or shall you be wanting to
go to Scotland?"

"No," he said. "I am not going to Scotland this year."

His eyes were still upon her, gravely watchful, but they expressed
nothing of impatience or exasperation. Very quietly he waited.

"Shall we say August, then?" said Chris, in a small, shy voice, not
looking at him.

"Will your aunt remain in town for August?" he asked.

"But we are not obliged to be married in town," she pointed out.

"Nor are we obliged to have a honeymoon, Chris," he said. "Shall we say
St. Swithin's Day, and forego the honeymoon--if it rains?"

"Go straight home, you mean?" She turned back to him eagerly. "Oh,
Trevor, I should like that! I do want to superintend everything there.
Yes, let's do that, shall we? I always did think honeymoons were rather
silly, didn't you?"

He smiled in spite of himself. "I daresay they are--from some points of
view. It is settled, then--St. Swithin's Day?"

She nodded. "Yes. And we will go straight to Kellerton afterwards, and
work--like niggers. It won't matter a bit then whether it rains or not.
And Noel can spend his holidays with us and help. How busy we shall be!"

She laughed up at him, all shining eyes and dimples.

Again--in spite of himself--he laughed back, pinching her cheek. "Will
that please you, my little Chris?"

"Oh, ever so!" said Chris.

He stooped and lightly kissed her hair. "Then--so let it be!"



CHAPTER X

A SURPRISE VISIT


It was raining--one of those sudden, pelting showers that descend from
June thunder-clouds, brief but drenching. It was also very dark, and
Bertrand had switched on the light. He was seated at Mordaunt's
writing-table, his black head bent over a pile of letters. The pen he
held moved busily, but not very quickly. He was writing with extreme
care. It was evident that he meant his first day's work to be a success.
He scarcely noticed the heavy downpour, being profoundly intent upon the
work he had in hand. Only at a sharp clap of thunder did he glance up
momentarily and shrug his shoulders. But he was at once immersed again in
his occupation, so deeply immersed that at the opening of the door he did
not turn his head.

Holmes paused just inside the room. "If you please, sir--"

"Ah, put it down, put it down!" said the Frenchman impatiently. "I am
busy."

But Holmes, being empty-handed, did not comply with the request. He
remained hesitating, obviously doubtful, till with a sharp jerk de
Montville turned in his chair.

"What is it, then? I have told you--I am busy."

Holmes looked apologetic. He found the abrupt ways of the new secretary
somewhat disconcerting. "It's a young lady, sir," he explained rather
diffidently. "It's Miss Wyndham. She run in here for shelter, and, seeing
as Mr. Mordaunt be out, I didn't know whether you would wish me to show
her up or not, sir."

Bertrand was on his feet in a moment. "A young lady! Miss Wyndham! Who
is--Miss Wyndham?"

"It's the young lady as Mr. Mordaunt is a-going to marry," said Holmes,
dropping his voice confidentially. "I told her as Mr. Mordaunt weren't
in, and she said as she'd like to wait. Didn't know quite what to do,
sir. Would you like me to show her up?"

"But certainly!" De Montville's eyebrows had gone up an inch, but he
lowered them hastily and smiled. Doubtless it was an English custom,
this; he must not display surprise. "Beg her to ascend," he said. "Mr.
Mordaunt may return at any moment. He would not wish his _fiancée_ to
remain below."

"Very good, sir." Holmes withdrew, leaving the door ajar.

Bertrand remained upon his feet, watching it expectantly.

At the sound of voices on the stairs he smiled involuntarily. But how
they were droll--these English ladies! Would he ever accustom himself--

"Miss Wyndham, sir!" It was Holmes again, opening the door wide to usher
in the unexpected visitor.

Bertrand bowed low.

The visitor paused an instant on the threshold, then came briskly
forward. "Oh," she said, "are you the organ-grinder?"

He straightened himself with a jerk; he looked at her. And suddenly a cry
rang through the room--a cry that came straight from a woman's heart,
inarticulate, thrilled through and through with a rapture beyond words.
And in a moment Bertrand de Montville, outcast and wanderer on the face
of the earth, had shed the bitter burden that weighed him down, had
leaped the dark dividing gulf that separated him from the dear land of
his dreams, and stood once more upon the sands of Valpré, with a girl's
hands fast clasped in his.

"_Mignonne_!" he gasped hoarsely. "_Mignonne_!" And again "_Mignonne_!"

Her answering voice had a break in it--a sound of unshed tears.
"Bertie--dear! Bertie--dear!"

The door closed discreetly, and Holmes departed to his own premises. It
was no affair of his, he informed himself stolidly; but it was a rum go,
and he couldn't help wondering what the master would make of it.

"But why wasn't I told?" said Chris, yet hovering between tears and
laughter. "They--Bertie--they said you were an organ-grinder!"

He let her hands go, but his dark eyes still shone with the wonder and
the joy of the encounter.

"Ah!" he said. "And they told me--they told me--that you were--" He
stopped abruptly with the dazed expression of a man suddenly hit in a
vital place. All the light went out of his face. He became silent.

"Why--what is it?" said Chris.

He did not answer at once, and in the pause that ensued he resumed his
burden, he re-crossed the gulf, and the sands of Valpré were left very,
very far away.

In the pause also she saw him as he was--a man broken before his prime,
haggard and tired and old, with the fire of his genius quenched for ever
in the bitter waters of adversity.

With an effort he spoke. "It is nothing, _chérie_. You are the same. But
with me--all is changed."

"Changed, Bertie? But how?"

He looked at her. His eyes dwelt upon the vivid, happy face, but all the
spontaneous gladness had died out of his own; it held only an infinite
melancholy.

"He--Mr. Mordaunt--has not told you?"

"No one has told me anything," she said. "What is it, Bertie? Have things
gone wrong with you? Tell me! Was it--was it the gun?"

He bent his head.

"Oh, but I'm so sorry," she said. "Was it a failure, after all?"

She drew near to him. She laid a sympathetic hand upon his arm.

A sharp tremor went through him. He stooped very low and kissed it. "It
was--worse than that," he said, his voice choked, barely audible. "It
was--it was--dishonour."

"Dishonour!" She echoed the word, uncomprehending, unbelieving.

He remained bent over her hand. She could not see his face. "Have you
never heard," he said, "of ex-Lieutenant de Montville--the man whom all
France execrated three years ago as a traitor?"

"Yes," said Chris. "I've heard of him, of course. But"--doubtfully--"I
don't read the papers much. I didn't know what he was supposed to have
done. I only knew that everyone in England said he hadn't."

The Frenchman sighed heavily. "The people in England did not know," he
said.

"No? Then you think he was guilty?"

He stood up sharply and faced her. "I know that he was innocent," he
said. "But it could not be proved. That is what the English could never
realize. And--_chérie_--I was that man. I was Lieutenant de Montville."

Chris was gazing at him in amazement. "You!" she said incredulously.

"I," he said. "They accused me of treason. They thought that I would sell
my own gun--my own gun. They sent me to prison--_mon Dieu_! I know not
how I survived. I suffered until it seemed that I could suffer no more.
And then they gave me my liberty--they banished me from France. I came to
England--and I starved."

"You starved, Bertie!" Her blue eyes widened with horrified pity. "You!"
she said. "You!"

He smiled with wistful humour. "Men more worthy than I have done the
same," he said.

"Oh, but you, my own _preux chevalier_!" Chris's voice trembled upon the
words.

He made a quick, restraining gesture. "But no--not that!" he said. "Your
friend always, _petite_, but your _preux chevalier_--never again!"

Chris smiled, with quivering lips. "You will never be anything but my
_preux chevalier_ so long as you live," she said. "Oh, Bertie, I'm so
distressed--so grieved--to think of all you have had to bear. I never
dreamt of its being you. You know, I never heard your name. We went
away so suddenly from Valpré. I had no time to think of anything. I--I
was very miserable--afterwards." Her voice sank; her eyes were full of
tears. "I knew you would think I had forgotten, but indeed, indeed it
wasn't that!"

"Ah, _pauvre petite_!" he said gently.

"And you didn't know my name either, did you?" she said. "I kept telling
myself you would find out somehow and write--but you never did."

He spread out his hands. "But what could I do? Your name was not known.
And I--I could not leave Valpré to seek you. My duties kept me at the
fortress. And so--and so--I said that I would wait until my fortune was
well assured, and then--then--" He stopped. "But that is past," he said,
with an odd little smile that somehow cut her to the heart. "_Et
maintenant_ tell me of yourself, _petite_, of all your affairs. Much may
arrive in four years. But first--you are happy, yes?"

Eagerly the dark eyes sought hers as he asked the question.

Chris looked back at him with a little frown. "Yes, I am happy, Bertie.
At least--I should be happy--if it weren't for thinking of you. Oh,
Bertie, that horrid gun! I always hated it!"

Again her voice quivered on the verge of tears, and again with a quick
gesture he stayed her.

"We will speak of it no more," he said. "See! We turn another page in the
book of life, and we commence again. Let us remember only, Christine,
that we are good comrades, you and I. But it is a good thing, this
_camaraderie_. It gives us pleasure, yes?"

She gave him her hands impulsively. "Bertie!" she cried. "We shall always
be pals--always--all our lives; but don't--dear, don't smile at me like
that! I can't bear it!"

He held her hands very tightly; he had wholly ceased to smile. But still
gallantly he shielded her from the danger she had not begun to see. He
did it instinctively, because of the love he bore her, and because of the
innocence in her eyes.

"But what is it?" he said. "It is necessary that we smile sometimes,
_chérie,_ since to weep is futile, and laughter is always more precious
than tears. Ah! that is better. You smile yourself. It is always thus
that I remember my little friend of Valpré. She was ever too brave for
tears."

He pressed her hands encouragingly, and again he let them go. But the
strain was telling upon him. There was one subject which he could not
trust himself to broach.

And for some reason Chris could not broach it either. She took refuge in
every-day affairs; she told him of the giddy doings that kept her
occupied from morning till night, of Cinders (the mention of whose name
kindled a reminiscent gleam in the Frenchman's eyes), of the coming
birthday dance, which he must promise to attend.

He shook his head over that; such gaieties were not for him. But Chris
pressed the point with much persistence. Of course he must come. It would
be no fun without him. Did he remember that birthday picnic at Valpré,
and--and the night they had passed in the Magic Cave? She spoke of it
with heightened colour and a hint of defiance which was plainly not
directed against him.

"And I was afraid of the dragon," she said. "And you held my hand. I
remember it so well. And afterwards I went to sleep, and slept all night
long with my head on your shoulder."

"You were but a child," he said softly.

"But it seems like yesterday," she answered.

And then it was that the door opened very quietly, and Trevor Mordaunt
came in upon them, sitting together in the gloom.



CHAPTER XI

THE EXPLANATION


There was nothing hurried in his entrance, nothing startling; but yet a
sudden silence fell.

Out of it almost immediately came Bertrand's voice. "Ah, Mr.
Mordaunt, you return to find a visitor. Miss--Wyndham is here. She
came to seek you, but she found only--" he spread out his hands
characteristically--"the organ-grinder."

He had risen with the words; so also had Chris. She went forward, but
without her usual impetuosity.

"I have found an old friend, Trevor," she said, speaking quickly, as if
embarrassed. "I have known Mr.--Mr.--what did you say your name was?"
turning towards him again.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I am called Bertrand, mademoiselle."

She smiled in her quick way. "I have known--Bertrand--for years. At
least, we used to know each other years ago, and--and we knew each other
again the moment we met. It was a great surprise to me--to us both."

"And a great pleasure," said Bertrand, with a bow.

"An immense pleasure," said Chris, with enthusiasm.

"But, my dear girl," Mordaunt said, his quiet voice falling almost coldly
upon their explanations, "what on earth made you come here of all
places?"

"Oh," said Chris, leaping to this new point almost with relief, "it was
raining, and thundering too. I hadn't an umbrella and I knew I should be
drenched, and this was the nearest shelter I could think of, so I just
came. It seemed the most sensible thing to do. I thought perhaps you
would be pleased to see me. I even fancied you might give me tea."

There was a faint note of wistfulness in her voice though she was
smiling. She stood before him with something of the air of a culprit.

"Of course Aunt Philippa wouldn't approve," she said. "I know that.
But--you always say you are not like Aunt Philippa, Trevor."

He took her hand very gently but with evident purpose into his own.

"I will give you tea with pleasure," he said, "but not here. Holmes shall
call a taxi. I am afraid you must say good-bye to your friend now,
unless--" he paused momentarily--"unless, Bertrand, you care to accompany
us."

"Oh do, Bertie!" she said eagerly. "I want you. Please come!"

But Bertrand's refusal was instant and final.

"It is impossible," he declared. "I thank you a thousand times, but I
have yet many letters to write, and the post will not wait."

"Letters?" said Chris curiously.

"M. Bertrand is my secretary," said Mordaunt quietly.

"Oh, is he? And you never told me! But what a splendid idea!" Chris stood
between the two men, flushed, eager, charming. "I'm so glad, Bertie," she
said impulsively. "You may think yourself very lucky. Mr. Mordaunt is
quite the nicest man in the world."

Bertrand bowed low. "I believe it," he said simply.

"Then we shall see quite a lot of each other," went on Chris. "That will
be great fun--just like old times. Oh, must I really go? I don't want to
at all, and nothing will make me sorry that I came." She threw a gay
smile at her _fiancé_, and withdrew her hand to give it to the friend of
her childhood. "_Au revoir, preux chevalier_! You will come to my
birthday party? Promise!" Then, as he still shook his head: "Trevor, if
you don't bring him, I shall come all by myself and fetch him."

"No, you mustn't do that," Mordaunt answered with decision.

"Then will you bring him?"

"I will do my best," he promised gravely.

"Will you really? Oh, thank you, Trevor. I shall expect you then, Bertie.
Good-bye!"

Her hand lay for a couple of seconds in his, and he bent low over it, but
he did not speak in answer.

She went out of the room with the silent Englishman. He heard her
laughing as they went downstairs. He heard her gay young voice a while
longer in the hall below. Then came the throb of a motor and the closing
of the street door. She was gone.

He stood quite motionless, listening to the taxi as it whirred away. And
even after he ceased to hear it he did not move. He was gazing straight
before him, and his eyes were the eyes of a man in a dream. They saw
naught.

Stiffly at last he moved, and something like a shudder went through him.
He crossed the room heavily, with the gait of one stricken suddenly old.
He sat down again at the writing-table, and took up the pen that he had
dropped--how long ago!

He even wrote a few words slowly, laboriously, still with that fixed look
in his eyes. Then quite suddenly he was assailed by a violent tremor. He
pushed back his chair with a sharp exclamation, half-rose, then as
swiftly flung himself forward and lay across the table, face downwards,
gasping horribly, almost choking. His hands were clenched, and hammered
upon the papers littered there. The pen rolled unheeded over the polished
wood and fell upon the floor.

Seconds passed into minutes. Gradually the bony fists ceased their
convulsive tattoo. The laboured breathing grew less agonized. The man's
rigid pose relaxed. But still he lay with his arms outspread and his head
bowed between them, a silent image of despair.

Slowly the minutes crawled by. Down in the street below a newsboy was
yelling unintelligibly, and in the distance a barrel-organ jangled the
latest music-hall craze; but he was deep, deep in an abyss of suffering,
very far below the surface of things. There was something almost boyishly
forlorn in his attitude. With his face hidden, he looked pathetically
young.

The sound of the opening door recalled him at last, and he started
upright. It was Holmes with the evening paper.

The man spied the pen upon the floor and stooped for it. Bertrand
stretched out a quivering hand, took it from him, and made as if he would
resume his writing. But the pen only wandered aimlessly over the paper,
and in a moment fell again from his nerveless fingers.

Holmes paused. Bertrand sat with his head on his hand as if unaware of
him.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" he ventured.

Bertrand made a slight movement. "If I might have--a little brandy," he
said, speaking with obvious effort.

"Brandy? I'll get it at once, sir," said Holmes, and was gone with the
words.

Returning, he found Bertrand so far master of himself as to force a
smile, but his face was ghastly. There was a blue, pinched look about his
mouth that Holmes, reminiscent of his hospital days, did not like. He had
seen that look before.

But the first taste of spirit dispelled it. Very courteously Bertrand
thanked him.

"You are a good man, Holmes. And I think that you are my friend, yes?"

"Very pleased to do anything I can for you, sir," said Holmes.

"Ah! Then I will ask of you one little thing. It is that you remember
that this weakness--this malady of a moment--remain a secret between us
two--between--us--two. _Vous comprenez; non_?"

His eyes, very bright and searching, looked with a certain peremptoriness
into the man's face, and Holmes, accustomed to obey, made instinctive
response.

"You mean as I am not to mention it to Mr. Mordaunt, sir?"

"That is what I mean, Holmes."

"Very good, sir," said Holmes. "You're feeling better, I hope, sir?"

Very slowly de Montville rose to his feet, and stood, holding to the back
of his chair.

"I am--quite well," he said impressively.

"Very good, sir," said Holmes again, and withdrew, shaking his head
dubiously as soon as he was out of the Frenchman's sight.

As for de Montville, he went slowly across to the window and, leaning
against the sash, gazed down upon the empty street.

Not until he heard Mordaunt's step outside more than half an hour later
did he move, and then very abruptly he returned to the writing-table and
seized the pen anew. He was writing with feverish rapidity when Mordaunt
entered.

Very quietly Mordaunt came up and looked over his shoulder. "My boy," he
said, "I am very sorry, but that is not legible."

His tone was unreservedly kind, and Bertrand jerked up his head as if
surprised.

He surveyed the page before him with pursed lips, then flashed a quick
look into Mordaunt's face.

"It is true," he admitted, with a rueful smile. "I also am sorry."

"Leave it," Mordaunt said. "You are looking fagged, Yes, I mean it. It
will keep."

"But I have done nothing!" Bertrand protested, with outspread hands.

"No? Well, I don't believe you ought to be doing anything at present.
Come and sit down." Then, peremptorily, as Bertrand hesitated: "I won't
have you overworking yourself. Understand that! I have had trouble
enough to get you off the sick list as it is."

He spoke with that faint smile of his that placed most men at their ease
with him. Bertrand turned impulsively and grasped his hand.

"You have been--you are--more than a brother to me, monsieur," he said,
with feeling. "And I--I--ah! Permit me to tell you--I--am glad that
Mademoiselle has placed herself in your keeping. It was a great surprise,
yes. But I am glad--from my heart. She will be safe--and happy--with
you."

He spoke with great earnestness; his sincerity was shining in his eyes.
Mordaunt, looking straight down into them, saw no other emotion than
sheer friendliness, a friendliness that touched him, coming from one who
was so nearly friendless.

"I shall do my best to make her so," he made grave reply. "She has been
telling me about you, Bertrand."

"Ah!" The Frenchman's eyes interrogated him for a moment and instantly
fell away. "I am surprised," he said, "to be remembered after so long.
No, I had not forgotten her; but that is different, _n'est-ce pas_? I
think that no one would easily forget her." He smiled as though
involuntarily at some reminiscence. "_Christine et le bon Cinders_!" he
said in his soft voice. "We were all friends together. We were--" again
his eyes darted up to meet the Englishman's level scrutiny--"what you
call 'pals,' monsieur."

Mordaunt smiled. "So I gathered. It happened at Valpré, I understand."

Bertrand nodded. His eyes grew dreamy, grew remote. "Yes," he said
slowly, "it happened at Valpré. The little one was lonely. We made games
in the sand. We chased the crabs; we explored the caves; we played
together--as children." He stifled a sudden sigh, and rose. "_Eh bien_,"
he said, "we cannot be children for ever. We grow up--some quick--some
slow--but all grow up at last."

He broke off, and took up the evening paper to cut the leaves.

Mordaunt watched him in silence--a silence through which in some fashion
he conveyed his sympathy; for after a moment Bertrand spoke again, still
dexterously occupied with his task.

"Ah! you understand," he said. "I have no need to explain to you that
this meeting with my little friend who belonged to the happy days that
are past has given me almost as much of pain as of pleasure. I do not try
to explain--because you understand."

"You will get over it, my dear fellow," Mordaunt said, with quiet
conviction.

"You think it?" Bertrand glanced up momentarily.

"I do," Mordaunt answered, with a very kindly smile. "In fact, I think,
with all due respect to you, that you are younger than you feel."

"Ah!" There was not much conviction in Bertrand's response. He
stood up and handed the paper to Mordaunt with a quick bow. "But--all
the same--you understand?" he questioned, with a touch of anxiety.

"Of course I understand," Mordaunt answered gently.



CHAPTER XII

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY


"At last!" said Chris.

It was her birthday party, and she stood at the head of the stairs by her
aunt's side, receiving her guests.

Very young she looked, a child still, despite her twenty-one years, and
supremely happy. Her aunt, one of those ladies whose very smile is in
itself an act of condescension, was treating her with unusual
graciousness that night, and there was not a star awry in Chris's
firmament.

She had just caught a glimpse of her _fiancé_ in the crowd below her, and
a hasty second glance had shown her that he was not unaccompanied. A
slight man, olive-skinned, with a very small, black moustache and quick
eyes that searched upwards restlessly, was ascending the stairs with him.
In the instant that she looked those eyes found her, and flashed their
quick recognition.

Chris waved her fan in eager greeting. "Ah, there he is!" she cried
aloud.

"My dear child!" said Aunt Philippa.

Impetuously Chris turned to her. "He is a friend of mine, and Trevor's
secretary. I told Trevor to bring him. He is French, and his name is
Bertrand."

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement as she made this hasty
explanation. She had purposely left it till a crowded moment, for Aunt
Philippa was apt to be very searching in her inquiries, and Chris shrank
at all times from being catechized by this somewhat formidable relative
of hers.

"Trevor knows all about him; they are friends," she added, in response to
a slight drawing of the brows, with which she was tragically well
acquainted.

"All?" murmured Max in her ear from her other side, with a mischievous
twinkle in his green eyes.

Chris ignored him, but she turned a vivid crimson, and the hand she
stretched to Mordaunt was quivering with agitation. But in his quiet
grasp it became still. She looked up into his eyes and smiled a welcome
with recovered self-possession.

"Oh, Trevor, here you are! And you've brought Bertie as you promised."
She gave her other hand to Bertrand with the words, but she did not speak
to him--she went on talking to her _fiancé_. "I've had a tremendous day,
and thank you a million times for--you know what. It's a good thing you
booked your dances beforehand, for I haven't any left."

"Not one for me?" murmured Bertrand, as he bent over her hand.

She turned to him with a radiant smile. "Yes, yes, of course! Should I be
likely to forget all old pal like you? Trevor, will you introduce him to
Aunt Philippa?"

"My friend Mr. Bertrand," said Mordaunt promptly.

Mrs. Forest acknowledged the introduction with extreme chilliness. She
strongly disapproved of Chris's faculty for developing unexpected
friendships. The child was so regrettably free-and-easy in all her ways.
Of course, if Trevor Mordaunt approved of their intimacy, and apparently
he did, there was nothing to be said, but she herself could not regard it
with favour. Once more she congratulated herself that her
responsibilities where Chris was concerned were nearly at an end.

But if her greeting were cold, Bertrand scarcely had time to remark it,
for his attention was instantly diverted by the red-haired youth who
lounged behind her. Max, whose presence had been annoying his aunt all
day, thrust out a welcoming hand to the new-comer.

"Hullo!" he said. "You, is it?"

Bertrand raised his brows. He gave his hand, after an instant's
hesitation, with a non-committing, "Myself--yes."

Max drew him aside out of the crowd. "It's all right. I'm Chris's
brother, and I shan't give you away. But how long do you expect to remain
incog., I wonder? I knew your face the moment I saw you on the stairs."

"You know me?" said Bertrand, drawing back a little.

"Of course I know you. Who could help it? Your face is one of the best
known in Europe. So you are the hero that Chris used to worship at
Valpré! She mentioned the one fact to me, but not the other. She knows, I
suppose?"

"Ah, yes, but it is a secret." Bertrand spoke wearily, as if reluctant to
discuss the matter. "It is not my desire to be recognized. She knows that
also."

"I never knew Chris could keep a secret before," commented Max.

A quick gleam shot up in the Frenchman's eyes. "Then you do not know her
very well," he said.

Max smiled shrewdly, but did not contest the point. He seldom argued, and
Chris herself at this moment intervened.

"Bertie, I've saved the supper extras for you. Don't forget. Max, you
know most of the people here. Do introduce him, or find Jack--he will.
I'm dancing the first with Trevor. Good-bye!"

She flashed her smile upon him, and was gone. Bertrand stood and watched
her as she went away through the throng with Trevor Mordaunt. Everyone
watched her, and nearly everyone smiled. She was so naïvely, so sublimely
happy.

Her gay young laugh rang out as they began to dance. "Isn't it fun?" she
said; and then, with her eyes turned to his, "Trevor, I've such a crowd
of things to thank you for that I don't know where to begin."

"Then, my dear child, don't begin!" he said, with his indulgent smile.

She frowned at him. "You are not to call me 'child' any longer. I'm
grown-up."

His smile remained. "Since when?" he said.

"That's a rude question which I am not going to answer. But, Trevor,
you--you shouldn't have sent me all that money. It's much more than I
want."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said; and, after a moment, "I hope you will
spend it profitably."

"Oh, yes." Eagerly she made reply. "I've bought a new collar for
Cinders--such a beauty, with bells! I thought it would be so useful if he
went rabbiting."

"What! To warn the rabbits?"

"Oh, no! I never thought of that! Poor Cinders! It would spoil his sport,
wouldn't it? And he's such a sportsman. I suppose I shall have to keep it
for Sundays after all. What a pity! I thought it would help us to find
him if he got lost."

"But he always turns up again," said Mordaunt consolingly.

Her blue eyes flashed their sunshine. "Yes, yes, of course. And another
thing I did which ought to please you very much."

The indulgence turned to approval on Mordaunt's face. "I can guess what
that was," he said.

"Can you?" Chris looked delighted. "Well, you mustn't tell Aunt Philippa,
because she would call it shocking extravagance, and I really only did it
to please you."

"Oh! Then I am afraid I haven't guessed right." Mordaunt's expression
became one of grave doubt.

Chris laughed aloud. "You will have to guess again. No, please go on
dancing. One only gets hotter standing still."

"But, Chris," he said, "I want to know."

His tone was perfectly kind, as gentle as it always was when he addressed
her, and yet the quick glance that she threw him was not without a hint
of misgiving. The slender young body stiffened ever so slightly against
his arm.

"I wonder if Bertie has found a partner," she said. "Do you think we
ought to go and see?"

He guided her towards the entrance. A good many people were standing
about, and one after another accosted Chris. She answered blithely
enough, her hand still upon her _fiancé's_ arm, but yet there was that
about her that made him aware that she was not wholly at her ease. When
he drew her towards a room beyond that led to a conservatory, she hung
back.

"I want to find Bertie. Where is he?"

Jack Forest appeared at that moment, and she turned to him with evident
relief. "Oh, Jack, where is Mr. Bertrand? I told Max to hand him over to
you. He knows no one, and I do want him to have a good time."

"Be easy, my child," said Jack, with a cheery grin. "He is having the
time of his life. The mater has taken him under her wing."

"Jack!" Chris stood aghast.

"Don't agitate yourself," said Jack. "It's all serene. He is thoroughly
enjoying himself. Where are you two off to? Going to sit out in the dark?
Shall I come and mount guard?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" protested Chris. "Jack, remember our dance is
the next."

Jack bowed with his hand on his heart. "I don't forget such things. Make
the most of your time, Trevor. It's nearly up."

He departed with a careless swagger, and Chris turned to her quiet
companion and gave a little shiver. "Why did we leave off dancing? I'm
cold."

He led her across the hall to a settee. Someone had thrown a scarf upon
it. He put it round her shoulders.

"It isn't mine," she said, "and it isn't that sort of cold either. I hope
Aunt Philippa isn't teasing Bertie. Do you think she is?"

"I think he can take care of himself," Mordaunt said.

"Do you? I don't. Aunt Philippa is sure to say horrid things to him. I
think we ought to go and find them--really."

There was a note of pleading in her voice, but Mordaunt did not respond
to it. He sat and contemplated her, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

He leaned forward at last and spoke very quietly. "Chris," he said,
"forgive me for asking, but--you have paid your debts?"

The colour surged up all over her fair face. She began to pluck
restlessly at her fan. But she said no word. Only as he took it gravely
from her, she glanced up as though compelled, and for a single instant
sheer panic looked at him out of her eyes.

"My dear," he said, "will you attend to the matter to-morrow?"

But still she was silent, quiveringly, piteously silent. The colour had
gone out of her face now; she was as white as the dress she wore.

"You will?" he said gently.

She made a little sound that was like a repressed sob, and put her hand
sharply to her throat.

"You will?" he said again.

"Yes," she whispered.

He dismissed the matter instantly, opened the fan he had taken from her,
and began to admire it.

"Jack gave it to me," she said. "It's a birthday present. He always gives
me nice things. So do you, Trevor. Your pendant is the loveliest thing I
have ever seen."

He had sent her a pendant of turquoise and pearl, and it hung upon her
neck at the moment. She fingered it lovingly.

"I shall go to bed in it," she said, "so as to have it all night long. It
feels so delicious. I wish I could see it. It was the very thing I saw in
Bond Street a few weeks ago, and wanted to wear at Hilda's wedding." She
broke off with a sudden sigh. "It will be horrid when Hilda's married."

"Will it?" he said.

"Yes, horrid," she repeated with vehemence. "Aunt Philippa is going to
turn all her attention to me then. Of course, I know she is very kind,
but--well, I feel as if this is my last week of freedom. I shall be
almost glad when--" She broke off abruptly. "Do let us go and rescue
Bertie," she said, "before we get swallowed up in the crowd."

He got up at once and silently offered his arm. She slipped her hand
within it, and gave it a little squeeze.

"We'll dance to the _finale_ next time," she said lightly. "It's much
more fun than talking."

She added carelessly, as they moved away together: "By the way, I had my
photograph taken this morning. I don't know if you will like it. Shall I
send you one?"

"Do," he said. And after a moment, smiling faintly: "Was that the thing
that was to please me?"

She nodded, not looking at him.

He laid his hand for an instant upon hers. "Thank you, Chris," he said.

She turned instantly and smiled upon him. "You can give it to Bertie if
you don't like it," she made blithe response.



CHAPTER XIII

PALS


"Ah! now for a good talk," said Chris. "We have got at least half an
hour. Are you tired, Bertie, or only bored?"

But he was neither, he assured her. He had enjoyed his evening greatly.
No, he had not danced. He had found it enough diverting to look on
tranquilly in a corner. _Mais oui_, everybody had been most kind,
including his hostess, to whom he paid a special tribute of appreciation.
He had found her as gracious as she was beautiful.

"Did she try to pump you?" asked Chris.

He raised his brows in humorous bewilderment. But to pump--what was it?
To ask questions? Ah yes, she had asked him several questions. He had not
answered all of them. He feared she had found him a little stupid. But
she had been very patient with him, ah! so patient--he spread out his
hands, with the old, quick smile, and Chris's peal of laughter echoed far
and wide.

"Bertie, you're too heavenly for words! Then she didn't find out about
Valpré? She thinks--I suppose she thinks--that Trevor introduced us to
each other."

"I do not know what she thinks," the Frenchman made answer. "But no, we
did not speak of Valpré! That is a secret, _hein_?"

"Not exactly a secret. I told Max. But Aunt Philippa--oh, she is so
different. She never understands things," said Chris. "I daresay she will
find out from Trevor as it is; but I hope she won't--I do hope she
won't!"

He smiled comprehendingly. "But Mr. Mordaunt--he understands, yes?" he
said.

She hesitated. "I never told even him about that night in the Magic Cave,
Bertie."

"No?" he said, his quick eyes upon her. "But why not?"

She shook her head with vehemence. "I couldn't. Everyone--even Jack--made
such a fuss at the time--as if--as if"--she turned crimson--"I had done
something really wicked. I'm sure I don't know why. I always said so."

There was defiance as well as distress in her voice. Bertrand leaned a
little towards her.

"Mr. Mordaunt would not think like that," he said, with conviction.

She looked at him dubiously. "I'm not so sure. He has extraordinary views
on some things. I never quite know how he will take anything. Other
people are the same. You are the only person I am quite sure of."

He smiled, but not as if greatly elated. "That is because we are pals,"
he said.

"Yes, I know. It's good to have a pal who understands." Chris spoke a
little wistfully, but almost instantly dismissed the matter. "Why, I am
forgetting! You haven't seen Cinders yet, and I told him you were coming.
He is upstairs. Shall we go and find him?"

They went up together. Half-way up she slipped her hand into his, with a
soft little laugh. "It's like old times, Bertie. Don't break the spell,
_preux chevalier_. Let us pretend--just for to-night!"

They found Cinders imprisoned in a little sitting-room at the top of the
house which Chris shared with her cousin. His greeting of Bertrand was
effusive, even rapturous. Like his mistress, he never forgot a friend.

Afterwards they sat and talked of many things, chiefly connected with
Valpré. There was so much to remember--Mademoiselle Gautier and her
queer, conventual prejudices, Manon, the maid-of-all-work, and her funny
stories of the shore.

"She quite believed in the spell," Chris said. "She almost frightened me
with it."

"Without doubt there was a spell," said Bertrand gravely.

"You really think so? I never believed in it after that night."

"No?" he said. "And yet it was there."

Chris peered at him. "You talk as if it were something quite
substantial," she said.

"It was substantial," he made answer, and then with a sudden smile into
her wondering eyes: "As substantial, _chérie_, as my rope of sand that
was to make my work endure like--like the Sphinx and Cleopatra's Needle
and--and--" He broke off with his eloquent shrug, paused a moment,
then--"and--our friendship, if you will," he ended.

"Ah, fancy your remembering that!" she said. "But I believe you remember
everything."

"That is the spell," he said.

"Is it, Bertie? And do you remember the duel, and how you wouldn't tell
me what it was all about? Tell me now!" she begged, as a child pleading
for a story. "I always wanted to know."

But his face darkened instantly. "Not that, _petite_. He was bad. He was
_scélérat_. We will not speak of him."

"But, Bertie, I'm grown-up now. I'm quite old enough to know," she urged,
with a coaxing hand upon his arm.

He took the hand, turned it upwards, stroked the soft palm very
reverently. "I pray that you will never be old enough, Chris," he said,
and in the shaded lamplight she saw that his face had grown suddenly
melancholy, almost haggard. "The knowledge of evil is a poisonous thing.
Those who find it can never be young again."

His manner awed her a little. She did not pursue the point with her
customary persistence. "Well, tell me what happened afterwards," she
said. "He got well again?"

"Yes, _petite_."

"And--you forgave each other?"

"Never!" Bertrand raised his head and shot out the word with emphasis.

"Never, Bertie?" Chris looked at him, slightly startled.

He looked back at her, faintly smiling, but with the melancholy still in
his eyes. "Never," he repeated. "That shocks you, no?"

"Not really," she said loyally. "I'm sure he was horrid. He looked it.
Then--you are enemies still?"

"Enemies?" He shrugged his shoulders. "No, I think he would not consider
me as an enemy now."

"And yet you never forgave him?"

"No, never." Again his denial was emphatic. After a moment, seeing her
bewilderment, he proceeded to explain. "If he had apologized, if he had
retracted the insult, then it is possible that a reconciliation might
have been effected between us."

"But he didn't?" said Chris. "Then what happened? Did he do nothing at
all?"

"For a long time--nothing," said Bertrand.

"And then?"

"Then," very simply he made reply, "he ruined me."

"Bertie!" She gazed at him with tragedy dawning in her eyes. "He ruined
you! He!"

"He supplied the evidence against me," Bertrand said. "But it was clever.
He spread a net--so"--he flung out his hands with an explanatory
gesture--"a net that I see not nor suspect, and then when I am entrapped
he draw it close--close, and--I am a prisoner." He shut his teeth with a
click, and for an instant smiled--the smile of the man who fights with
his back against the wall.

But the tragedy had grown from shadow to reality in the turquoise blue
eyes of the girl beside him. "Oh, Bertie," she said, with a break in her
voice, "then it was all my fault--mine!"

He turned towards her swiftly. "No, no, no! Who has said that? It is not
true!" he declared, with vehemence.

"You said it yourself--almost," she told him. "And it is true, for if you
hadn't fought him it would never have happened. Oh, Bertie! I'm beginning
to think it was a dreadful pity I ever went to Valpré!"

He caught her hands and held them. "You shall not say it!" he declared
passionately. "You shall not think it! _Mignonne_, listen! Those days at
Valpré are to me the most precious, the most sacred, the most dear of my
life. They can never return, it is true. But the memory of them is mine
for ever. Of that can no one deprive me. While I live I shall cherish
them in my heart."

He cheeked himself abruptly; she was gazing at him with a sort of
speculative wonder that had arrested the tragedy in her eyes. At his
sudden pause she began to smile.

"Bertie, dear, forgive me, but I can't help thinking what a funny
Englishman you would have made! So you really don't think it was my
fault? I'm so glad. I should break my heart if it were."

He stooped, catching her hands up to his lips, whispering inarticulately.

She suffered him, half-laughing. "Silly Frenchman!" she said softly.

And at that he looked up and let her go. "You are right," he said,
speaking rather thickly. "I am foolish. I am mad. And you--you have the
patience of an angel to support me thus."

"Oh no," said Chris. "I'm not a bit like an angel. In fact, I'm rather
wicked sometimes--not very, you know, Bertie, only rather. Now let me
show you my presents. I brought them up here on purpose."

So gaily she diverted the conversation, mainly because she had caught a
gleam of tears in her friend's eyes and was aware that they had not been
far from her own. It would never do for them to sit crying together on
her birthday night. Besides, it was too ridiculous, for what was there to
cry about? Bertrand was in a better position now than he had been for
years. And she--and she--well, it was her birthday, and surely that was
reason enough for being glad.

It was Bertrand who at length gently drew her attention to the time. They
had been talking for the best part of an hour.

"Will not the supper dances be nearly finished?" he suggested.

"Oh, goodness!" exclaimed Chris. "Yes, long ago. We must fly. Say
good-bye to Cinders. You will come and see him again soon, won't you?
Come just as often as you can."

At the door she paused a moment, slipped a warm hand into his, and for
the first time shyly broke her silence upon the subject of her
approaching marriage.

"I'm so glad you are coming to live with us when we are married," she
said. "I shall never feel lonely with you there."

"You would not be lonely without me," he made quick response. "You will
have always your husband."

She caught her breath, and then laughed. "To be sure. I hadn't thought of
that. But Trevor is always busy, and he is going to write a book too."
She looked at him with sudden mischief in her eyes. "Yes, I am very glad
you are coming," she said again. "When he doesn't want you with him you
can come and play with me. And when it's summer"--her eyes fairly
danced--"we'll go for picnics, Bertie, lots of picnics. You'll like that,
_preux chevalier_?"

He smiled back upon her; who could have helped it? But he stifled a sigh
as he smiled. Would life be always a picnic to her, he asked himself? He
could not imagine it otherwise, and yet he knew that even upon this child
of mirth and innocence the reality of life must dawn some day. Would it
be a gracious dawning of pearly tints and roselit radiance, gradually
filling that eager young soul to the brim with the greater joys of life?
Or would it be fiery and terrible, a blinding, relentless burst of light,
from which she would shrink appalled, discerning the wrath of the gods
before ever she had realized their bounty?

Could it be thus with her, his little comrade, his bird of Paradise, his
darling? He thought not. He believed not. And yet deep in the heart of
him he feared.

And because of that lurking fear he vowed silently over the little
friendly hand that lay so confidingly in his that never while breath
remained in his body would he leave her until he knew her happiness--the
ultimate happiness of her womanhood--to be assured.

It seemed to him that it was for this alone that he had been introduced
once more into her book of life. All his hopes and dreams had passed; he
was an old man before his time; but this one thing, it seemed, was left
to him. For a while longer his name would figure with hers across the
page. Only when the page turned his part would be done. She would not
need him then. She would be a woman; and--_eh bien_, it was only the
child Chris who could ever be expected to need him now. When she ceased
to be a child the need--if such, indeed, existed--would be for ever past;
and he would be no more to her than a memory--the memory of one who had
played with her a while in the happy land of her childhood and had shared
with her the picnics of those summer days.

This was the sole remaining aspiration of Bertrand de Montville--the man
who in the arrogance of his youth had diced with the gods, and had lost
the cast.



CHAPTER XIV

A REVELATION


"My dear, it is quite useless for you to attempt to justify your conduct,
for it was simply inexcusable. No argument can possibly alter that fact.
Everyone was waiting about for a considerable time in the supper-room,
desirous of drinking your health, while you, it transpires, were hiding
in a corner with this very questionable foreigner whom Trevor has been
eccentric enough to befriend, but of whom I can discover practically
nothing."

"But Trevor knows all about him, Aunt Philippa," pleaded Chris.

"That," said Aunt Philippa, "may or may not be the case. But so long as
you are in my charge, I, and not Trevor, am the one to direct your choice
of acquaintances, and I very strongly object to the inclusion of this
Frenchman in the number. It is my desire, Chris, that you do not see him
again during the rest of the time that you are under my roof. I intend to
speak to Trevor upon the matter at the earliest opportunity. I consider
that, in the face of what has occurred, he would be extremely ill-advised
to retain this unknown foreigner in his employment, though I should
imagine he has already arrived at that conclusion for himself. I could
see that he was seriously displeased by your behaviour last night."

"Oh, was he?" said Chris blankly. "He didn't say so."

"He probably realized that it would be useless to express his displeasure
at such a time. But let me warn you, Chris. He is not a man to stand any
trifling. I have heard it from several quarters. Jack, as you are aware,
knows him well, and he will tell you the same. You may try his patience
too far, and that, I presume, is not your intention. Should it happen, I
think that you would regret it all your life."

"But I haven't trifled! I don't trifle!" protested Chris, divided between
distress and indignation.

Aunt Philippa smiled unpleasantly--she seldom displayed any other variety
of smile. "That, my dear, is very much a matter of opinion. You had
better go now to Hilda. She is waiting to see your bridesmaid's dress
tried on."

Chris went, with a worried pucker between her brows. How curious it was
that some people failed so completely to take a reasonable view of
things! They made mountains out of molehills, and expected her to climb
them--she, whose unwary feet were accustomed to trip so lightly along
easy ways. And Trevor too--she caught her breath with a sharp shiver--was
he really seriously displeased with her? He had given no hint of it when
they had danced together, save that he had been somewhat grave and
silent. But then, he was naturally so. She had not thought much of it;
in fact, she had been thinking mainly of Bertie.

And here a sudden throb of dismay sent the blood to her heart. Aunt
Philippa was going to speak to him upon this subject, was going to
suggest unspeakable things, was going to talk over her conduct with him
and make him furious in earnest. And then it would all come out about her
having met Bertrand all those years ago. Trevor would mention that in the
natural course of things, and then Aunt Philippa would tell him--would
tell him--

"Chris, dear, what is the matter? You are as white as a ghost."

It was Hilda's voice gently recalling her. She came to herself with a
start, and the hot blood rose to her cheeks with a rush.

"Are you very tired after yesterday?" her cousin asked. "I am afraid you
got up too early."

"Oh, no!" said Chris. "I wasn't early at all. I didn't ride this morning.
Jack has promised to come for me this evening instead."

She diverted Hilda's attention desperately. She could not make
confidences in the presence of the dressmaker. Moreover, she was not sure
that she wanted to talk even to Hilda about her pal from Valpré. It was
true Hilda understood most things, but Aunt Philippa had somehow managed
to inspire her with a sense of guilt. She knew she could not speak of
Bertrand with ease to anyone now.

Besides, there was no time. The moment she was free she must manage
somehow to communicate with Trevor. She must warn him of Aunt Philippa's
intentions. She must explain to him.

She did not want him to know about that night in the Magic Cave.
Everyone who heard of it was shocked, everyone except Max, and he made
a speciality of never being shocked at anything. Why, it was even
possible--here a new thought leaped up and struck her an unexpected
blow--was it not more than possible that it was this self-same event that
had given rise to the insult that had led to the duel? Of course that
must be it! That was why Bertrand so persistently refused to enlighten
her. How was it she had never before thought of it? It was the truth of
course! How had she failed to see anything so glaringly apparent?

Yes, it was the truth. She had blundered upon it unawares, and now she
surveyed it horror-stricken, remembering Bertrand's warning that the
knowledge of evil was a poisonous thing. So must Eve have felt when first
her eyes were opened to the wisdom of the gods.

She was free at last, and sped up to her room. The scribbled message that
reached her _fiancé_ an hour later was only just legible, but it spoke
more eloquently of the state of mind of the writer than she knew.

"DEAR TREVOR,--

"Aunt Philippa says you are angry with me. Please don't be. Really there
is nothing to be angry about, though she thinks there is, and she is
going to try and persuade you to send Bertie away. Trevor, don't listen
to her, will you? And, whatever you do, don't tell her about Valpré. I'm
very bothered about it. Do be as kind as you always are to

"Your loving
CHRIS."

Mordaunt's answering note reached her late in the afternoon just before
she set forth for her ride in the Park with Jack.

"MY DEAR LITTLE CHRIS,--

"My love to your Aunt Philippa, and I am just off to Paris for the inside
of a week. I shall be back for your cousin's wedding. Ask her to reserve
her lecture till then. Our friend Bertrand sends his _amitiés_. I send
nothing, for you have it all.

"Yours,
TREVOR."

Chris kissed the note with a rush of tenderness--greater than she had
ever managed to bestow upon the writer. That brief response to her appeal
stirred her as she had never been stirred before. It was sweet of him to
trust her so. She would never forget it, never, as long as she lived.

When Jack appeared to escort her, he noted her radiant face and shining
eyes with approval.

"Why, you're looking almost pretty for once," he said. "What has happened
to bring it about? It must be a recipe worth having."

"Don't be absurd!" she retorted, beaming upon him. "Who wants to be
pretty?"

"It's better to be good certainly," he said. "I know you couldn't be
both. But what's the joke? I think you might let me help laugh."

"There isn't a joke," she said. "And I'm not laughing. I've had a letter
from Trevor, that's all. And he's going to Paris."

"Oh-ho!" said Jack.

"Now you're horrid!" she protested. "I don't want him to go in the
least."

"Of course not," said Jack. "I've observed how remarkably depressed you
were by the news."

"I shall be cross with you in a minute," said Chris.

"Heaven forbid!" said Jack. "When is he coming back?"

"In time for Hilda's wedding."

"And does he take the French secretary with him?"

"Oh, no, he can't go to France. I mean--I mean--"

Chris stopped in sudden confusion.

"I know what you mean," said Jack. "They would take too keen an interest
in him over there. Isn't that it?"

"How did you know?" said Chris.

He laughed. "The proverbial little bird! I might add that a good many
people know by this time."

"Oh, Jack, do they?" Chris looked at him in consternation. "He didn't
want anyone to know."

"My dear child, in that case he should not have courted publicity as the
guest of the evening last night."

"Jack! He wasn't the guest of the evening! How dare you say such things!"

Chris's rare displeasure actually was aroused now. Her slight figure
stiffened, and she tapped her knee with her riding-switch. She never
touched her animal with this weapon, whatever his idiosyncrasies, and
certainly the horses she rode generally behaved with docility.

Jack surveyed her with amused eyes as they turned up under the trees.
"All right," he said imperturbably. "He wasn't. My mistake, no doubt. But
where on earth were you hiding during the supper extras? He was missing
too. Curious, wasn't it?"

Chris came out of her temper with a winning gesture of appeal. "Jack
dear, don't! I've heard such a lot about it from Aunt Philippa already.
And why shouldn't I talk to my pals? You wouldn't like it if I didn't
talk to you sometimes."

"Is he that sort of pal?" asked Jack.

She nodded. "Just that sort. And Trevor knows all about it and
understands. I've just had a line from him to tell me so."

"Have you, though?" said Jack. "Then all I can say is Trevor is a
brick--a very special kind of brick--and I hope you realize it."

"He's just the sweetest man in the world," said Chris with enthusiasm.
"He is never horrid about things, and he never thinks what isn't."

"Lucky for you!" said Jack.

"Why?" She turned towards him sharply.

He began to smile. "Because, my dear, you have rather an unfortunate
knack of making things appear--as they are not."

"I don't know what you mean," she protested. "It's very horrid of people
to imagine things, and it certainly isn't my fault. Trevor understands
that. He always understands."

"Let us hope he always will," said Jack.

"He would trust me even if he didn't," said Chris.

"At the same time," said Jack, "I shouldn't try his faith too far if I
were you. If you ever overstepped it, I have a notion that it might
be--well, somewhat unpleasant for you."

He spoke the words with a smile, but the silence with which they were
received had in it something that was tragic. Chris was gazing straight
before her as they rode. Her expression was curiously stony, as if, by
some means, her customary animation had been suspended. Jack wondered a
little. After a moment she spoke, without looking round. "Jack!"

"Your humble servant!" said Jack.

"I'm not laughing," she said. "I want you to tell me something. You know
Trevor. You knew him years before I did. Have you ever seen him--really
angry?"

"Great Jove! yes," said Jack.

"Many times?" There was a little quiver in her voice, but it did not
sound exactly agitated.

"No, not many times. He isn't the sort of fellow to let himself go, you
know," said Jack.

"No," she said. "But what is he like--when he is angry?"

Jack considered. "He's rather like a devil that's been packed in ice for
a very long time. He doesn't expand, he contracts. He emits a species of
condensed fury that has a disastrous effect upon the object thereof. He
is about the last man in the world that I should choose to quarrel with."

"But why?" she said. "Would you be afraid of him?"

Jack considered this point too quite gravely and impartially. "I really
don't know, Chris," he said at last. "I believe I should be."

"He can be terrible, then," she said, as if stating a conclusion rather
than asking a question.

"More or less," Jack admitted. "But he is never unreasonable. I have
never seen him angry without good cause."

"And then--I suppose he is merciless?"

"Quite," said Jack. "I saw him shoot a Kaffir once for knocking a wounded
man on the head. It was no more than the brute deserved. I was lying
wounded myself, and he took my revolver to do it with. But it was a nasty
jolt for the Kaffir. He knew exactly what was going to happen to him and
why, before it happened. Afterwards, when Trevor came back to me, he was
smiling, so I suppose it did him good. He's a very deliberate chap. Some
people call him cold-blooded. He never acts on impulse. And I've never
known him make a mistake."

"I see." Chris swallowed once or twice as if she felt an obstruction
in her throat. "I expect he would be like that with anyone," she said.
"I mean if he had reason to be angry with anyone, he wouldn't spare
them--whatever they were. I always felt he was like that."

"He's one of the best chaps in the world," said Jack warmly.

She assented, but not with the enthusiasm that had marked her earlier
eulogy. She seemed, in fact, to have become a little _distrait_, and
Jack, remarking the fact, suggested a canter.

They met several people whom they knew before they turned homewards, and
it was not until they were leaving the Park that any further conversation
was possible.

Then very suddenly Chris reined in and spoke. "Jack, before we go back, I
want to ask you something."

"Well?" said Jack.

She made a pathetic little gesture towards him, and touched his knee
with her riding-switch. Her blue eyes besought him very earnestly. "Jack,
we--we are pals, aren't we? Or I couldn't possibly ask it of you. Jack,
I--I've been foolish--and extravagant. And--" she became suddenly
breathless--"I want twenty pounds--to pay some debts. Jack, could
you--would you--"

"You monkey!" said Jack.

"I couldn't help it," she declared piteously. "I've spent a frightful lot
of money lately. I don't know how it goes. It runs away like water. But
I--want to get out of debt, Jack. If you will help me just this once,
I'll pay you back when--when--when I'm married."

"Good heavens, child!" he said. "You shall have it twice over if you
like. But why on earth didn't you tell me before? Don't you know it's
very naughty to run up debts?"

She nodded. "Yes, I know. But I couldn't help it. There were things I
wanted. And London is such an expensive place. You do understand, dear
Jack, don't you?"

Jack thought he did. He was, moreover, too fond of his young cousin to
treat her with severity. But he considered it his duty to deliver a brief
lecture on the dangers of insolvency, to which Chris listened with
becoming docility, thanking him with a quick, sweet smile when he had
done.

Jack did not flatter himself that he had succeeded in making a very deep
impression. He wondered a little what Trevor Mordaunt would have said
under similar circumstances.

"I hope she will be straightforward with him," was his reflection. "But
she is a Wyndham of the Wyndhams, and everyone knows that her father
didn't suffer over-much from that complaint."

Which was true. Chris's father had been one of those baffling persons who
are always in want of money and yet seem quite incapable of giving a
clear account of their wants. His affairs had been in a perpetual muddle
from the beginning of his career, and had probably ended so.

"Most unsatisfactory!" as Aunt Philippa invariably remarked, as a
suitable conclusion to any discussion on the subject of her brother or
any of his family. How she personally had managed to escape the general
blight that rested upon them was a mystery that no one--not Aunt Philippa
herself--had ever been able to solve.



CHAPTER XV

MISGIVINGS


Hilda Forest's wedding was one of the events of the season. All London
went to it. Lord Percy Davenant, the bridegroom, was a man of many
friends, and the bride's mother prided herself upon the width of her own
social circle.

In the midst of the fuss and tumult the bride, very grave and serene,
with shining eyes, went her appointed way. Everyone was loud in her
praise. Her bearing was admirable. She was as one on whom a veil of
happiness had fallen, and external things scarcely touched her.

She went through her part steadfastly and well, forgetful utterly of the
watching crowds, conscious only of one being in all that critical
multitude, holding only one thought in the silent sanctuary of her soul.

And Chris, the chief bridesmaid, walking alone behind her, watched and
marvelled. She liked Lord Percy Davenant. He was big, good-natured,
rollicking, and many a joke had they had together. But no faintest tinge
of romance hung about him in her opinion. She could not with the utmost
effort of the imagination see what there was in him to bring that light
into Hilda's eyes.

It was odd, thought Chris, very odd. If it had been Trevor, now--She
could quite easily have understood it if Hilda had fallen in love with
him. And they would have been eminently well suited to one another, too.
Yes, it was very strange, quite unaccountable! Here she remembered that
Trevor was probably somewhere in the crowd behind her, and peeped over
her shoulder surreptitiously to get a glimpse of him.

She was not successful, but she caught the eye of one of the bridesmaids
immediately behind her, who leaned forward with a merry smile to whisper,
"Your turn next!"

Chris turned back sharply. The words had a curious effect upon her; they
gave her almost a sensation of shock. Her turn next to face this ordeal
through which Hilda was passing with such supreme confidence! Would she
feel as Hilda felt when she came to stand with Trevor before the altar?
Would that thrill of deep sincerity be in her voice also as she repeated
the vows irrevocable which were even now leaving Hilda's lips? Would her
eyes meet his with the same pure gladness of love made perfect?

A sudden tremor went through her. She shivered from head to foot. The
scent of the flowers she held--Hilda's flowers and her own--seemed to
turn her sick. She felt overpowered--lost!

Desperately she clutched her wavering self-control. This ghastly,
unspeakable doubt must not conquer her. No one must know it--no one must
see!

But she was as one slipping down a steep incline, faster and faster every
second. The beating of her heart rose up and deafened her. It was like
someone beating a tattoo in the church. She could not hear another word
of the service. And she was suffocating with the nauseous sweetness of
the bridal flowers. Wildly she looked around her. Where was Trevor? He
would help her. He would understand--he always understood. But she sought
him in vain. There was only the long line of bridesmaids behind her and
a sea of indistinct faces on each side.

She lifted her head and gasped. She felt as if she were being smothered
in flowers. Their heavy perfume stifled her. She understood now why some
people wouldn't have flowers at their funerals. She had always thought it
odd before.

She was slipping more and more rapidly down that fatal slope. The
sunlight that lay in a great bar of vivid colours across the church
danced before her eyes. She no longer saw the bridal couple in front of
her. They had faded quite away, and in their stead was a terrible abyss
of flowers--bridal flowers that made her sick and faint.

She swayed as she stood. Who was that speaking? Certain solemn words had
pierced her reeling brain. She heard them as if they came from another
world--

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

Those words would be uttered over her next. Perhaps they were meant
for her even now. Surely it was her own wedding and not Hilda's,
after all! She was being married, and she wasn't ready! Oh, it was
horrible--horrible! And where was Trevor, or Bertie, or someone--anyone—
to hold her back from that dreadful, scented darkness?

Ah! An arm supporting her! A steady hand that took the flowers away!
Trevor at last! She turned and clung to him weakly, crying like a
frightened child. Her knees would not support her any longer, they
doubled under her weight. But he lifted her without effort, almost as if
she had been a child indeed, and carried her away.

He bore her to an open door that led out from the vestry, and there in
the fresh air Chris revived. He set her on her feet, and made her lean
against him. Jack hovered in the background, but he dismissed him.

"She is all right again. Go and tell your mother. It was an atmosphere to
asphyxiate an ox."

Chris laughed very shakily. "I'm so sorry, Trevor. Did I make a scene?"

She would have withdrawn from his support, but he kept his arm about her.
"No, dear. I chanced to be looking at you, and I saw you were going to
faint. I am glad I was able to get you away in time."

"I couldn't help it," she said, not looking at him. "It was--it was--the
flowers."

"I know," he said gently.

She leaned her head against him. It was throbbing painfully. "Oh,
Trevor--it wasn't--only--the flowers," she whispered.

He put his hand over her aching temples. "Tell me presently, dear," he
said.

She reached up and found the hand, drew it down over her face, and held
it so for seconds, speaking no word. She touched it softly with her lips
at last, and let it go.

"I'm well now," she said. "Take me back."

He looked at her searchingly. "You are sure?"

She smiled at him, though her eyes were still heavy. "Yes, I'll be quite
good. I mustn't spoil Hilda's wedding by being silly, must I? You haven't
brought Bertie, I suppose?"

He smiled a little. "He didn't get an invitation."

"Of course not. Trevor, you didn't think I was--flirting with him that
night?"

"My dear child--no!"

"Because I never flirt," said Chris very earnestly. "It's a horrid thing
to do. You'll never think that of me, will you? Or that I have ever
trifled with you--or anyone?"

Trevor's eyes rested upon her with grave kindness. "My dear, why should I
think these things of you?" he said.

She shook her head. "I don't know. Lots of people do. But you are
different. I think you understand. You'll stay after it's over and have a
talk, won't you?"

"Yes," he said.

She slipped her hand into his. "Now let's go back."

They went back. The ceremony was very nearly over. Chris took her place
again, and followed the bride into the vestry afterwards.

Later, at the crowded reception, she was among the merriest, and very few
noticed that she was paler than usual or that her eyes were deeply
shadowed.

The wedded pair left early, and immediately afterwards the guests began
to disperse. Mordaunt, who had been making himself generally useful,
looked round for Chris as soon as a leisure moment arrived. But he looked
in vain; she was not to be found.

He went through every room in search of her, but all to no purpose. For a
while he lingered, waiting for her, talking to the few people who
remained. But at length, as there was still no sign of her, he prepared
to take his departure also, with the intention of presenting himself
again later.

He was actually on the doorstep when Jack came striding after him. "I
say, Chris wants you. I forgot to mention it. Make my apologies, for
Heaven's sake! She must have been waiting an hour or more."

"What?" Mordaunt turned back sharply, frowning.

"Don't scowl, there's a dear chap," said Jack. "I'm awfully sorry. I had
such a shoal of things to see to. She's upstairs, right at the top of the
house, first door you come to. She said you were to go up and have tea
with her and Cinders. Really, I'm horribly sorry."

"All right. So you ought to be," Mordaunt said, and left him to his
regrets.

He was somewhat breathless when he arrived outside the door of Chris's
little sanctum, but he did not pause on that account. He knocked with his
hand already upon the handle, and almost immediately turned it.

"I can come in?" he asked.

A muffled bark from Cinders was the only answer--a warning bark, as
though he would have the intruder tread softly.

Mordaunt trod softly in consequence, softly entered, softly closed the
door.

He found his little _fiancée_ crouched on the floor beside an ancient
sofa, her arms resting upon it and her head sunk upon them. Cinders, very
alert, bristling with importance, mounted guard on the sofa itself.

For Chris was asleep, curled up in her bridesmaid finery, a study in
white and blue, with a single splash of vivid red-gold where the sunlight
touched her hair.

Cinders growled below his breath as Mordaunt approached. He also wagged
his tail, though without effusion. The visitor was welcome so far as he
was concerned, but he must make no disturbance. A canny little beast was
Cinders.

And so, noiselessly, Mordaunt drew near, and bent above the child upon
the floor. He saw that she had been crying. Even in repose her face
looked wan, and there was a soaked morsel of lace that had evidently been
quite inadequate for the occasion crumpled up in one hand.

What was the trouble? he wondered, and wished with all his heart that
Cinders could impart it. He had no doubt that Cinders knew.

It seemed almost cruel to awake her, but neither could he bring himself
to leave her as she was. He looked to Cinders for inspiration. And
Cinders, with a flash of intelligence that proved him more than beast, if
less than human, lowered his queer little muzzle and licked his
mistress's face.

That roused her. She stretched out her arms with a vague, sleepy murmur,
smiled, opened her eyes.

"Oh, Trevor!" she said. "You!"

He stooped over her. "Chris, is anything the matter?"

She looked at him. "I don't know," she said slowly. "I forget."

"Poor child!" he said. "It's a shame to make you remember. But I'm afraid
it is inevitable. Won't you lie on the sofa? You will find it more
comfortable."

"No," said Chris. "I like the floor the best. You can sit on the sofa, if
Cinders doesn't mind. Has everyone gone, downstairs? Hasn't it been a
dreadful day?" She leaned her head against his knee with a sigh of
weariness. "I do think getting married is a dreadful business," she said.

His hand was on her hair, the beautiful, burnished hair that Mademoiselle
Gautier had deemed one of her most dangerous possessions. He did not try
to see her face, and perhaps for that very reason Chris leaned against
him with complete confidence.

"So you don't want to be married?" he said, after a moment.

"No, I don't!" she said, with vehemence. "I think marriage is
dreadful--dreadful, when you come to look at it close." She moved her
head under his hand; for an instant her face was raised. "Trevor, you
don't mind my saying it, do you?"

"I want you to say exactly what is in your mind," he made grave reply.

"I knew you would." She nestled down again, and pulled his hand
over her shoulder, holding it against her cheek. "I know I'm very
unorthodox," she said. "Perhaps I'm wicked as well. I can't help it.
I think marriage--except for good people like Hilda--is a mistake.
It's so terribly cold-blooded and--and irrevocable."

She spoke the last words almost in a whisper. She was holding his hand
very tightly.

He sat very still, and she wondered if he were shocked by her views, but
she could not bring herself to ascertain. She went on quickly, with a
touch of recklessness--

"It's only the good people like Hilda who can be quite sure they will
never change their minds. In fact, I'm beginning to think that it's only
the good people who never do. Trevor, what should you do if--if you were
married to me, and then you--changed your mind?"

"I can't imagine the impossible, Chris," he said.

She moved restlessly. "Would it be quite impossible?"

"Quite."

"Even if you found out that I was--quite worthless?"

"That also is impossible," he said gravely.

She was silent for a space, then, "And what if I--changed mine?" she
said, her voice very low.

"Have you changed your mind?" he asked.

She shrank at the question, quietly though it was uttered.

His hand closed very steadily upon hers. "Don't be afraid to tell me," he
said. "I want the truth, you know, whatever it is."

"I know," she said, and suddenly she began to sob drearily, hopelessly,
with her head against his knee.

He bent lower over her; he lifted her till he held her in his arms,
pressed close against his heart.

"Yes, hold me!" she whispered, through her tears. "Hold me tight, Trevor!
Don't let me go! I don't feel so--so frightened when you are holding me."

"Tell me what has frightened you," he said.

"I can't," she whispered back. "I'm just--foolish, that's all. And,
Trevor, I can't--I can't--be married as Hilda was to-day. I can't face
it--all the people and the grandeur and the flowers. You won't make me,
Trevor?"

"My darling, no!" he said.

"It frightened me so," she said forlornly. "It seemed like being caught
in a trap. One felt as if the guests and the flowers were meant to hide
it all, but they didn't--they made it worse. I don't think Hilda felt
like that, but then Hilda is so good, she wouldn't. Oh, Trevor dear, I
wish--I wish we could go to Kellerton and live there without being
married at all."

The words came muffled from his shoulder; she was clinging to him almost
convulsively.

"But we can't, Chris," he said, his quiet voice coming through her
agitation with a patience so immense that it seemed to dwarf even her
distress. "At least, dear, you can go and live there if you wish, but I
can't. Perhaps I am not indispensable."

"No, no!" she said quickly, as though the suggestion hurt her. "I want
you."

"Then I am afraid you will have to marry me," he said. "We won't have a
big wedding. It shall be as private as you like. I suppose you will want
your brothers to be there."

"Why can't we run away together and get married all by ourselves?"
suggested Chris. She raised her head and regarded him with sudden
animation. "Wouldn't it be fun?" she said. "You could come for me in the
motor, and we could fly off to some out-of-the-way village and be married
before anyone knew anything about it. There would be no one to gloat over
us and make silly jokes, no horrid show at all. Trevor," her face flashed
into gaiety once more, "I'll go with you to-morrow!"

He smiled at her eagerness. "If I were to agree to that, you would run
away in the night."

"Run away from you!" said Chris. She wound her arm swiftly about his
neck. "As if I should!" she said reproachfully.

He looked at her, baffled in spite of his determination to understand.
"You wouldn't want to do that, then?" he said.

She nestled to him with a gesture most winning. "Never, never, unless--"

"Unless--?" he repeated.

"Unless--for any reason--you were angry with me," she murmured, with her
face hidden again.

He folded his arms more closely about her. "My little Chris, never be
afraid of that," he said.

"Oh, but you might be," she protested.

"Never, Chris." He spoke gravely, with absolute conviction.

She turned her lips quickly to his. "Then let's run away together, shall
we?"

He kissed her with great tenderness before he answered. "No, dear, no. It
can't be done. What would your aunt say to it?"

"Surely if I don't mind that, you needn't!" she said.

But he shook his head. "I won't let you be pestered with preparations. We
will keep it a secret from everyone outside. But I think we must let your
Aunt Philippa into it. I think you owe her that."

"P'raps," admitted Chris, without enthusiasm. "But she is sure to want a
big show, Trevor."

"Leave that to me," he said. "I promise you shall not have that. We will
get it done early, and we will be at Kellerton for luncheon."

Her eyes shone. "How lovely! And the boys, too--and Bertie?"

He surveyed the eager face for a few seconds in silence. Then, "Chris,"
he said, "would it mean a very great sacrifice to you if I asked for the
first fortnight with you alone?"

He was watching her closely, watching for the faintest suggestion of
disappointment or hesitancy in the clear eyes, but he detected neither.
Chris beamed upon him tranquilly.

"Why, I should love it! There's no end of things I want to show you.
And we can make it all snug before Bertie and the boys come. But, of
course"--she became suddenly serious--"I must have Cinders with me."

"Oh, we won't exclude Cinders," he said.

She laughed--the gay, sweet laugh he loved to hear. "That's settled,
then. And you'll make Aunt Philippa promise not to tell, for of course
that would spoil everything. Oh, and Trevor, you won't discuss Bertrand
with her? Promise!"

He looked at her keenly for a moment, met only the coaxing confidence of
her eyes, and decided to ask no question.

"My dear," he said, "as far as Bertrand is concerned, your Aunt Philippa
and I have nothing to discuss."

"That's all right," said Chris, with relief. "Trevor, you've done me a
lot of good. You are quite the most comforting man I know. I'm not
frightened any more, and I'll never be such a little idiot again as long
as I live."

She rose with the words, stood a moment with her hand on his shoulder,
then stooped and shyly kissed his forehead.

"You always understand," she said. "And I love you for it. There!"

"I am glad, dear," he said gently.

But he did not look particularly elated notwithstanding. There had been
moments in their recent conversation when, so far from understanding her,
he had felt utterly and completely at a loss. He had not the heart to
tell her so, for he knew that she was quite incapable of explaining
herself; but the fact remained. And he wondered with a vague misgiving if
he had yet succeeded--if, indeed, he ever would wholly succeed--in
finding his way along the many intricate windings that led to her inmost
heart.



CHAPTER XVI

MARRIED


It was certainly the quietest wedding of the season. People said that
this was due to the bridegroom's well-known dislike of publicity; but,
whatever the reason, the secret was well kept, and when Chris came out of
the church on her husband's arm there was only Bertrand, standing
uncovered by the carriage-door, to give her greeting.

She was smiling as she came, but it was rather a piteous smile. She had
faced the ordeal with a desperate courage, but she had not found it easy.
Only Trevor's steadfast strength had held her up. She had been conscious
of his will acting upon hers throughout. With the utmost calmness he had
quelled her agitation, had stilled the wild flutter of her nerves, had
compelled her to a measure of composure. And now that it was over she
felt that he was still in a fashion holding her back, controlling her,
till she should have recovered her normal state of mind and be in a
condition to control herself.

But the sight of Bertrand diverted her thoughts. Owing to her aunt's
strenuous prohibition, she had not met him since the night of her
birthday dance. She broke from Mordaunt to give him both her hands.

"Oh, Bertie," she cried, between tears and laughter, "it is good to see
you again!"

He bent very low, so low that she only saw the top of his black head.
"Permit me to offer my felicitations," he said, in a voice that was
scarcely audible.

Her hands closed tightly for a second upon his. "You are pleased,
Bertie?" she said, with a quickening of the breath.

He straightened himself instantly; he looked into her eyes. "But you are
happy, yes?" he questioned.

"Of course," she told him hurriedly.

He smiled--the ready smile with which he had learned to mask his soul.
"_Alors_, I am pleased," he said.

He helped her into the carriage, and turned, still smiling, to the man
behind her. Yet he flinched ever so slightly from the grip of Mordaunt's
hand. It was the merest gesture, scarcely perceptible; in a moment he had
covered it with the quick courtesy of his race. But Mordaunt was aware of
it, and for a single instant he wondered.

He took his place beside his bride, who tucked her hand inside his arm,
with a little sob of sheer relief.

"Did I sound very squeaky, Trevor? I tried not to squeak."

He forgot Bertrand and everyone else but the trembling girl by his side.
He laid a soothing hand on hers.

"My dear, you did splendidly. It wasn't so very terrifying, was it?"

"It was appalling," said Chris. "I kept saying to myself, 'Just a little
longer and then that lovely new motor--my motor--and home.' You are going
to give me my first lesson in driving to-day, aren't you? Say yes!"

He said "Yes," feeling that he was bestowing a reward for good behaviour.

She squeezed his arm. "And isn't it nice," she whispered, with shining
eyes, "to feel that we are really going to stay there when we get there?"

He pressed the small, confiding hand. "You are glad, then, Chris?" he
said.

"Oh, my dear, I should think I am!" she made answer. "I've been counting
the days to the one when I shan't have to peck Aunt Philippa good-night.
She never kisses properly and she won't let me. She says it's childish
and unrestrained." She laid her cheek suddenly against his shoulder.
"I've had no one to hug for ever so long--except Cinders," she said.

"Hasn't Cinders been enough?" he asked, with a hint of surprise.

She turned her face upwards quickly. "Trevor, you're not to laugh at me!
It isn't fair."

He smiled a little. "I am not laughing, Chris, I assure you. I have
always thought until this moment that Cinders was more precious to you
than anyone else in the world."

"Oh, that's because you're a man," said Chris inconsequently. "Men always
have absurd theories about women and the things they care for. As if we
can't love heaps of people at the same time!"

"You can only love one person best," he pointed out.

"At a time," supplemented Chris, with a merry smile. "And you choose your
person according to your mood. At least, I do. Oh, Trevor," with a sudden
change of tone, "don't look! There's a hearse!"

She hid her face against him, and he felt a violent tremor go through
her. He put his arm about her and held her close.

"My darling, what makes you so superstitious?"

"I'm not," she murmured shakily. "It isn't superstitious to believe in
death, is it? It's a fact one can't get away from. And it frightens
me--it frightens me! Think of it, Trevor! We only belong to each other
till death us do part. Afterwards--who knows?--we may be in different
worlds."

He pressed her closer, feeling her cling to him. "There is a greater
thing than death, Chris," he said.

"I know! I know!" she whispered back. "But--I sometimes think--I'm not
big enough for it. I sometimes wonder--if God gave me a heart at all."

"My little Chris!" he said. "My darling!"

She lifted a troubled face. The tears were in her eyes. "Don't you often
think me silly and fickle?" she said. "And you'll find it more and more
the more you see of me. You'll be disappointed in me--you'll be horribly
disappointed--some day."

He looked down at her with great tenderness. "That day will never come,
dear," he said. "If it did, I should blame myself much more than I blamed
you. Come! You mustn't cry on our wedding-day. You're not really
unhappy?"

"But I'm afraid," she said.

He dried her eyes and kissed her. "There is nothing to make you afraid,"
he said. "Haven't I sworn to love and cherish you?"

She nestled to him with a sigh. "It was very nice of you, Trevor," she
said.

Her spirits revived during her motor-ride to Kellerton. The renovations
there were in full swing. One portion of the house had been already made
habitable for them. Mordaunt had had the entire management of this, but,
as Chris gaily remarked, she would probably change everything round when
she came upon the scene.

"I feel as if the holidays have just begun," she said to him as they sped
over the dusty road. "And I'm going to work harder than I have ever
worked in my life."

"If I let you," he said.

At which remark she made a face, and then, repenting patted his knee.
"You will let me do what I like, I know. You always do."

"In moderation," said Trevor, with a smile.

She dismissed the matter as too trivial for discussion. "When are you
going to let me drive?"

He gave her her first lesson then and there, an experience which
delighted Chris so much that she refused to relinquish the wheel until
they stopped at a country town for luncheon.

Here her whole attention was occupied in keeping Cinders from chasing the
hotel cat, till Trevor caught and cuffed the miscreant, when her anxiety
turned to indignation on her darling's behalf, and she snatched him away
and kept him sheltered in her arms for the rest of their sojourn.

"I never punish Cinders," she said. "He's hardly ever naughty, and if he
is he's always sorry afterwards."

Cinders, whose temper was ruffled, glared at Mordaunt and cursed him in
an undertone throughout the meal, notwithstanding the choice morsels with
which his young mistress sought to propitiate him.

"I do hope you haven't made him dislike you," she said, when at length
they returned to the car. "He is rather tiresome with people he doesn't
like."

"If he doesn't behave himself, we will send him to Bertrand to take care
of," Mordaunt rejoined.

"Indeed we won't!" Chris declared, with warmth. "He has never been away
from me day or night since I first had him."

At which declaration Mordaunt raised his eyebrows, and said no more.

He had always known Cinders for a dog of character, but not till that day
had he credited him with the remarkable intuition by which he seemed to
know--and resent--the fact that his mistress was no longer his exclusive
property. It may have been that Chris herself imparted something of the
new state of affairs to him by the very zeal of her guardianship. But
undoubtedly, whatever its source, the knowledge had dawned in Cinders'
brain and with it a fierce jealousy which he had never displayed in
Mordaunt's presence before.

It was an afternoon of unclouded sunshine. Chris lay back in her seat,
somewhat wearied but quite content, watching the cornfields with their
red wealth of poppies, watching the long, white road before them, and now
and then the unerring hands that held the wheel.

When at length they neared Kellerton she roused herself and became more
animated. "It's been a lovely ride, Trevor. Let's go for one every day.
Sometimes we might go down to the sea--it's only ten miles. But we will
wait till Bertie comes for that. Ah, there is the lodge! How smart it
looks! And they have actually taken the thistles out of the drive! I
shouldn't have known it."

She sat up with eager delight in her eyes. The lodge-gates were open;
they ran smoothly in without a pause and on up the long avenue to the old
grey house.

Chris was enchanted. It was such a home-coming as she had never pictured.

"It's like a dream," she said. "I can't believe it's true. Everything
looks so different. The garden was an absolute wilderness the last time
we were here."

It had been turned into a paradise since then, and every second brought
fresh discoveries to her ecstatic gaze.

"I didn't know it could be so lovely," she declared. "And you've done it
all in a few weeks. Trevor, you're a magician!"

He smiled at her enthusiasm. "Oh, it isn't all my doing. I have only been
down twice since the day you were here. I put it into capable hands,
that's all. Nothing has been altered, only set to rights."

"It's lovely!" cried Chris.

Tired and thirsty though she was, she could hardly wait to have tea on
the terrace before the house before she was off along the dear, familiar
paths to her favourite nook under a great yew-tree whose branches swept
the ground. A rustic seat surrounded the ancient trunk.

"This is my castle," said Chris. "This is where I hide when I don't want
anyone to find me."

She stretched back a hand to her husband, and led him into her shadowy
domain.

"The boys used to call it Hades," she said, in a hushed voice. "And I
used to pretend I was Persephone. I did so wish Pluto would appear some
day with his chariot and his black horses and take me underground. But,"
with a sigh, "he never did."

"Let us hope you have been reserved for a happier fate," Mordaunt said,
with his arm about her.

She flashed him her quick smile. "You instead of Pluto! But I always
thought he was rather fascinating, and I longed to see the underworld."

"I think the sunshine suits you best," he said.

"Oh yes, but just to see--just to know what it's like! I do so love
exploring," insisted Chris.

He smiled and drew her out of her gloomy retreat. "Sometimes it's better
not to know too much," he said.

"But one couldn't," she protested. "All knowledge is gain."

"Of a sort," he said. "But it is not always to be desired on that
account."

A sudden memory went through Chris. She gave a sharp shudder. "Oh no!"
she said. "One doesn't want to know horrid things! I forgot that."

He looked at her interrogatively, but she turned her face away. "Let's go
back to the house. I wonder where Cinders is."

They returned to the house, and again Chris was lost in delight. A great
deal yet remained to be done, but the completed portion was all that
could be desired. They had chosen much of the furniture together, and she
spent most of the evening in arranging it, with her husband's assistance,
to her satisfaction.

But when at length the hour for dinner arrived he would not suffer her to
do anything further.

"I believe you have done too much as it is," he said, "and after dinner I
shall have something to show you."

She yielded readily enough. She certainly was tired. "I feel as if to-day
had lasted for about six weeks," she said.

But her animation did not wane in spite of this, and she would even have
returned to her labours after they had dined had Mordaunt permitted it.
He was firm upon this point, however, and again without protest she
yielded.

"You were going to show me something. What was it?"

"To be sure," he said. "I was going to show you how to write a cheque.
Come over to the writing-table and see how it is done."

Chris went, looking mystified. "But I shall never write cheques, Trevor,"
she said.

"No? Why not?"

He drew up a chair for her and knelt down beside her.

"You are a woman of property now, Chris," he said, and laid a new
cheque-book on the pad in front of her.

Chris gazed at it, wide-eyed. "But, Trevor, I haven't got any money at
the bank, have I?"

"Plenty," he said, with a smile--"in fact, a very large sum indeed which
will have to be invested in your name. That we will go into another day,
but for present needs, if you are wanting money--"

"Yes?" said Chris eagerly.

He put a pen into her hand and opened the cheque-book.

She slipped her arm round his neck. "Trevor, I--I don't feel as if you
ought. I--of course I--knew you would make me an allowance, but--but--you
ought not to give me a lot of money all my own."

"My darling," he said gently, "don't forget that you are my wife, will
you?"

She smiled a little shyly. "Do you know--I had forgotten--quite!"

He put his arm about her as she sat. "You must try to remember it, dear,
because it's rather important. I know I might have made you an allowance,
but I prefer that you should be independent. Only, Chris, I am going to
ask a promise of you; and I want you to make it at the very beginning of
our life together. That is why I have spoken on our wedding-night."

"Yes?" whispered Chris.

She had begun to tremble a little, and he pressed her to him
reassuringly. "I want you to promise me that you will never run into
debt, that if for any cause you find that you have not enough of your own
you will come to me at once and tell me."

He spoke with grave kindness, watching her face the while. But Chris's
eyes did not meet his own. She was rolling the pen he had given her up
and down the blotting-pad with much absorption.

"Is it a promise, Chris?" he asked at length.

She threw him a nervous glance and nodded.

He laid his hand upon hers and held it still. "Chris, have you any debts
now?"

She was silent.

"My dear," he said, "don't be afraid of me!"

There was that in his voice that moved her to the depths; she could not
have said why. Impulsively, almost passionately, she went into his arms.

"I won't!" she said. "I won't! Trevor, I--I've been a little beast! That
money you gave me on my birthday I didn't do--what you meant me to do
with it. I just--spent it. I don't know how. And then--when you asked
about it that night--I didn't dare to tell you, and I haven't dared
since. I just let you think it was all right--when it wasn't. Oh, Trevor,
don't be angry--don't be angry!"

"I am not angry," he said.

"Not really? But how you must despise me! It's just the way of the
Wyndhams. We all do it. Trevor, why did you make me tell you?"

"My dear child," he said, "you must tell me these things. It is your only
possibility of happiness, and mine also. Chris, never keep anything from
me, for Heaven's sake! Don't you know that I trust you?"

"I don't deserve it!" sobbed Chris, clinging faster. "You don't know how
bad I am!"

"Hush!" he said, with a restraining hand upon her head. "You have told me
everything now?"

"Oh no, I haven't!" she whispered. "There are crowds of things I couldn't
even begin to tell you. I have always warned you how it would be. I
always said--"

Her agitation was increasing, and her words became inaudible. He saw that
her nerves had given way under the long day's strain, and firmly, with
infinite gentleness, he put a stop to further discussion of a subject
that threatened to upset her seriously.

"Never mind," he said. "You will tell me by and bye, or if you don't I
shall know it is all right. Chris, Chris, you mustn't get hysterical. You
are worn out, dear, and it has upset your sense of proportion. Come, I am
going to send you to bed. We will go into these money matters in the
morning."

But Chris vehemently negatived this. "I don't want to--to spoil
to-morrow. I--I shouldn't sleep for thinking of it. Oh, Trevor, let's
settle it now. I'm going to be sensible--really. And--and--if you'll
forgive me for all the bad things I've done up to to-day I--I will really
try to tell you everything as it happens from now on. Will you, Trevor?"

She raised pleading, pathetic eyes, still wet with tears. He could feel
her still quivering with the emotion she was striving to subdue. She was
too near in that moment to resist--perhaps he would not have resisted her
in any case; for he had it not in his heart to think ill of her.

"My darling," he said, "we will leave it at that. Only--in the
future--trust me as I am trusting you."

He turned to the table and closed the cheque-book. "These debts are my
affair. I will settle them. Just tell me what they are."

"Oh, but they are settled!" she told him. "I promised I would, you know."

"Then"--he looked at her--"someone lent you the money?"

Something in his tone made her shrink again. She hesitated.

"Chris!" he said.

Nervously she answered him. "Jack lent me forty pounds."

"Jack!" he said. "You weren't afraid to ask him, then?"

"Oh no!" she said quickly. "I'm not a bit afraid of Jack."

"Only of me, Chris!"

She gave herself back to him with a swift, shy movement. "It's the fear
of vexing you," she said. "I don't mind vexing--other people. It's only
you--only you. Trevor, say you understand!"

He did not answer her instantly, but the close holding of his arms drove
all misgiving from her soul. He rose to his feet, raising her with him,
pressing her to him faster and ever faster till her arms crept round his
neck again, and she lay, a willing prisoner, against his heart.

And so holding her, at last he answered her tremulous appeal. "My
darling, never be afraid of vexing me! Never be afraid that I shall not
understand!"

She could not speak in answer. The wonder of his love for her had
stricken her dumb; it had swept upon her like a wave, towering, immense,
resistless, bearing her far beyond her depth.

She could only mutely lift her quivering lips; and he, moved to
gentleness by her action, took her face between his hands with infinite
tenderness, gazing down into her eyes with that in his own which cast out
the last of her fear.

"My little Chris!" he said. "My wife!"



PART II



CHAPTER I

SUMMER WEATHER


"I think quite the worst part of being married is having to pay calls,"
said Chris.

"You do not like it, no?" said Bertrand, with quick sympathy.

"No," she rejoined emphatically. "And I don't see any sense in it either.
No one ever wants afternoon callers."

"But that depends upon the caller, does it not?" he said.

"Not in the least," said Chris. "There's a stodginess about afternoon
calling that affects even the nicest people. It's the most tiresome
institution there is."

"Then why do it?" he suggested, with a smile.

She shook her head severely.

"Don't be immoral, Bertie! You're trying to tempt me from my duty."

"Never!" he declared earnestly.

"Oh, but you are; and I am not sure that you are not neglecting your own
as well. What brought you out at this hour?"

He spread out his hands. "Mr. Mordaunt has ordered me to take a rest
to-day."

Chris looked up at him sharply. "Aren't you well, Bertie?"

"But it is nothing," he said. "I have told him. It happens to me
often--often--that I do not sleep. I have explained all that. But what
would you? He is obstinate--he will not listen."

Chris patted a hammock-chair beside her. "Sit down at once. I knew there
was something the matter directly I saw you this morning. But you always
look horribly tired. Do you never sleep properly?"

He dropped into the chair and stretched up his arms with a sigh. "It is
only in the morning that I am tired," he said. "It is nothing--a weakness
that passes. Or if it passes not--I go."

"Go!" repeated Chris, startled.

He turned his head towards her. "That surprises you, yes? But how can I
remain if I cannot work?"

"Oh, but you haven't been here a fortnight," she said quickly. "I expect
the change of air has upset you. And it has been so hot too."

He acquiesced languidly, as if not greatly interested. His dark eyes
watched her gravely. Evidently his thoughts had wandered from himself.

Chris was not slow to perceive this. "What are you thinking of?" she
demanded.

"I am thinking of you," he answered promptly.

"What of me?" The blue eyes met his quite openly. Chris was always frank
to her pals.

"I was thinking," he said, in his soft, friendly voice, "how you were
happy, and how I was glad."

She threw him a quick smile. "How nice of you, Bertie! And how
beautifully French! But, you know, I shan't be happy if you talk of
leaving us. It will spoil everything, and I shall be absolutely
miserable."

"You were not miserable before I joined you, no?" he said, smiling back
at her.

"Of course I wasn't. But that was quite different. I knew all the while
that you were coming. I should have been if anything had happened to
prevent you."

"Really?" he said thoughtfully.

"Yes, really!" Chris was emphatic. "And I am sure there is nothing much
the matter with you, Bertie; now, is there?"

He scarcely responded. "It will pass," he said. "And so you have arranged
to make visits this afternoon?"

"Yes. Isn't it a bother?" Chris's brow wrinkled. "Noel wanted me to go
and fish with him, but Trevor says I must go and see Mrs. Pouncefort, so
I suppose I must. I hoped he would come too, but he has got to stay and
interview the architect about that subsidence in the north wing. I wish
you would come instead."

He shook his head. "No--no! That is not possible. Where does this lady
live?"

"Sandacre way, towards the sea. Oh, do you know Rupert is coming over on
Sunday with some brother officers? I had a card from him this morning. He
is very fond of Mrs. Pouncefort--they all are. I don't know quite why. I
believe they spend half their time there. Mr. Pouncefort is a dear little
man--no one could help liking him. He has a yacht, and they always have a
crowd of people staying there at this time of the year."

"_Alors_," he said, "it will amuse you to go there, no?"

Chris smiled. "Oh, not particularly. I would much rather stay with you
and Trevor. Besides, I've such a lot to do."

She did not look overwhelmed with work as she leaned back in her
hammock-chair, but she evidently intended to be busy, for a basket and
scissors stood beside her.

Bertrand was much too courteous to suggest that she was not making the
most of her time. Or perhaps he did not want to be left in solitary
contemplation of that fleeting August morning. He lay silent for a
little, and presently requested permission to smoke a cigarette.

"Of course," she said at once. "Why don't you go and lie in the hammock?
I will come and rock you to sleep."

He thanked her, smiling, but declined.

She watched him light his cigarette with eyes grown thoughtful. Suddenly:
"Bertie," she said, "are you very unhappy nowadays?"

He made a jerky movement, and dropped the match, still burning. Hastily
he bent to extinguish it, but Chris was before him, her hand upon his
arm, restraining him.

"No, sit still! It's all right. Tell me, please, Bertie! I want to know."

He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, still smiling, but in a fashion
that she was at a loss to interpret.

"But what a question, _petite_! How can I answer it?"

"I should have thought---between friends---" she began.

"_Ah, oui_! We are friends, are we not?" A curious expression of relief
took the place of his smile, and she felt as if for some reason he had
been afraid. "And you ask me if I am unhappy," he said. "_Mais
vraiment_--I know not what to say!"

"Then you are!" she said, quick pain in her voice.

He looked down at the little friendly hand that lay upon his arm, but he
did not offer to touch it. His eyes remained downcast as he spoke. "I am
more happy than I ever expected to be, Christine."

"You like your work?" she questioned. "Trevor is kind to you?"

"He is--much too kind," the Frenchman answered, with feeling.

"But still you are unhappy?" she said.

"It is--my own fault," he told her, still not looking at her.

She rubbed his sleeve sympathetically. "Bertie, don't you think--if you
tried very hard--you might manage to forget all that old trouble?"

There was a note of pleading in her voice, and he made a quick gesture as
he heard it, as if in some way it pierced him.

She went on speaking, as he made no attempt to do so. "You know, Bertie,
you really are quite young still, and there are such a lot of nice things
left. It's such a pity to keep on grieving. Don't you think so? It seems
rather a waste of time. And I do--so--want you to be happy."

At the quiver in her voice he glanced up sharply, but he instantly
lowered his eyes again. And still he said no word. He only drew his brows
together and bit his cigarette to a pulp.

Her hand came softly down his arm and lay upon his.

"Bertie," she said, in a whisper, "you're not--vexed?"

His hand clenched at her touch, but on the instant he looked up at her
with a smile. "Vexed!" he said. "With you! A thousand times--no!"

She smiled back, reassured. "Then will you--please--try to forget what
you have lost? I know it won't be easy, but will you try? It's the only
possible way to be happy. And if you are not happy--I shan't be either."

He took her hand at last with perfect steadiness into his own. "You know
not what I have lost," he said. "But--if I try to forget--that will
content you?"

She nodded. "Yes, Bertie."

He looked at her intently for a moment, then, "_Eh Bien_!" he said
briskly. "I will try."

"_Bon garçon_!" she said, with a merry smile. "That is settled, then.
Why, there is Trevor! Has he finished that article of his already? He
looked quite absorbed when I passed his window half an hour ago." She
waved to him as he approached. "Why don't you wear a hat, you mad
Englishman? Don't you know the sun is broiling?"

He smiled and ignored the warning. Bertrand sprang from his chair as he
reached them, but Mordaunt instantly pressed him down again.

"No, no, man! Sit still! I have only come out for a moment."

"But I am going," Bertrand protested. "I cannot sit and do nothing. There
are those accounts that you have given me to do. They are not yet
finished. Also--"

"Also, they are not going to be done to-day," Mordaunt said, shaking him
gently by the shoulder. "Chris, I am going to hand this fellow over to
you for the next few days. You can do what you like with him so long as
you don't let him do any work. That I absolutely forbid. You understand
me, Bertrand?"

"But I cannot--I cannot," Bertrand said restlessly. "You are already much
too good to me. You overwhelm me with kindness, and I--I make no return
at all. No, listen to me--"

"I'm not going to listen to you," Mordaunt said. "You are talking
nonsense, my friend, arrant drivel--nothing less. Chris will tell you the
same."

"Of course," said Chris. "Besides, there are crowds of things you can do
for me. No, he shan't be overworked, I promise you, Trevor. But I'm going
to try a new cure. Just for this afternoon he is going to lie in the
hammock and smoke cigarettes. But after to-day"--she nodded gaily at the
perturbed Frenchman--"after to-day, Bertie, _nous verrons_!"

He smiled in spite of himself, but he continued to look dissatisfied till
Mordaunt carelessly turned the conversation.

"Where's that young beggar Noel?"

"Fishing in the Home Meadow," said Chris.

"Quite sure?"

"I think so," she said. "Why?"

"Because he has taken one of my guns, and I believe he is potting
rabbits."

Chris sat up with consternation in her eyes. "Trevor! I believe he is
too! I heard someone shooting half an hour ago. And he has got Cinders
with him! I know he will go and shoot him by mistake!"

"Or himself," said Mordaunt grimly.

"Oh, he won't do that," said Chris with confidence. "Nothing ever happens
to Noel."

"Something will happen to him before long if he doesn't behave himself,"
observed Mordaunt. "My patience began to wear thin last night when I
caught him asleep with a smouldering pipe on his pillow."

"Oh, but he always does what he likes in the holidays," pleaded Chris.

"Does he?" Mordaunt's voice was uncompromising.

She slipped a quick hand into his. "Trevor, you wouldn't spoil his fun?"

He looked down at her, faintly smiling. "My dear Chris, it depends upon
the fun. I'm not going to have the place burnt down for his amusement."

"Oh no," she said. "But you won't be strict with him, will you? He will
only do things on the sly if you are."

Mordaunt frowned abruptly. "If I catch him doing anything underhand--"

She broke in sharply in evident distress. "But we all do, Trevor! I--I've
done it myself before now--often with Mademoiselle Gautier, and then with
Aunt Philippa. One has to, you know. At least--at least--" His grey eyes
suddenly made her feel cold, and she stopped as impulsively as she had
begun.

There was a moment's silence, then quite gently he drew his hand away. "I
think I will go and see what mischief the boy is up to."

She jumped up. "I'll come too."

He paused, and for a single instant his eyes met Bertrand's. At once the
Frenchman spoke.

"But, Christine, have you not forgotten your roses? It is growing late,
is it not? And you will be out this afternoon. Permit me to assist you
with them."

He picked up the basket as he spoke. Chris stopped irresolute. Her
husband was already moving away over the grass.

"Come!" said Bertrand persuasively.

Chris turned with a smile and took the basket. "All right, Bertie, let's
go. It is getting late, as you say, and I must get the vases filled."

They went away together to the rose-garden, and here, after brief
hesitation, Chris voiced her fears.

"I'm so afraid lest Trevor should ever get really angry with any of the
boys. They won't stand it, you know. And he--I sometimes think he is just
a little hard, don't you?"

Mordaunt's secretary pondered this proposition with drawn brows. "No," he
said finally, "he is not hard, but he is very honourable."

Chris laughed aloud. "That sounds just like a French exercise, Bertie. I
don't see what being honourable has to do with it, except that the people
who preen themselves on being honourable are just the ones who can't make
allowances for those who are not. You would think, wouldn't you, that
being good would make people extra kind and forgiving? But it doesn't,
you know. Look at Aunt Philippa!"

Bertrand's grimace was expressive. "And Aunt Philippa is good, yes?"

"Frightfully good," said Chris. "I don't suppose she ever told a story in
her life."

His quick eyes sought hers. "And that--that is to be good?"

Chris paused an instant, her attention caught by the question. "Why, I
suppose so," she said slowly. "Don't you call that goodness?"

He spread out his hands. "Me, I think it is the smallest kind of
goodness. One does not lie, one does not steal; but what of that? One
does not roll oneself in the mud. And that is a virtue, that?"

Chris became keenly interested. "Do go on, Bertie! I had no idea you
thought such a lot. I don't myself--often."

He laughed, his sudden pleasant laugh that he uttered now so rarely. "But
I am no philosopher," he said. "Simply I think--a little--sometimes. And
to me--to be honourable is no more a virtue than to wash the hands. One
cannot do otherwise and respect oneself."

"No?" said Chris, a little dubiously. "Then, Bertie, if honour is not
goodness, what is?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Goodness? Bah! There is no goodness without
love."

"Oh!" Chris's eyes opened wide. "You think--that?"

He nodded with vehemence. "_Si, chérie_! I think--that; more, I know it.
I know that 'Love is the fulfilling of the law.' One does not need to go
further than that. It is enough, no?" His eyes looked straight into hers;
they were shining with the light that only friendship can kindle.

She smiled back at him. "I should almost think it is, Bertie. It is
enough for you anyhow, since you believe it."

"Ah, yes," he said very earnestly. "I believe it, Christine. I should not
be here now--if I did not believe it."

She puckered her brows a little. "I don't quite know what you mean," she
said.

He turned from her questioning eyes, pulling his hat down over his own.
"No," he said. "But--you know enough, _ma petite_, you know enough."

"I sometimes think I don't know anything," she said restlessly.

He stretched out a hand to her, as one who guides a child. "Ah,
Christine," he said sadly, "but it is better to know the little than the
much."

"You all say that," said Chris. "I think it is rather a horrid world for
some things, don't you?"

"But the world is that which we make it," said Bertrand.



CHAPTER II

ONE OF THE FAMILY


"But, my dear chap, what bally rot! Anyone would think I'd never smoked a
pipe or handled a gun before, when I've done both for years."

Noel Wyndham's smile was the most engaging part of him; it had the knack
of disarming the most wrathful. It had served him many a time in the hour
of retribution, and he never scrupled to make use of it. It was quite his
most valuable asset.

"Don't be waxy, old chap," he pleaded, slipping an affectionate hand
inside his brother-in-law's unresponsive arm. "I've been having such a
high old time. And I'm not a bloomin' kid. I know what I'm about."

"All very well," Mordaunt said. "I don't object to anything in reason.
But you are too fond of taking French leave with other people's property.
That gun, for instance--"

"Oh, that's all right," the boy assured him eagerly. "It kicks most
infernally, but I soon got the trick of it after a bruise or two. I say,
you haven't seen anything of that little devil Cinders? He's gone down a
rabbit-hole. Won't Chris be in a stew?"

Mordaunt possessed himself of the gun without further argument. "Then
you'd better set to work and find him. Chris is going out this
afternoon."

"In the motor?" Noel's eyes shone. "I'll go, too. You needn't bother
about Cinders. He always turns up sooner or later. Don't tell Chris, or
she'll spend the rest of the day hunting for him."

"She will probably want to know," observed Mordaunt.

"I shall say I never had him," said Noel unconcernedly. "He won't come to
any harm, but you can turn that secretary fellow of yours on to the job
if you're feeling anxious. I say, Trevor, we shan't want the chauffeur.
Tell them, will you?"

"You certainly won't go without him," Mordaunt rejoined. "And look here,
Noel, you're not to tell lies. Understand?"

Noel looked up with a flicker of temper in his Irish eyes, "Oh, rats!" he
said.

"Understand?" Mordaunt repeated. "It's the one thing I won't put up with,
so make up your mind to that."

He spoke quite temperately, but with unswerving decision. His eyes looked
hard into Noel's, and the boy's spark of resentment went out like an
extinguished match.

"I say, I like you!" he said with enthusiasm. "You're a regular sport!"

"Thank you," Mordaunt returned gravely.

"And what about Chris?" Noel proceeded mischievously. "Isn't she allowed
to tell lies, either?"

Mordaunt stiffened. "Chris knows better."

"Oh, does she?" Noel yelled derision. "My dear chap, you'll kill me! Why,
she--she's about the worst of us. I never knew anyone lie quite like
Chris when occasion arises."

He broke off. Mordaunt had shaken his arm free with an abruptness not far
removed from violence.

"That's enough," he said sternly. "I don't advise you to say any more
upon that subject."

"But I assure you it's the truth," Noel protested. "She can look you
straight in the face and swear that black is white till you actually
believe it. I assure you she can."

He spoke with such naïve admiration of the achievement that Trevor
Mordaunt, on the verge of anger, found himself checked suddenly by an
irrepressible desire to laugh.

Noel saw and seized upon his advantage. "But I daresay she wouldn't to
you. She gets everything she wants without. I must say you're jolly
decent to all of us. I'm sorry I took your gun--didn't know it was one
you particularly valued. I'd get one of my own only I'm so beastly hard
up. I suppose you couldn't lend me a fiver now, could you?"

He tucked his hand back into Mordaunt's arm persuasively, and smiled his
winning smile. "I'll pay you back--with interest--when I come of age.
That'll be in five years. I wouldn't ask you if I couldn't. But I daresay
Chris can let me have it if you would rather not."

"No!" Mordaunt said very decidedly. "There must be no borrowing from
Chris. I will give you five pounds if you are wanting it, but not to buy
a gun with, and only on the understanding that for the future you come to
me--and never to Chris--if you chance to be in difficulties."

"Oh yes, I'll promise that," said Noel readily. "But I don't want you to
make me a present, old chap. I shall pay up some day. You shall have an
I O U."

"Many thanks! I don't want one." Mordaunt began to smile. "Just keep
straight and tell the truth," he said. "That's all the return I want."

"Really?" Noel's smile became a grin. "That's awfully decent of you. As a
matter of fact, I don't believe even Chris could manage to deceive you.
You're so beastly shrewd. But we'll call it a bargain if you like. You
won't catch me trying to jockey you after this."

"Very well," Mordaunt said. "Then, on the strength of that, I want to
know if you have ever had any money from Chris before."

"Why, of course I have!" Noel seemed surprised by the question. He spoke
with the utmost frankness.

"How much?"

Mordaunt's smile had departed. He did not look altogether pleased, but
Noel was quite unimpressed.

"Oh, goodness knows!" he said lightly. "She has my I O U's."

"Which she must find very satisfying," remarked Mordaunt. "Now look here,
boy! There must be no more of this. You will have to keep within your
allowance in future."

"My dear chap, it's all jolly fine--I can't!" protested Noel. "Why, I
only get about twopence-halfpenny a term. It isn't enough to pay a cat's
expenses, besides being always up to the eyes in debt."

Mordaunt heaved a sigh of resignation. "I suppose I had better look into
your affairs. Write down as clear a statement of your debts as you can,
and let me have it."

"I say--really?" Noel looked up eagerly. "You're not in earnest?"

"Yes, I am. And afterwards--you are to keep within your means, or if you
don't I must know the reason why."

Noel grinned with cheery impudence. "You'll swish me, I suppose, to
improve my morals? Wish I had as many sovereigns as I've had swishings.
They would keep me in clover for a year."

Mordaunt laughed rather grimly. "I don't waste my time licking hardened
sinners like you. I've something better to do."

Noel echoed his laugh with keen enjoyment. "You're rather a beast, but I
like you. Have you paid Rupert's debts, too? He is always on the verge of
bankruptcy. Shouldn't wonder if Max is as well, but he keeps his affairs
so dark. I expect he is in the hands of the money-lenders--I know Rupert
was years ago."

"I don't think he is now," Mordaunt said.

"Don't you? What's the betting on that? He could no more keep out of
their clutches than he could fly over the moon. I say"--he suddenly burst
into a peal of boyish laughter--"it's the funniest thing on earth to see
you shouldering the family burdens. How you will wish you hadn't! And
that French beggar you've adopted, too, who is safe to rob you sooner or
later! Why don't you start a home for waifs and strays at once? I'll help
you run it. I'll do the accounts."

Mordaunt laughed, in spite of himself. "Very kind of you! But I think
there are enough of you for the present."

"All highly satisfactory," grinned Noel. "What a pity you didn't marry
Aunt Philippa, I say! She would have been much more useful to you than
Chris. Never thought of that, I suppose?"

"Never!" said Mordaunt.

"Poor old Aunt Phil!" Noel chuckled afresh. "She would have been in her
element if you had only given her the chance. She hates us all like
poison. I suppose you know why?"

"Haven't an idea," Mordaunt spoke repressively, "unless your general
behaviour has something to do with it."

"Oh, very likely it has," Noel conceded. "But the chief reason was that
our father diddled her out of a lot of money. He was hard up, and she was
rolling. So he--borrowed a little." He glanced at Mordaunt with a queer
grimace. "Most unfortunately he didn't live to pay it back. I shouldn't
tell anyone this, but I don't mind telling you, as you are one of the
family."

"And who told you?" Mordaunt inquired.

"Me? I overheard it."

"How?"

The question came sternly, but Noel was sublimely unabashed.

"The usual way. How does one generally overhear things? I hid behind a
shutter once when Aunt Phil and Murdoch, our man of business, were having
a talk. She pitched it pretty strong, I can tell you. I should have felt
quite sorry for the old girl if I hadn't known that her husband had left
her more than she could possibly know what to do with. As it was, I was
rather glad than otherwise, for she's disgustingly mean over trifles. And
people who can shell out and won't should be made to."

Mordaunt received this axiom in silence. As a matter of fact he was
somewhat staggered by the information thus airily imparted. But he did
not question the truth of it. He only wondered that he had never
considered such a possibility before.

Another shout of merriment from the boy at his side made him look round.
"Well? What's the joke?"

"You!" yelled the youngster, between his paroxysms. "I'm awfully sorry.
You're such a good sort. But I can't help it. I say, Trevor--aren't you
glad just--that you're one of the family?"

Mordaunt aimed a blow at him that he evaded with ease. "If you don't
behave yourself I shall use the privilege in a fashion you won't care
for," he said, "even if it is a waste of time."

At which threat Noel confidingly hooked his arm once more through that of
his brother-in-law and begged him in a voice hoarse with laughter to stop
rotting.



CHAPTER III

DISASTER


Chris and Noel set off in the motor that afternoon in excellent spirits
to pay the projected call upon Mrs. Pouncefort.

They found the lady of the house at home, and spent an animated hour with
her; for although she never appeared to welcome her visitors or to exert
herself in any degree to entertain them, most of them seemed to find it
difficult to get away.

When they departed at length they carried with them an invitation to a
garden _fête_ which had been arranged for the following week. It included
the whole party, to Chris's great satisfaction.

"It will be the very thing for Bertie," she said. "It is just what he
needs."

Noel, who entertained a sweeping prejudice against all foreigners, was
inclined to dispute this, and a lively argument ensued in consequence,
which lasted during the greater part of the run home.

Chris was at the wheel, being a fairly experienced driver by that time,
though Mordaunt was very insistent that she should always have someone
responsible by her side. On this occasion, however, Holmes, who was
acting as chauffeur, had been imperiously relegated to the back seat by
Noel, who intended to have his turn before the end of the ride. He had
driven twice before under his brother-in-law's supervision, and he
considered himself an expert.

As soon as they were through the lodge-gates, therefore, he began to
clamour to change places with Chris. The worried Holmes protested in
vain. Chris, though firmly refusing to sit behind, was quite willing to
give her place at the wheel to her brother; and the change was speedily
effected, remonstrance notwithstanding.

"We can't come to any harm on our own drive," was the careless
consolation she threw to the perturbed man behind her, who then and there
solemnly swore to his inner soul that whatever the outcome of the venture
he would never again trust himself or the car to the tender mercies of
the Wyndham family.

Finding himself thus ignored, he stood up and leaned over the boy's
shoulder to give directions in the face of any sudden emergency that
might arise, though Noel was obviously in no mood to pay any attention to
them. As he remarked later, when recounting the adventure, he knew in his
bones that there was going to be an accident; but the nature of it he
could hardly be expected to foresee.

In fact, for a brief space all went well. The motor buzzed merrily along
the drive, and it almost seemed as if the escapade would end without
mishap, when, as they rounded the bend that led to the house, Noel
unexpectedly put on speed. They shot forward at a great pace under the
arching trees, and forthwith suddenly came disaster. Swift as a lightning
flash it came--too swift for realization, almost too swift for sight. It
was only a tiny, racing figure that darted for the fraction of a second
in front of the car, and then--with a squeal half-choked--was lost in the
rush of the wheels. It was only Cinders chasing a rabbit which he was
destined never to catch.

Chris's shriek of agony rang as far as the house. In another moment she
would have thrown herself headlong from the car, but Holmes was too quick
for her. Not in vain had Holmes been through a three-years' war; not in
vain did he hold himself responsible for the young wife of the master
whom that war had taught him to love. Almost before she had sprung from
her seat he had caught her, forcing her down again, holding her by grim
strength from her mad purpose. She struggled with him fiercely,
hysterically; but Holmes's grip never relaxed. She bore the marks of it
upon her arms for weeks after.

And while he held her, baffling her utmost efforts to free herself, he
was giving directions to Noel, whose nerve had departed completely with
the shock of the catastrophe, giving them over and over again--steadily,
insistently, and very distinctly, till they took effect at last, though
only just in time.

They were dangerously near the house before, in response to the boy's
frantic efforts, the car slackened and finally, under Holmes's reiterated
directions, ran to a standstill.

Chris, in a perfect frenzy by that time, wrenched herself free and sprang
down. Her husband, who had rushed from the house at her cry, was close to
her as she reached the ground, but she sped away without so much as
seeing him.

Back up the drive she tore, back to the shadowing trees, back to the
piteous little blot in the shadow that was the only thing her world
contained in that hour of anguish.

When they reached her she was sunk on the ground beside her favourite,
crying his name, while he, whimpering, strove to drag his mangled body
into her lap. She tried to lift him, but he yelped so terribly at her
touch that she was forced to let him lie.

"Oh, Cinders, Cinders!" she cried, in an agony. "My little darling, what
shall I do?"

Someone stooped over her; a quiet hand lay upon her shoulder. "Chris," it
was her husband's voice, very grave and tender, "come away, dear. You
can't do anything. The poor little chap is past our help."

She lifted a dazed face, staring uncomprehendingly.

"Come away," he repeated.

But when he tried to raise her she resisted him. "And leave him like
this? No, never, never! Oh, Trevor, look--look! He is dying! Can't we do
something--anything? Oh, he never cried like that before!"

"My dear, there is nothing that you can do." Very gently he made answer.
"He can't possibly live. There is only one thing to be done, and that is
to put him out of his pain as quickly as possible. But I can't do it
with you here. So come away, dear! It's the kindest--in fact, it's the
only--thing you can do."

"Are you going to--kill him?" gasped Chris in horror.

He nodded, with compressed lips. "There is no alternative. We can't let
him suffer like this."

"Oh no, no, no!" Chris cried.

She would have thrown her arms about her darling, but he stopped her. He
caught her wrists and held her back.

"Chris, you must not! When animals are hurt they will bite without
knowing what they are doing. Chris, do you hear me? You must go."

But she would not. "Do you think I would leave him now--when he wants me
most? And as if he would bite me--Cinders--Cinders--who never even
growled at me!"

She bent over him again, beside herself with grief. Cinders, in the midst
of his pain, tried gently to wag his tail. His brown eyes, faithful,
appealing, full of love, gazed up at her. He had never seen his mistress
in such trouble before, and the instinct to comfort her urged him even
then, in the midst of his own. Again he made piteous efforts to crawl
into her arms, but again he failed, and fell back, whimpering.

Chris covered her face. It was more than she could bear, and yet she
could not--could not--leave him.

For a space that might have been minutes or only seconds she was left
alone, tortured but impotent. A dreadful darkness had fallen upon her, a
numbness in which Cinders, suffering and slowly dying, was the only
reality.

Then again she became conscious of another presence. A quick hand touched
her. A soft voice spoke.

"Ah, the poor Cinders! And he lives yet! _Chérie_, we will be
kind to him, yes? We cannot make him live, but we will let him die
quick--quick, so that he suffer no more. That is kind, that is merciful,
_n'est-ce-pas_?"

She turned instinctively in answer to that voice. She held up her hands
to the speaker like a child. "Oh, Bertie," she cried piteously, "is there
nothing to be done? Nothing?"

"Only that, _chérie_," he made answer, very gently.

"Then"--she was sobbing terribly, but she suffered his hands to raise
her--"don't let them--send me away, Bertie. I can't go--while he lives.
It--it would hurt him more, if I went."

"No, no, _chérie_," he answered her reassuringly. "You will be brave,
yes? See, I will hold your hand. We will go just across the road, but
not beyond his sight. He will see you. He will know that you are near.
There--there, _chérie_! Shut your eyes! It will be finished soon."

He put his arm around her, for she stumbled blindly. They went across the
road as he had said, and halted under the trees on the farther side.

There followed a pause--an interval that was terrible--during which only
the low crying of an animal in pain was audible.

Bertrand stood like a rock, still holding her. "But you will not look,
_chérie_," he whispered to her softly. "It is deliverance--this death.
Soon--soon he will not cry any more."

She pressed her face against his shoulder, wrapped in the close security
of his arms, and waited, drawing each breath with difficulty, saying no
word.

She did not know what was happening, and she dared not look. She could
only wait in anguish for the whimpering that tore her heart to cease.

"Now, _chérie_!" whispered Bertrand at last, and she stiffened in his
arms, preparing for she knew not what.

His hold tightened. For that instant he pressed her hard against his
heart, so that she heard its quick beating.

The next there came a loud report--a sound that violently rent her
stretched nerves, shattering them as glass is shattered by a stone. She
drooped without sound like a broken flower, and the young Frenchman
gathered her up, just as he had done on the occasion of their first
meeting at Valpré, and bore her away.



CHAPTER IV

GOOD-BYE TO CHILDHOOD


Out of the dreadful darkness Chris groped her halting way, saw light,
and, shuddering, closed her eyes again. But at once a voice spoke to her,
soothingly, tenderly, calling her back.

Reluctantly she responded, reluctantly she returned to full
consciousness, and knew that she was lying fully dressed upon a couch in
the drawing-room. But at sight of her husband's face bending above her
she shuddered again--a painful, convulsive shudder that shook her from
head to foot.

He laid a quiet hand on her head, but she shrank away. "Please,
Trevor"--she faltered--"please, I want to be alone."

"Yes, dear," he made gentle reply. "Just drink this first, and I will
leave you."

But she withdrew herself almost violently; she buried her face deep in
the cushion. "I can't! I can't! Please don't ask me to. I am quite all
right. I only want--to be alone."

She was shaking all over as one with an ague, and her words were hardly
articulate. He waited a little for her trembling to pass, but it only
increased till her whole body seemed to twitch uncontrollably. At last
with the utmost quietness he stooped and deliberately raised her.

"Chris, my dear little girl, you mustn't let yourself go like this. I
want you to take this stuff to steady you. Afterwards you will have a
sleep and be better."

She did not absolutely resist him, but he felt her nervous contraction at
his touch. The face she turned to his was ghastly in its pallor.

"I--I don't think I can, Trevor," she said, speaking very rapidly. "My
throat won't swallow. It would only choke me. Please--please, if you
don't mind--go away. I shall be all right if--if you will only go."

"I can't leave you like this," he said.

"Yes, yes, you can," she answered feverishly. "Oh, what does it matter?
Trevor, I must be alone. I must! I must! Please go!"

Her agitation was growing with every second, and he saw that he must
yield. He laid her back again without a word, smoothed the cushions,
touched her hair, and softly departed.

She listened tensely for the closing of the door, relaxing instantly the
moment she heard it. A great darkness descended upon her soul. She lay
motionless, face downwards, too stunned for thought.

A long time passed. It was growing late. Over the quiet garden the summer
dusk was falling. The swallows were swooping through it in their
multitudes--the swallows that Cinders loved to chase. To-night no cheery,
impudent bark pursued their flight. To-night all was still.

Did they miss him? she began to wonder dully. Did they ask each other
where he had gone? And then, half-consciously, she began to listen for
him, the scamper of the light feet, the gay jingle of his collar, till in
a moment she almost fancied that she heard him scratching at the door.

She was half off the sofa before realization stabbed her, and she sank
back numbly into her desolation.

Again a long time passed--an interval not to be measured by hours or
minutes. The swallows ceased to circle and went to roost. It began to be
dark. And still Chris lay alone, a huddled, motionless figure, prostrate,
crushed, inanimate. Her hands and feet were like ice, but she did not
know it. She was past caring for such trifles. All her abounding vitality
seemed to be arrested, as if her very blood had ceased to circulate.

It was growing late when the door opened at last. A figure stood a moment
upon the threshold, then entered, moving with a quick, light tread that
might have been the tread of a woman. In the darkness it reached her,
bent over her.

"_Ah, pauvre petite_!" said a soft voice, a voice so full of compassion
that it thrilled straight to her silent heart and made it beat again.
"All alone with your grief! You permit me to intrude myself, no?"

She turned and felt up towards him with an icy hand. "Bertie!" she said.
"You--might have come before!"

He knelt swiftly down beside her, pressing the little trembling fingers
against his neck to give them warmth. "But you are so cold!" he said.
"You must not lie here any more."

"Why not?" she said dully. "I don't think it matters, does it?"

"But of course!" he made quick rejoinder. "When you suffer we suffer
also. Also"--he paused an instant--"Mr. Mordaunt awaits you, _petite_.
Will you not go to him?"

She shivered. "Need I, Bertie? I don't want to."

It was the cry of a child--a child in distress--plunged for the first
time in the bitter waters of grief, turning instinctively to the friend
of childhood for comfort. "I don't want anyone but you," she said
piteously. "You understand. You loved him--and Trevor didn't."

"Oh, but, Christine--" Bertrand began.

"No, he didn't!" she maintained, with sudden vehemence. "I always knew he
didn't. He put up with him for my sake; but he never loved him. He never
noticed his pretty little ways. Once--once"--she began to sob--"it was on
our wedding-day--he slapped him--for chasing a cat! My sweet wee
Cinders!"

She broke down utterly upon the words, and there followed such a storm of
tears that Bertrand was forced to abandon all attempts to reason with
her, and could only kneel and whisper soft endearments in his own
language, soothing her, comforting her, as though she were indeed the
child she seemed.

But it was long before she even heard him, not until the paroxysm had
spent itself and she lay passive and utterly exhausted, with her hands
fast clasped in his.

"You are good to me," she murmured then, and in a moment, "Why, Bertie,
you're crying too!"

"Ah, pardon me!" he whispered, under his breath. "But to see you in pain,
my little one, my bird of Paradise--"

"No," she said, a strange note of conviction in her voice, "I shall never
be that any more now that Cinders is gone. I shan't be young like that
any more. I--I shall grow up now, Bertie. I daresay Trevor will like me
the better for it. But you won't, dear. You will be sorry, I know. We've
been playfellows always, haven't we, even though you grew up and I
didn't? Well"--there came a sharp catch in her voice--"we shall both be
grown-up now."

And then, all in a moment, as if some panic urged her, she started up,
drawing his hands close. "But we'll be friends still, won't we, Bertie?
You won't talk of going away any more, will you? Promise me! Promise me,
Bertie!"

He hesitated. "It might be better that I should go," he said slowly. "It
is possible that--"

She interrupted him almost hysterically. "Oh no, no, no! I want you here.
I want you, Bertie, Don't you understand?"

"But yes," he said. "Only, _petite_--"

"You will promise, then?" she broke in, as though she had not heard the
last words. "Bertie, I'm so miserable. You--you--wouldn't add to it all!"

"No, _chérie_, by Heaven, no!" he said, with vehemence.

"Then you'll stay, Bertie? You will stay?" Very earnestly she besought
him. Her tears were dropping on his hands. "Say you will!"

For a moment longer he hesitated; he tried to resist her, he tried to
take a sane and temperate view. But those tears were too much for him.
They were the one torture he could not endure. With a sharp gesture he
flung his hesitation from him. Yet even then he left himself a way of
escape lest the temptation should be more than he could bear.

"I will stay," he made grave reply, "as long as it would make you happy
to have me with you--that is"--he checked himself--"if Mr. Mordaunt
desire it also."

"But of course he does," said Chris. "He likes you. And I--I can't do
without you, Bertie--not now."

He heard the desolate note in her voice, and he did not contradict her.
Had he not sworn that while she needed him he would be at hand?

"_Eh bien_," he said soothingly. "I stay."

That comforted her somewhat, and presently, at his persuasion, she sat up
and dried her eyes. It was too dark for them to see each other, but she
held his hand very tightly; and there was comfort also in that.

"Now you will come away from here," he said. "Mr. Mordaunt is very
troubled about you. He would not come to you himself because he thought
that you did not desire him. But that was not true, no?"

Again that hard shudder went through Chris. She was silent for a little,
them "Oh, Bertie," she whispered, "I wish--I wish--it hadn't been he
who--who--" she broke off--"you know what I mean. You--saw!"

Yes, he knew. It was what Mordaunt himself had suspected, and loyally he
entered the breach on his friend's behalf.

"_Chérie_--pardon me--that is not a good wish--not worthy of you. That
which he did was most merciful, most brave, and he did it himself because
he would not trust another. I wish it had been my hand--not his. Then you
would have understood."

"I almost wish it had been!" whispered Chris; and then, her words
scarcely audible, "But--but do you think--he--knew?"

"_Le pauvre Cinders_?" Very softly Bertrand spoke the dog's name. "No,
Christine. He did not know. His head was turned the other way. His eyes
regarded only you. And Mr. Mordaunt was so quiet, so steady. He aim his
revolver quite straight, and his hand tremble--no, not once. Oh, believe
me, _petite_, it was better to end it so."

"Yes, I know, only--only"--convulsively her hands closed upon
his--"Bertie--Bertie--dogs do go to heaven, don't they?"

"I believe it, Christine."

"You do really--not just because I want you to?"

He drew her gently to her feet. "_Chérie_, I believe it, because I know
that all love is eternal, and death is only an incident in eternity.
Where there is love there is no death. Nothing that loves can die. It is
the Divine Spark that nothing can ever quench."

He spoke with absolute conviction, almost with exultation; and the words
went straight to Chris's heart and stayed there.

"You do comfort me," she said.

"I only tell you the truth," he made answer, "as I see it. We do not yet
know the power of Love. We only know that it is the greatest of all. It
is _le bon Dieu_ in the world. And we meet Him everywhere--even in the
heart of a dog."

"I shall remember that," she said.

Her hand still clung to his as they groped their way across the room. At
the door for a moment she stayed him.

"I shall never forget your goodness to me, Bertie, never--never!" she
said, very earnestly.

"Ah, bah!" he answered quickly. "But we are--pals!"

And with that he opened the door, almost as if impatient, and made her
pass before him into the hall.

The lamplight dazzled Chris, and she stood for a moment uncertain. Then,
as her eyes became accustomed to the change, she discovered her husband,
standing a few yards away, looking at her.

He did not speak, merely held out his hand to her; and she went to him
with a vagrant feeling of reluctance.

He put his arm about her, looking gravely into her wan face; but she
turned from his scrutiny and leaned her head against his shoulder with a
piteous little murmur of protest.

"Do you mind if I go to bed, Trevor?" she said, after a moment. "I--I'm
very tired, and I don't want any dinner."

"You must have something, dear," he made answer, "but have it in bed by
all means. I will bring it up to you in half an hour."

She made a slight movement which might have meant dissent, but which
remained unexplained. For a little she stood passive, leaning against him
as though she lacked the energy to go, but at length she made a move.
Glancing round, she saw that Bertrand had departed.

"Where is Noel?" she asked.

"In his room."

She looked up sharply, detecting a hint of grimness in his voice.
"Trevor"--she halted a little--"are you--vexed with anybody?"

His face softened at her tone. "Never mind now, dear," he said. "You are
worn out. Get to bed."

She put her hand to her head with a weary gesture. "But why--why is Noel
in his room?"

"Because I sent him there."

"You!" She stared at him, fully roused from her lethargy. "Trevor! Why?"

"I will tell you tomorrow," he said, frowning slightly. "I can't have you
upset any more tonight."

"But, Trevor--"

"Chris, dear, go to bed," he said firmly. "If I don't find you there in
half an hour, I shall put you there myself."

"Oh no!" she broke in. "Please don't come up. I shall get on better
alone. And I have to say goodnight to Noel first."

"I am sorry, dear," he said, "but you can't. Noel is in disgrace, and I
would rather you did not see him to-night."

"In disgrace! Trevor--why?"

He put his arm deliberately round her again, and led her to the stairs.

"Tell me why," she said.

"I will tell you tomorrow," he repeated.

But she would not be satisfied. She turned upon the first stair,
confronting him. "Tell me now, please, Trevor."

He raised his brows at her insistence.

"Yes," she said in answer, "but I want to know. You don't--you
can't--blame him for--for--" she faltered and bit her lip
desperately--"you know what," she ended under her breath.

"I do blame him," he answered quietly. "I forbade him strictly to attempt
to drive without someone of experience beside him."

"Oh!" A sharp note of misgiving sounded in Chris's voice. "You said that
to me too!" she said.

He looked at her very gravely. "I did."

"Then--then"--she stretched a hand to the bannisters--"you are angry with
me too?"

"No, I am not angry with you," he said, and she was conscious of a subtle
softening in his tone. "I am never angry with you, Chris," he said
emphatically.

"And yet you are angry with Noel," she said.

"That is different."

"How--different?"

He took her hand into his. "Do you know he nearly killed you?"

She started a little. "Me?"

He nodded grimly. "Yes. If it had been only himself, it wouldn't have
mattered. But you--you!"

His arms went out to her suddenly; he caught her to him, held her
passionately close for a moment, then lifted her and began to carry her
upstairs.

She lay against his breast in quivering silence. It seemed that Cinders
did not matter either so long as she was safe; and though she knew beyond
all question that he was not angry with her, she was none the less
afraid.



CHAPTER V

THE LOOKER-ON


"I think that it should be remembered that he is young," said Bertrand,
"also that he has been punished enough severely already."

He leaned back in an easy-chair with a cigarette which he had suffered to
go out between his fingers, and watched Mordaunt pacing up and down.

Mordaunt made no pretence of smoking. He walked to and fro with his hands
behind him, his brows drawn in thought, his mouth very grim.

"My good fellow, he will have forgotten all that by to-morrow," he said,
with a faint, hard smile. "I know these Wyndhams."

"I also," said Bertrand quietly.

Mordaunt glanced at him. "Well?"

The Frenchman hesitated momentarily. "I think," he said, "that you will
find them more easy to lead than to drive."

Mordaunt's frown deepened. "They are all so hopelessly lawless, so
utterly unprincipled. As for lying, this boy at least thinks nothing of
it."

"Ah, that is detestable, that!" Bertrand said. "But he would not lie to
you unless you made him afraid, _hein_?"

"He lies whenever it suits his purpose," Mordaunt said. "He would have
lied about the speed of the motor if I would have listened to him. But it
is his disobedience I am dealing with now. If I don't give that boy the
sound thrashing he deserves for defying my orders, he will never obey me
again."

Bertrand's eyes, very bright and vigilant, opened a little. "But
Christine!" he said.

"Yes, I know." Mordaunt came to a sudden halt. "Chris also must learn
that when I say a thing I mean it," he said.

"Without doubt," the Frenchman conceded gravely. "But that is not all
that you want. And surely it would be better to be a little lenient to
her brother than to alienate her confidence from yourself."

He spoke impressively, so impressively that Mordaunt turned and looked at
him with close attention. Several seconds passed before, very quietly, he
spoke.

"What makes you say this to me, Bertrand?"

"Because you are my friend," Bertrand answered.

"And you think my wife is afraid of me?"

Bertrand's eyes met his with the utmost directness. "I think that she
might very easily become afraid."

Mordaunt looked at him for several seconds longer, then deliberately
pulled up a chair, and sat facing him.

"In Heaven's name, Bertrand, why?" he said.

Bertrand made a quick gesture, almost as if he would have checked the
question, but when it was uttered he sat in silence.

"You can't tell me?" Mordaunt said at last.

He shrugged his shoulders. "If you desire it, I will tell you what I
think."

"Tell me, then."

A faint flush rose in Bertrand's face. He contemplated the end of his
cigarette as if he were studying something of interest. "I think,
monsieur," he said at last, "that if you asked more of her, you would
obtain more. She is afraid of you because she does not know you. You
regard her as a child. You are never on a level with her. You are not
enough her friend. Therefore you do not understand her. Therefore she
does not know you. Therefore she is--afraid."

His eyes darted up to Mordaunt's grave face for an instant, and returned
to the cigarette.

There followed a silence of some duration. At last very quietly Mordaunt
rose, went to the mantelpiece, helped himself to a cigarette, and began
to search for matches.

Bertrand sprang up to proffer one of his own. They stood close together
while the flame kindled between them. After a moment their eyes met
through a cloud of smoke. Bertrand's held a tinge of anxiety.

"I have displeased you, no?" he asked abruptly.

Mordaunt leaned a friendly hand upon his shoulder. "On the contrary, I am
grateful to you. I believe there is something in what you say. I never
gave you credit for so much perception."

Bertrand's face cleared. He began to smile--the smile of the rider who
has just cleared a difficult obstacle.

"You have a proverb in England," he said, "concerning those who watch the
game, that they see more than those who play. Shall we say that it is
thus with me? You and Christine are my very good friends, and I know you
both better than you know each other."

"I believe you do," Mordaunt said, smiling faintly himself. "Well, I
suppose I must let the youngster off his thrashing for her sake. I wonder
if he has gone to bed." He glanced at the clock. "It's time you went,
anyhow. You are looking fagged to death. Go and sleep as long as you
can."

He gripped the Frenchman's hand, looking at him with a kindly scrutiny
which Bertrand refused to meet. He never encouraged any reference to his
health.

"I am all right," he said with emphasis, but he returned the hand-grip
with a warmth that left no doubt as to the cordiality of his feelings. He
was ever too polished a gentleman to be discourteous.

Left alone, Mordaunt sat down at his writing-table to clear off some work
which he had taken out of his secretary's hands earlier in the day. It
was midnight before he finished, and even then he sat on for a long time
deep in thought.

It was probably true, what Bertrand had said. Tenderly as he loved his
young wife, he had not succeeded in winning her confidence. There was no
friendship between them in the most intimate sense of the word, and so
she feared him. His love was to her a consuming flame from which she
shrank. Bitterly he admitted the fact, since there was no ignoring it.
She was frightened at the very existence of his passion, restrain it how
he would. She was his and yet not his. She eluded him, even when he held
her in his arms.

His thoughts travelled backwards, recalling incident after incident, all
pointing to the same thing. And yet he knew that he had been patient with
her. He had held himself in check perpetually. And here again Bertrand's
words recurred to him. If he had asked more, might he not have obtained
more? Was it possible that he had failed to win her because he had not
let her feel the compulsion of his love? Was it perchance his very
restraint that frightened her? Had he indeed asked too little?

Again his thoughts went back and dwelt upon their wedding-night. He had
kindled some answering flame within her then. She had not attempted to
withhold herself. The memory of her shy surrender swept over him, setting
the blood leaping in his veins anew. She had been his that night, and his
throughout the brief fortnight that followed. They had been very intent
upon the renovations, and no cloud had even shadowed their horizon. How
was it she had slipped away from him since? Was it the advent of that
tempestuous youngster that had caused the change? Undoubtedly Chris was
less a Wyndham when alone with him. Or was there some other cause,
arising possibly from some hidden fluctuation of mood, some restlessness
of the spirit, of which he had had no warning? Her aunt's declaration
that they were all lacking in stability recurred to him. Was it so with
her? Was she fickle, was she changeable, his little Chris?

Her own words came back to him, uttered with tears upon her wedding-day:
"Don't you often think me silly and fickle? You'll find it more and more,
the more you see of me. You'll be horribly disappointed in me some day."

He rose abruptly. No, that day had not dawned yet. If she had slipped
away from him, he, and he alone, was to blame. He had not won the
friendship which alone brings trust, and he knew now that he could not
hold her without it. As Bertrand had said, he had not been enough her
friend. Even now she was probably crying herself ill in solitude over the
loss of Cinders.

The thought quickened him to action. He turned out the light, and went
swiftly from the room.

Upstairs, outside her door, he stopped to listen, but he heard no sound.
She had cried herself to sleep, then, and he had not been there to
comfort her. His heart smote him. Had she deemed him unsympathetic? She
had seemed to wish to be alone, and for that reason he had left her as
soon as he had satisfied himself that she had all she needed in a
physical sense. She had not wanted him. She had shrunk from his touch.
She had probably seen him go with relief. But--he asked himself the
question with sudden misgiving--would it have been better if he had
ignored her evident desire and stayed? He had feared exhaustion for her
and had avoided any word or action that might have led to a renewal of
her grief. Had he seemed to think too lightly of her sorrow? Had she been
repelled by his very forbearance?

He passed on softly to his own room. The door that led from this into
hers was ajar. He pushed it a little wider, and looked in.

It was lighted only by the moon, which threw a flood of radiance through
the wide-flung windows. Every object in the room stood out in strong
relief. Standing motionless in the doorway, Trevor Mordaunt sought and
found his wife.

She was lying with her face to the moonlight, her hair streaming loose,
the bedclothes pushed off her shoulders.

And there beside her, curled up in a big easy-chair, his black head
lodged against her pillow, one hand clasped close in hers, lay Noel. Both
had been crying, both were asleep.

For many seconds Mordaunt stood upon the threshold, gravely watching
them, but he made no movement to draw nearer. At last noiselessly he
withdrew, and closed the door.

The grimness had all gone from his face. He even smiled a little as he
resigned himself to spending the night in his own room. The idea of
disturbing the brother and sister never crossed his mind. It was enough
for him that Chris had found comfort.



CHAPTER VI

A BARGAIN


"Luck!" said Rupert gloomily. "There never is any where I am concerned."

This in response to a question from his brother-in-law as to the general
progress of his affairs. He sat in Mordaunt's writing-room, with one of
Mordaunt's cigars between his lips, and a decidedly sullen expression on
his good-looking face.

"I'm sick of everything," he declared. "I'm going to chuck the Army. It's
never done anything for me. There's no chance of active service, and I
loathe garrison work."

"The only question being, what else are you fit for?" said Mordaunt.

Rupert threw him a quick look. "I'll be your bailiff, if you like," he
said. "I could do that."

Mordaunt raised his brows at the suggestion. "That is an idea that never
occurred to me," he remarked.

"Why not? You want a bailiff, don't you?"

"A reliable one," said Mordaunt.

Rupert jumped in his chair as if he had been stung. "What the devil do
you mean?"

"I mean"--Mordaunt regarded him steadily--"that I shouldn't care to trust
my affairs to a man who can't look after his own."

Rupert's eyes flashed. "I am not to be trusted, then?"

Mordaunt continued to regard him, quite unmoved.

"You had better ask yourself that question, my dear fellow," he said.
"You are better qualified to answer it than I am."

Rupert relaxed again, dropping back listlessly. "I suppose you are right.
I certainly don't make a great success of things. I believe I should get
on better with you than with anyone else. But if you feel like that about
it, there is no more to be said."

"You really want to be taken seriously, do you?" Mordaunt said.

"Of course I do!" Rupert turned towards him again with the lightning
change of mood characteristic of him. "You must forgive me for being a
bit touchy, old chap. It's this infernal thundery weather. May I have
another drink?" He helped himself without waiting for permission. "Of
course I want to be taken seriously. It's a billet that would suit me
down to the ground. I know the place, every inch of it, and, as you know,
I'm fond of it. I would look after your interests as though they were my
own."

Mordaunt smiled. "But do you look after your own?"

Rupert clinked some ice into his tumbler, and thoughtfully watched it
float.

"You've been so jolly decent to me," he said at length, "that I haven't
the face to bother you with my affairs again."

"I suppose that means you are in difficulties," his brother-in-law
remarked.

He nodded without looking up. "I'm never out of 'em. It's not my fault.
It's my beastly bad luck."

"Of course," said Mordaunt dryly.

Rupert bobbed the ice against his glass and spilt some whisky-and-water
in so doing. He looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"I can't help it," he said. "I was born in Queer Street, and I've lived
there all my life. You fellows who are simply rolling in wealth haven't
the smallest notion what it means."

"What is the good of saying that?" Mordaunt sounded impatient for the
first time. "You know as well as I do that if you had twenty thousand a
year you would spend twice the amount."

Rupert glanced at him sideways. "Hullo!" he said softly. "Beginning to
size us up, are you?"

"I'm beginning to think"--Mordaunt spoke with force--"that your sense of
honour is as much a minus quantity as your wealth."

"Honour!" Rupert looked up in genuine astonishment.

"Yes, honour," Mordaunt repeated grimly. "Do you call it honourable to
run up debts that you have no possibility of paying?"

Rupert turned crimson. "Look here! I'm not going to stay here to be
insulted," he said hotly. "I haven't asked for your help, and I'm damned
if I'd take it if you offered it--after that."

He was on his feet with the words, but Mordaunt remained seated. "You can
do as you like," he said quietly. "If you choose to take offence, that is
your affair. I helped you before because I knew you were hard up and I
was sorry for you. But there is no occasion for you to be hard up now.
And I am not sorry for you this time. I think you deserve to be kicked."

"You be damned!" said Rupert fiercely.

Mordaunt's brows went up. He looked full into the boy's heated face, and
though he said no word Rupert turned slowly white under the look. In the
dead silence that followed he stood as tense as though he expected a
blow. Yet Mordaunt made no movement, spoke no word.

It was Rupert who broke the silence finally, broke it hurriedly,
stammeringly, as though it had become unbearable. "All right, old chap. I
didn't mean quite that. But you--you shouldn't badger me. I'm not used to
it."

"Sit down," Mordaunt said.

He obeyed awkwardly, and to cover his discomfiture took up his glass to
drink. But before it reached his lips Mordaunt spoke again.

"Rupert!"

He started a little, and again the liquid splashed over.

"Put that down!" Mordaunt said.

Again dumbly he obeyed.

Mordaunt leaned forward and drew the glass out of his reach. "It has
never been my intention to badger you," he said. "But I reserve to myself
the privilege of telling you the truth. That is the fourth drink I have
seen you mix this afternoon."

"I'm perfectly sober," Rupert asserted quickly.

"Yes, I know. But you are not as cool as you might be." Very keenly
Mordaunt's eyes surveyed him, but they were not without a hint of
kindness notwithstanding. "I mustn't call you a young fool, I suppose,"
he said, "but really you are not overwise. Now, what about these affairs
of yours? Shall we go into them now or after tea?"

Rupert shrugged his shoulders sullenly. "I don't know that I care to go
into them at all."

The kindliness went out of Mordaunt's eyes and a certain steeliness took
its place. "As you like," he said. "Only let it be clearly understood
that I will have no borrowing from Chris. I have forbidden her to lend
money to any one of you. If you want it, you must come direct to me."

Rupert shifted his position, and looked out of the window. Down in the
garden Chris was dispensing tea to three of his brother-subalterns,
assisted by Noel. Bertrand was seated by her side, alert and watchful,
ready at a moment's notice to come to her aid. It was his customary
attitude, and it had been so more than ever since the death of Cinders.
There was a protecting brotherliness about him that Chris found
infinitely comforting: He understood her so perfectly.

She had not wanted to emerge from her seclusion to entertain her
brother's friends on that sunny Sunday afternoon, but he had gently
persuaded her. A change had come over Chris during the past four days.
The violence of her grief had spent itself on the night that she and Noel
had mingled their tears over the loss of their favourite, and she had not
alluded to it since. She accepted her husband's sympathy with gratitude,
but she shrank so visibly from the smallest allusion to her trouble that
he found no opportunity for expressing it. He would not intrude it upon
her. It was not his way, and she made him aware that for this also she
was grateful.

But it was plainly from Bertrand that she drew her chief comfort. His
very presence seemed to soothe her. He was just the friend she needed to
help her through her dark hour.

That she fretted secretly Mordaunt could not doubt, but she was so
zealous to hide all traces of it from him that he never detected them. He
only missed her gay wilfulness and the sunshine of her smile. She
responded to his tenderness even more readily than usual, but she did not
open her heart to him. There seemed to be a barrier intervening that she
could not bring herself to pass.

In his own mind he set this fact down to a certain feminine
unreasonableness, imagining that she could not forget his share in the
tragedy that had affected her so deeply. He trusted to time to soften the
painful impression, and meanwhile, with his habitual patience, he set
himself to wait till the physical strain had passed and the very
sweetness of her nature should bring her back to him. He knew that all
Bertrand's influence would be exercised in this direction, and his faith
in his young secretary's discretion was considerable. Their brief
conversation on the night of the disaster had rooted it more firmly than
ever. Bertrand was so essentially a man of honour that he trusted him in
all things as he trusted himself. Their code was the same, and their
friendship of the kind that endures for life. If there were one thing on
earth before all others upon which Trevor Mordaunt would have staked his
all, it was this Frenchman's loyalty to himself. He was as staunch as
Chris's brothers were unstable. He believed him to be utterly incapable
of so much as an underhand impulse. And he was content that Chris should
have for friend this man who was so close a friend of his own, upon whose
nobility of character he had come to rely as a power for good that could
not fail to raise her ideals and deepen in her that sense of honour which
was still scarcely more than an undeveloped instinct in her soul.

His eyes followed Rupert's to the open window. The sound of chaffing
voices rose clearly on the summer air, mingled with the chink of
tea-cups.

"Shall we go?" Mordaunt said.

Rupert looked round with a laugh. "Did you see that ass Murphy stand on
his head to drink his tea? It's his pet accomplishment. Yes, all right;
let's go."

He got up, glanced at the whisky-and-soda on the table, then impulsively
linked his arm in that of his brother-in-law, all his sullenness gone
like a storm-cloud.

"You're quite right, old fellow. I have had as much of that stuff as is
good for me. Forgive me for being such a bear. I didn't mean it."

Mordaunt paused. He had never dealt with anyone quite so bewilderingly
changeable before. "I wish I knew how to treat you," he said, after a
moment.

"Oh, pitch into me! It's the only way." Rupert's smile flashed suddenly
upon him. "I've been an ungrateful brute, and I'm ashamed of myself.
Seriously, Trevor, I'm sorry. I sometimes think to myself it's downright
disgusting the way we all sponge on you. It's deuced good of you to put
up with it."

Mordaunt still regarded him with close attention. But there was no doubt
in his mind as to the boy's sincerity: he only wondered how long this
contrite mood would last.

"I am always willing to help you to the best of my ability," he said.
"But I think you might play the game. I can't keep pouring water into a
sieve."

"It's not to be expected," Rupert agreed. "And I hate asking you for more
money. I'm an absolute cur to do it. But--" he broke off, and pulled his
hand free--"for goodness' sake, man, if you can--just this once--"

Mordaunt crossed the room to his writing-table, unlocked a drawer, took
out a cheque-book.

"How much?"

"I say, you are a good chap!" Rupert protested. "Can you make it a
hundred?"

"Will that settle everything?" Mordaunt asked.

"Oh, well--practically everything."

Mordaunt wrote the cheque in silence. He handed it over his shoulder
finally to the boy behind him.

"It's for a hundred and fifty. I hope that will see you through. And look
here, Rupert, do for Heaven's sake pull up and keep within bounds. I am
quite willing to help you to a reasonable extent, but you must do your
part, too. You are living at an insane rate. Do you keep an account of
your expenditure?"

"Of course I don't!" Rupert seemed astonished at the question. "What on
earth would be the good of that? It wouldn't reduce my expenses."

Mordaunt laid his cheque-book back in the drawer. "And you think you
would make a good bailiff?" he said.

"Oh, that's different. Of course, you must have accounts for the
management of an estate. You would have no cause to complain of me there.
Are you going to think it over, I say?"

Mordaunt turned in his chair. "You really wish me to do so?"

"Rather!" Rupert spoke with enthusiasm. "If you knew how deadly sick I am
of the life I live now!" he added, with strong disgust. "It's beastly
hard work, too, in a sense, and nothing to show for it."

"I should work you hard myself," Mordaunt observed.

"I shouldn't mind that. I'd work like a horse here. It's what I've always
wanted to do."

"And kick like a horse, too, if I ventured to find fault," said Mordaunt,
smiling a little.

"No, I shouldn't. I'd take it like a lamb. Come, man, I've apologized."

There was a note of reproach in Rupert's voice. Mordaunt left his
writing-table and faced him squarely.

"I'll make a bargain with you," he said. "If you can manage to keep
straight between now and Christmas, and you are of the same mind then, I
will take you on. Is it done?"

Rupert thrust out a hand with a beaming countenance. "Done, old fellow!
And a thousand thanks! I'll do my part somehow if it kills me. Hullo, I
say! There's Chris calling! Hadn't we better go?"

He was plainly desirous to end the interview, and Mordaunt did not seek
to prolong it. "Come along, then!" he said. And they went out together
arm-in-arm to join the group upon the lawn.

Two hours later, just before Rupert and his friends started upon their
return journey, Bertrand happened to enter Mordaunt's writing-room, and
was surprised to find the eldest Wyndham standing by the table with a
glass of whisky-and-soda to his lips.

The surprise was mutual, and on Rupert's side so violent that he dropped
the glass, which shivered upon the floor. He uttered a fierce exclamation
as he recognized the intruder.

Bertrand was profuse in his apologies. "But I had no idea that there was
anyone here! A thousand pardons, Mr. Wyndham! It was unfortunate--but
very unfortunate. I am come only for Mr. Mordaunt's keys, which he left
here by accident. I will ring for Holmes. He will remove this _débris_.
And you will have another drink, yes?"

"I can't wait," Rupert said, almost inarticulately.

He remained standing at the table trying to compose himself, but he was
white to the lips.

Bertrand regarded him with quick concern. "Ah, but how I have alarmed
you!" he said. "My shoes are of canvas, and they make no sound. Will you,
then, sit down for a moment, while I pour out another glass of whisky?"

He drew forward a chair with much solicitude, and took up a fresh glass.
But Rupert swung away, turning his back upon him.

Prom the front of the house came the hoot of the waiting motor. Plainly
his comrades were waxing impatient.

"But you will drink before you go?" urged the courteous Frenchman. "I am
desolated to have deprived you--"

Rupert turned his face for an instant over his shoulder. It was no longer
white, but crimson and convulsed with anger. His hands were clenched.

"Oh, go to the devil!" he cried violently, and with the words stamped
furiously from the room.

Bertrand was left staring after him, petrified with amazement--too
astounded to be angry.

At the end of a lengthy pause he turned and pocketed Mordaunt's keys, and
rang the bell for Holmes to clear up the mess on the floor.

"_Mais ces anglais_!" he murmured to himself, with a whimsical shrug of
the shoulders. "_Comme ils sont drôles_!"



CHAPTER VII

THE ENEMY


Mrs. Pouncefort's garden-party was an annual affair of some importance to
which everyone, from the County downwards, was bidden, and from which
very few absented themselves.

The Pouncefort entertainments were generally upon a lavish scale, were
also largely attended by the military element of Sandacre society, and
were invariably described in the local journals as "very smart affairs."

Had Chris been in her normal spirits she would have hailed the occasion
with delight. She knew a good many people in the neighbourhood, and she
was sure to meet all her friends there. It was, moreover, for this that
she had successfully angled for an invitation for Bertrand. But when the
day came she would have given a good deal for a legitimate excuse for
remaining at home. The weather was hot, and she felt weary and
disinclined for gaiety.

She said no word of her reluctance, however, for Bertrand had accepted
his inclusion in the invitation with docility, and since she had decided
that a little social change would be good for him, she would not draw
back herself lest he should be tempted to do likewise.

Bertrand was her chief thought just then. She knew that her husband was
dissatisfied with regard to his health, and undoubtedly he looked far
from well, though he himself invariably declared that it was only the
heat, and persistently refused to see a doctor. Not even Chris could
shake this resolution of his, and he was so distressed when Mordaunt
would not let him work that to keep him quiet Mordaunt was obliged to let
him do a little. He made it as little as he could, however, and Bertrand
spent a good deal of his time in the garden with Chris in consequence.

It certainly cheered her to have him, and for that reason he was the less
inclined to rebel against the edict that sent him there. They had begun
to read French together, Chris having developed a sudden keenness for the
language which he was delighted to encourage. That the original idea had
been devised for his pleasure he shrewdly suspected, but the carrying out
of it contributed undoubtedly to her own. It occupied her thoughts and
energies, and that was what she needed just then.

He knew perfectly well that she was as disinclined for social amusements
as he was himself, but the same motive that prompted her urged him also.
Each went with reluctance, but without protest.

Noel, who had achieved the most saintlike behaviour during the past week,
went also. He made an ingratiating attempt at the last moment to persuade
Mordaunt to let him drive. But Mordaunt was as adamant upon that point.
He had issued a decree that Noel should drive no more during the summer
holidays, and he meant to keep to it.

The prohibition did not extend to Chris, but she had shuddered at the
bare mention of the motor ever since the accident, and he knew that she
had not the faintest desire left to enlarge her experience in driving.

She was the last to leave the house on that sultry August afternoon, and
Mordaunt saw at once that the ordeal of entering the car was a severe
one. She even turned so white at the sight of it that he feared a
breakdown.

"Come and sit with me," he said kindly.

She looked at him with a quick shake of the head. "No, I'll sit behind
with Bertie if I may. Noel can sit with you."

Noel, who was already in the back seat, climbed over like a monkey, and
Bertrand handed her in.

She sat very rigid until they were out of the avenue, and Bertrand was
silent also. But as they turned into the road he began to talk, gently
and persuasively, upon indifferent things, resolutely passing by her
silence until with a wan little smile she managed to respond.

Long before they reached Sandacre she had quite recovered her
self-command, and the flash of the sea upon the horizon brought from her
a quick exclamation of pleasure.

"Ah, yes, it is beautiful, that!" he agreed with enthusiasm. "And there
is the sand there, yes?"

She nodded. "I used to think we'd go and picnic there. But I don't think
I want to now."

"Next year," suggested Mordaunt, without turning his head.

"Perhaps," she said, a little dubiously.

Bertrand said nothing. He was looking out to the wide horizon with a far
look in his eyes, almost as though he saw beyond that sparkling sky-line,
even beyond the sea itself.

The strains of the military band from Sandacre reached them as they
turned in at the wide-flung gates. Chris's eyes kindled almost in spite
of her. She loved all things military.

As for Bertrand, he sat bolt upright, with his head back, like a horse
scenting battle. Glancing at him, Chris wondered at his attitude, till
suddenly she recognized the strains of the Marseillaise.

She squeezed his hand in sympathy as he helped her to alight, and he
looked at her with his quick smile of understanding. He was ever swift to
catch her meaning.

They crossed a lawn that was crowded with people to a great cedar-tree,
beneath which their hostess was receiving her guests. A large woman with
a lazy smile was Mrs. Pouncefort, and wonderful dark eyes that were
seldom wholly revealed--a woman who took no pains to please and yet whose
charm was undeniable. Her monarchy was absolute and her courtiers many,
but other women looked at her askance, half-conscious of a veiled
antagonism. They were a little afraid of her also, though not one could
have said why, since no bitter word was ever heard to pass her lips.

She greeted Chris with a cold, limp hand. "So nice of you to come. I hope
you won't be bored. Ah, Mr. Mordaunt, how is Kellerton Old Park by this
time? I hardly recognized it the day I called. Rupert tells me you have
worked wonders inside as well as out."

"May I introduce our friend Monsieur Bertrand?" said Chris.

Bertrand brought his heels together and bowed low over the limp hand
transferred to his. Mrs. Pouncefort smiled.

"There is a fellow-countryman of yours here. Where has he gone? Ah, there
you are! Captain Rodolphe, let me introduce you to Mrs. Mordaunt and her
French friend Monsieur Bertrand."

She extended one finger to Noel while making the introduction, and at
once turned her attention elsewhere.

Chris found herself face to face with a heavy-browed man with an
overbearing demeanour and a mouth and chin that sneered perpetually
behind a waxed moustache and imperial. She stared at him for an instant
with a bewildered feeling of having seen him somewhere before. Then, as
she returned his bow, a stab of recognition pierced her, and she
remembered where.

It flashed into her mind like a picture thrown upon a screen--that scene
upon the sands of Valpré long, long ago, two men fighting with swords
that gleamed in the sunlight, a child drawing near with wondering eyes to
behold the conflict, and an unruly black terrier scampering to end it!

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance," declared Captain Rodolphe,
"and that of your friend--M. Bertrand?"

He uttered the name interrogatively. Bertrand bowed very slightly, very
stiffly, and was instantly erect again. "That is my name," he said, as he
looked the other straight in the eyes.

Captain Rodolphe was smiling. "I think we have not met before? It is
always a pleasure to meet a fellow-countryman in a strange land. That is
well understood, is it not, Mrs. Mordaunt?"

His smooth speech brought her back to a situation that was not without
serious difficulties, difficulties which he for one was apparently
determined to ignore. Had he recognized her, she wondered? It seemed
probable that he had not. But then there was nothing in his manner to
indicate that he had recognized Bertrand either; yet of that there could
be no doubt.

She heard her husband speaking to an acquaintance behind her, and
instinctively she began to move away from him. She did not feel equal to
effecting an introduction. She murmured something conventional about the
gardens, and Captain Rodolphe at once accompanied her.

Bertrand walked in silence on her other side till, with an obvious
effort, Chris included him in the conversation, when he responded
instantly, with that ready ease of manner which had first drawn her to
rely upon him. But though he showed himself quite willing, as ever, to
help her, he did not once on his own initiative address the man who had
been introduced for his benefit; and Chris, aware of an atmosphere that
was highly charged with electricity, notwithstanding its apparent calm,
began to cast about for a means of escape therefrom.

To rid herself of Captain Rodolphe was her first idea, but this was
easier of thought than accomplishment. He was chatting serenely, in
perfect English, and seemed to have taken upon himself the congenial task
of entertaining her for some time to come. He also did not directly
address her companion, unless she brought them into contact, and her
efforts in this direction very speedily flagged. She could not expect two
men, however courteous, to forget all in a moment the bitter enmity of
years merely to oblige her. They were quite ready to ignore it in her
presence, but the consciousness of it was more than Chris could endure
with equanimity. It disconcerted her at every turn. She felt as if she
trod the edge of a volcano, and her nerves, which had been so severely
strained for the past week, could not face this fresh ordeal.

She turned at last in desperation, almost appealingly, to Bertrand. She
knew he would understand. Had he ever failed her in this respect or in
any other?

"Do you mind going to see if I have dropped my handkerchief in the car?"
she asked him, with a nervous smile.

His smile answered hers. Yes, he understood. "I shall go with pleasure,"
he said, and with a quick bow was gone.

Chris breathed a little sigh of relief, and moved on with her escort into
the rose-garden.

He seemed scarcely aware of Bertrand's departure. He was plainly
engrossed in the pleasant pastime of conversing with her. Chris began to
give him more of her attention. No, she certainly did not like the man.
His sneer and his self-assurance disturbed her. He made her uncomfortably
conscious of her own youth and inexperience. She almost felt as if he
were playing with her.

He talked at some length upon roses, a subject upon which he seemed to be
well informed, listened tolerantly to any remarks she made, and finally
conducted her to a long shrubbery that led back to the lawn.

As they entered this, he lightly wound up the thread of his discourse and
broke it off. "I have been wondering for long," he said, "where it was
that I had seen you before. Now I remember."

She turned a startled face towards him. He was smiling with extreme
complacence, but there was to her something sinister, something even
threatening, about the bushy brows that shadowed his gleaming eyes. He
put her in mind of a carrion-crow searching for treasures on a heap of
refuse.

The impulse to deny all knowledge of him seized her--a blind impulse,
blindly followed. "I think you must be mistaken," she said.

"How?" he ejaculated. "You do not remember Valpré--and what happened
there?"

She saw her mistake on the instant, and hastened to cover it. "Valpré!"
she said, frowning a little. "Yes, I remember Valpré, though it is years
since I was there. But you--did I meet you at Valpré, Captain Rodolphe?"

He bowed with a gallantry that seemed to her exaggerated. "Only once,
madame, but that once was enough to stamp you ineffaceably upon my
memory. It was, in fact, a memorable occasion. And I forget--never!"
Again with _empressement_ he bowed. "And still you do not remember me?"
he said.

There was a mocking glint in his eyes. It was as though with a smile he
weighed her resistance, displaying it to herself as a quantity wholly
negligible.

"I think you begin to remember now," he suggested.

And quite suddenly Chris saw what he had with subtlety set about teaching
her, that to attempt to fence with him was useless.

"Yes, I remember," she said, and there was a hint of most unwonted malice
in her capitulation. "Didn't I see you wounded in a duel?"

He smiled, and she saw his teeth. "If my memory be correct it was to
madame herself that I owed that wound."

She felt the quick blood rush to her face. He had spoken with _double
entendre_, but she did not perceive it until too late. She only
remembered suddenly and overwhelmingly that the duel had been fought on
her account, because of some evil word which this man had spoken of her
in Bertrand's hearing. She could well believe it of him--the sneering
laugh, the light allusion, the hateful insinuation underlying it. She
was beginning to look upon the evil of the world with comprehending
eyes--she, Chris, the gay of heart, the happy bird of Bertrand's paradise
whom no evil had ever touched. And though she shrank from it as one
dreading pollution, she dared not turn her back.

He went on with more daring mockery, still with lips that smiled. "Ah! I
see you remember. That duel was an affair of interest to you, _hein_? You
were--the woman in the case."

He leered at her intolerably, twisting his moustache.

But that was more than Chris could endure. He had taken her by surprise
indeed, but he should not see her routed thus easily. She lifted her
dainty head and confronted him with pride.

"Whatever the cause of the duel," she said very distinctly, "it was no
concern of mine, and it was by the merest accident that I witnessed it.
But in any case it is not a matter of sufficient importance to discuss
now. Shall we go on?"

She put the question abruptly, with a little inward tremor, for the path
was narrow and he had come to a stand immediately in front of her. He
made a slight movement as if deprecating the obligation to detain her.
His eyes were suddenly very evil and so intent that she could not avoid
them. Yet still he smiled as though the situation amused him.

"But you joke!" he protested, with a snap of the fingers. "I did not
suggest that it could be a matter of importance. It was all a
_bagatelle_, a fairy-tale, that should not have had so serious an end.
And your husband--he has heard the fairy-tale also? Or was it not of
sufficient importance to recount to him?"

She would have turned from him at that, even though it had meant
ignominious flight, but his eyes held her, and she dared not. She could
only stand motionless, feeling her very heart grow cold.

Softly, jeeringly, he went on, still toying with the moustache that did
not hide his smiling lips. "You have not told him yet? Ah! but it would
amuse him. That night you passed with the fairies, a siren among the
sirens, has he never heard of that? But you should tell him that! Or was
it perhaps only a joke _à deux_, and not _à trois_? I have heard that the
English husband can be strict, and you have found it so to your cost,
_hein_?"

Her eyes blazed at the insult. For the first time in her life Chris was
so possessed by fury as to be actually sublime. She drew herself to her
full height. She met his mockery fearlessly, and, with a royal disregard
of consequences, she trod it underfoot.

"Captain Rodolphe, be good enough to let me pass!"

He stood aside instantly. He was even momentarily abashed. He had not
expected his game to end thus. She had seemed such an easy prey, this
English girl. Her discomfiture had been almost too obvious. He certainly
had not deemed her capable of this display of spirit.

Yet in a moment, even as, erect and disdainful, she passed him by, he was
smiling again, a secret, subtle smile which she felt rather than saw.
Emerging into the hot sunshine that beat upon the crowded lawn, she knew
herself to be cold from head to foot.



CHAPTER VIII

THE THIN END


"Good-bye!" said Mrs. Pouncefort. "So glad you came. I hope you haven't
been bored."

"Bored to extinction," murmured Noel. "Hi, Trevor! Let me drive, like a
good chap. Do!"

"Certainly not," said Mordaunt, with decision. "You are going to sit
behind. We shall meet the wind now, and Chris must come in front; it is
more sheltered."

Chris submitted to this arrangement in silence. She was looking very
tired. Her husband regarded her keenly as he tucked her in, but he said
nothing.

"What do you think of Mrs. Pouncefort's latest?" grinned Noel, as they
spun along the high-road. "I never met such a facetious brute in my life.
How did you like him, Bertrand?"

"Who?" said Bertrand somewhat curtly.

"What did they call him--Rodolphe, wasn't it? That French chap with the
beastly little beard."

"I did not like him," said Bertrand, with precision.

"That's all right," said Noel approvingly. "But he's reigning favourite
with Mrs. Pouncefort, anyone can see with half an eye. Rum, isn't it?
And little Pouncefort puts up with it like a lamb. But they say he's
just as bad. Daresay he is, though he's quite a decent little beggar to
talk to. I can't stand Mrs. Pouncefort at any price, while as for that
Frenchman"--he made a hideous grimace--"I'm glad you are not all alike,
Bertrand!"

Bertrand responded to the compliment without elation. He seemed
preoccupied, and Noel, finding him uninteresting, turned his cheerful
attention elsewhere.

Letters awaited them upon their return. Chris took up hers with scarcely
a glance, and went up to her room.

Her husband, following a little later, found her sitting on a couch by
the window, perusing them. She glanced up at his entrance.

"I have a letter from Aunt Philippa. She thinks we must be quite settled
by this time, and she wants to spend a day or two here next week, before
she goes to Scotland."

"I suppose we can put up with her for a day or two," said Mordaunt.

Her smile was slightly strained as she returned to the letter. "I suppose
we shall have to."

He came and stood beside her, looking down at her bent head. The
burnished hair shone warmly golden in the evening sunlight. He laid a
quiet hand upon it. She started at his touch, and then sat very still.

"I have heard from Hilda too," she said, after a moment. "They are
staying at Graysdale. Percy fishes all day and she sketches, when they
are not motoring. It was very sweet of her to write by return."

A tear fell suddenly upon the open page. She covered it hastily with her
hand. Her husband's pressed her head very tenderly.

"Chris," he said gently, "I wonder if you would like to go away for a
little?"

She glanced up quickly, eagerly, with wet lashes. "Oh, Trevor!" she
breathed.

He sat down beside her on the couch. "We will go to-morrow if you like,"
he said.

She slipped her hand into his. "I should love it!"

"Would you?" he said. "I have been thinking of it for some days, but I
wasn't sure you would care for the idea."

"But your work?" she said. "Those articles you wanted to finish? And that
political book of yours? And the alterations in the north wing, will they
be able to get on with those with you away?"

"The literary work must stand over for a week or two," he said. "I shall
leave Bertrand in charge of the rest."

"Bertrand!" She opened her blue eyes wide. "But--but he would be away,
wouldn't he?" Then quickly: "He would go with us, of course? You didn't
mean to leave him behind?"

He raised his brows ever so slightly. "I meant just us two, dear," he
said. "Wouldn't you care for that?"

"Oh!" said Chris blankly. "But, Trevor, we couldn't possibly leave him.
He isn't well. I--I shouldn't be happy about him. Besides--besides--" Her
words faltered under his straight look; she made a little appealing
gesture towards him. "Please understand," she said.

He took both her hands into his. "My dear, I do understand," he said,
with the utmost kindness. "But I think he can be trusted to take care of
himself for a little while. If you have any doubts upon the subject, ask
him."

She shook her head. "No, it wouldn't do. I--I'd really rather not go away
if it means--that. Besides, there is Noel. And next week there will be
Aunt Philippa. I think we had better give up the idea, Trevor; I do
really, anyhow for the present." She leaned nearer to him; her eyes
looked pleadingly into his. "Say you don't mind," she begged him, a
little tremulously.

"I am only thinking of you, dear," he answered.

She smiled with lips that quivered. "Well, don't think of me--at least,
not too much. I only want you just to be kind to me, that's all. I--I
shall be myself presently. You're very good to be so patient."

Her lips were lifted to his. He bent and kissed her. But as he went
gravely away she had a feeling that she had disappointed him, and her
heart grew a little heavier in consequence.

The sound of the piano in the drawing-room brought her down earlier than
usual for dinner, and she found Bertrand playing softly to himself in the
twilight. He had a delicate touch, and she always loved to hear him.

She had with difficulty trained him not to spring up at her entrance, but
to-day he turned sharply round.

"Christine, what did that _scélérat_ say to you?"

The abruptness of his speech did not disconcert her. She was never ill at
ease with Bertrand, however sudden his mood. She came to the piano, and
stood facing him in the dusk.

"He recognized me," she said.

"Ah!" Bertrand's exclamation was deep in his throat, like the growl of an
angry dog. "And he said--?"

Chris hesitated.

Instantly his manner changed. He stretched out a quick hand. "Pardon my
impatience! You will tell me what he said?"

Yet still she hesitated. His impetuosity had warned her to go warily if
she would not have him embroiling himself in another quarrel for her
sake.

"It doesn't matter much, does it?" she said, rather wearily. "I wasn't
with him very long--no longer than I could help. He was objectionable, of
course, but that sort of man couldn't be anything else, could he?"

"Tell me what he said," insisted Bertrand inexorably.

But still she hedged, trying to temper his wrath. "He didn't tell me
anything new. I have known--for some time now--why you fought that duel."

"Ah! You know that? But how?"

She smiled wanly. "You forget I'm growing up, Bertie."

He winced at that suddenly and sharply, but he made no verbal protest.
Only in the silence that followed there was something passionate,
something which she never remembered to have encountered before in her
dealings with him.

At the end of a long pause he spoke, with obvious constraint. "And you
will not tell me what he said?"

"Is it worth while?" said Chris. "I daresay we shall never see him
again."

"He insulted you, no?" said Bertrand.

She yielded, half-involuntarily, to his persistence. "He made
some--rather horrid--insinuations. He spoke of the duel and of what
happened at Valpré. And he asked--he asked if--Trevor knew."

A fierce oath burst headlong from Bertrand, the first she had ever heard
him utter. He apologized for it instantly, almost in the same breath, but
she was startled by the violence of it none the less, so startled that
she decided then and there that, if she would keep the peace between him
and his enemy, she must confide in him no further.

"But that was really all," she hastened to assure him. "I left him then,
and--and I think we had better forget it, Bertie. Promise me you will."

He took the persuasive hand she laid upon his arm, but for several
seconds he did not speak. It seemed as if he could not trust himself to
do so.

At last, "Christine," he said, "I think that your husband ought to know."

She started at the words, almost snatching her hand from him. "Bertie!
What do you mean? Know of what?"

He answered her with great steadiness; his eyes met hers unwaveringly.
"Of that which happened at Valpré," he said.

She gazed at him in growing consternation. "Bertie, how--are you
mad?--how could I tell him that?"

"With your permission, I will tell him," he said resolutely.

But she cried out at that, almost as if he had hurt her: "Oh no, no,
never! Why should he know now? Don't you see how impossible it is? If I
had ever meant to tell him, it ought to have been long ago."

"Yes," said Bertrand.

The quietness of his tone only agitated her still further. His evident
determination terrified her. In that moment all her fear of her husband
rose to towering proportions, a monster she dared not even contemplate.
She clasped Bertrand's arm between her hands in wild, unreasoning
supplication.

"Oh, you must not--you shall not! Bertie, you won't, will you? Promise
me you won't--promise me! He wouldn't understand. He would want to know
why I had never told him before. He would--he would--"

"Ah! but I would explain," Bertrand protested gently.

"But you couldn't! He would ask questions--questions I couldn't possibly
answer. If he didn't say them he would look them. And his eyes are so
terribly keen. They frighten me. They see--everything."

"But, _chérie_," he reasoned, "they could not see what is not there. You
have nothing to hide from him. You have no shame. Why, then, have you
fear?"

"I don't know," gasped Chris. "Only I know that he would never
understand. He would think--he would think--"

"He would think that we have been--pals--for as long as we have known
each other," said Bertrand soothingly. "He knows it already. It is true,
is it not?"

But Chris's eyes had been opened too suddenly and tragically. Her sense
of proportion was still undeveloped. "Yes, but he would never see it. You
could never explain to him so that he would understand. He would think I
had been deceiving him. He would think--Bertie, he would think"--her eyes
dilated, and she drew in her breath sharply--"that--that you and I ought
not to be friends any longer. Oh, don't tell him--please don't tell him.
Indeed I am right. He trusts you, and--and he trusts me. But he wouldn't
trust either of us any longer if he knew."

"Christine! Christine!"

"It is true," she asserted feverishly. "You don't know him as I do. Oh
no, he has never been hard to me. But he could be hard. And he wouldn't
forgive me--if he thought I had been hiding anything. Bertie, Bertie, you
won't do it? Say you won't do it!"

"I do nothing without your consent," Bertrand answered quietly. "But I
think that it is a mistake. I think--"

"Oh, thank you!" she broke in earnestly. "I know I can rely upon you to
keep your word. I can, can't I?"

He smiled at a question which he would have borne from no other. "Until
death, Christine," he said.

Her hands fell away from his arm. She was shaking all over. "I know I'm
foolish," she said. "I can't help it. I was made so. And when Trevor
begins to ask questions--" She broke off nervously. "What is that?"

A leisurely footfall sounded in the hall, a quiet hand pressed the
electric switch by the door, and the room was flooded with light.

"Oh, don't!" Chris cried out sharply. "Don't!"

She put her hands over her face as if dazzled, and so stood quivering.

"What is it?" Mordaunt asked. "Did I startle you?"

He came to her. He drew her hands gently down. But she almost cowered
before him, and he let her go.

"I think that she is tired," Bertrand said, his voice very low.

"Is that all?" Mordaunt asked, looking at him.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. But Chris turned
at the question, turned and confronted her husband with wide, scared
eyes.

"Yes, I am tired," she said, speaking jerkily, breathlessly. "But--but I
was startled too. I--I thought I heard Cinders--barking."

It was the first time she had ever deliberately lied to him, and her eyes
met his full as she did it in desperate self-defence.

He looked at her very steadily for the space of several seconds after she
had spoken, and in the silence Bertrand's hands clenched hard.

Quietly at length Mordaunt turned round to him. "Don't let me interrupt
you," he said. "You were playing, weren't you? Chris and I are good
listeners."

He took his wife's cold hand, and drew her to the sofa; and Bertrand,
seeing there was nothing else to be done, turned back to the piano and
resumed his playing.

Not another word was spoken by any of them until Noel came upon the
scene, and airily dispelled the silence before he was aware of it.



CHAPTER IX

THE ENEMY MOVES


"And you mean to say that this French secretary of Trevor's actually
lives in the house?" said Aunt Philippa.

"But of course he does," said Chris, opening her eyes wide.

"And is Trevor never away?" demanded Aunt Philippa.

"He hasn't been, but he talks of spending a night in town next week."

"And you will go with him?"

"No, I don't think so. It's too hot."

"Then I presume M. Bertrand will?"

Chris flushed a little. "I don't suppose so. He is feeling the heat too."
She stretched up her hands above her head. "How I wish it would rain!"

Aunt Philippa continued her knitting severely in silence. They were
sitting on the terrace awaiting the luncheon-hour. Across the garden came
Noel's shrill whistle, and instinctively, before she remembered her
aunt's presence, Chris answered it. The boy appeared at the farther end
of the long lawn, and came racing towards them.

"Just seen the postman, Chris. Here's a letter for you--such a horrible
fist, Sandacre post-mark, and sealed. Wonder who it's from?"

He leaned against her chair to recover his breath and regarded the
envelope he held with frank interest.

Chris stretched up her hand for it. "I expect it's from Mrs. Pouncefort."

"Mrs. Pouncefort doesn't write like that!" protested Noel. "No woman
could."

"May I have it?" said Chris.

He put it into her hand, but he still leaned against her chair. "Be quick
and open it, I say! It looks important."

"I don't suppose it is," said Chris; but she opened it notwithstanding
with some curiosity.

Aunt Philippa had arrived only the night before, but she was already very
tired of her society, and any diversion was welcome.

"You don't mind?" she murmured to her aunt.

Her eyes were already upon the first page as she spoke. She frowned over
the unfamiliar handwriting.

Noel studied it also over her shoulder. "What on earth--" he began.

She looked up suddenly, and crumpled the paper in her hand. "Noel, go
away! How dare you!"

He stared at her in amazement. A sharp word from Chris was most unusual.
Aunt Philippa looked up also.

"My dear girl, it isn't private, is it?" said Noel.

Chris was scarlet. She seemed to breathe with difficulty. "Of course it's
private! All my letters are private!"

"But it comes from the Pounceforts," objected Noel. "I saw 'Sandacre
Court' at the top of the page."

Chris sprang to her feet impetuously with blazing eyes. "And what if it
does? You had no right to look over me. It was a hateful thing to do.
What if it does come from Mrs. Pouncefort? Is it mine any the less for
that?"

"Oh, don't get huffy!" remonstrated Noel. "Look at you! Anyone would
think you had got the palsy. But you needn't pretend it's from Mrs.
Pouncefort, because I know better."

"It--it is from Mrs. Pouncefort!" declared Chris.

"Which is a lie," rejoined Noel, with the utmost calmness. "I know you,
my dear girl, I know you. You've told 'em before."

"Noel!" Aunt Philippa interposed her voice with extreme dignity. "You
forget yourself. If you cannot speak with ordinary courtesy, be good
enough to leave us."

Noel heeded the remonstrance no more than if it had been the buzzing of a
fly. Chris's spark of temper had kindled his.

"Oh, you can swear it's the truth till all's blue," he declared, raising
his voice recklessly. "But that doesn't make it so. In fact, it only
makes the contrary all the more likely. Besides, you know you do lie,
Chris, so you needn't deny it."

"Noel!"

It was not Aunt Philippa's voice this time, and it had in it so firm a
note of authority that instinctively Noel turned.

Mordaunt, just returned from a ride, was standing in his shirt-sleeves at
an open window above them. All the colour went out of Chris's face at
sight of him, but he did not look at her.

"Come up here," he said to Noel. "I want to speak to you."

"Not coming," said Noel promptly.

"Come up here," Mordaunt repeated.

"What for?" Noel looked up at him, hands in pockets. "You'll be late for
lunch if you don't buck up," he remarked, with a smile of cheery
impudence.

His brother-in-law's face did not reflect his smile. It was grimly
determined. "Come up here," he said again.

"Do go, Noel," Chris murmured uneasily.

"I won't," said Noel doggedly. "I'm not going to be pitched into for
nothing. It was you who told the lie, not me."

"Oh, don't be absurd!" exclaimed Chris, in a fever of impatience. "Surely
you're not afraid of him!"

"Anyone can see you are," retorted Noel. "I'll bet you daren't go
yourself!"

She turned from him sharply without another word, and entered the house.

She met her husband on the threshold of his room, and pushed him
impulsively back, her hands against his breast.

"Trevor, please don't be angry with him. He--we often go on like that.
There is nothing to be angry about--indeed."

He took her hands and held them. She was panting a little; he waited
while she recovered herself. Then, "Chris," he said very gently, "don't
you think it is time you left off being afraid of me?"

"But when you are angry--" murmured Chris.

"You have never seen me angry yet."

"You are not angry with Noel?" she asked quickly.

He smiled a little. "My dear child, Noel is no more capable of making me
angry than that fly on the ceiling. But I am not going to have him
behaving badly for all that."

"But he didn't," she urged, in distress. "It was all my fault.
Trevor--Trevor, please don't say any more! He was quite right. I--I
didn't tell the truth."

She made the confession in a broken whisper, with her face hidden against
him. But a moment later she had sprung away in haste, for there came the
clatter of careless feet upon the stairs, and Noel dashed suddenly upon
the scene.

"Oh, I say, do stop jawing and come down," he said as he presented
himself. "Poor Aunt Phil is ravenous for her lunch. What do you want me
for, Trevor?"

But Mordaunt turned his back abruptly. "I don't want you now," he said.
"You can go."

"Dash it!" Noel said. "What a rotter you are!" He flung himself full
length upon the window-seat with elaborate nonchalance. "Run along,
Chris," he said. "We're going to talk politics. Shut the door after you.
That's right. Now, my good brother-in-law, what can I do for you?"

He sat up to slay a wasp on the window-pane, flicked the corpse in
Mordaunt's direction with airy adroitness, and lay down again.

"Are you in a wax over anything?" he inquired, with a yawn.

Mordaunt turned quietly round. "Get up!" he said.

Noel laughed up at him engagingly. "You can't kick me so easily lying
down, can you? But what do you want to kick me for? I'm quite harmless."

"I am not going to kick you," Mordaunt said. "It is not my way."

"All right, then. Why didn't you say so before?" Noel sat up and regarded
him with interest. "Well?" he said at the end of an expectant pause.
"Let's have it, man, and have done!"

"I have nothing to give you," Mordaunt returned. "I told you you could
go."

Something in the tone rather than the words caught Noel's attention. He
bounced suddenly from his lounging attitude to Mordaunt's side, and
thrust an affectionate arm about his shoulders.

"What's the matter, old chap? You look as if you had found sixpence and
lost half a crown."

"Perhaps I have," Mordaunt returned grimly.

He did not repulse the friendly overture; that also was not his way. But
neither did he respond to it. He stood passive, looking out over the park
with unobservant eyes.

"Cheer up, I say," urged Noel. "You're such a rattling good chap, you
know. I'm getting awfully fond of you."

"Much obliged," said Mordaunt; but he did not seem highly gratified. In
fact, his thoughts were plainly elsewhere.

Noel, however, would not be satisfied with this. "What are you grizzling
about?" he said. "Tell a fellow!"

Mordaunt's eyes came down to him. "I wish you Wyndhams had a little sense
of honour," he said.

"Oh, is that it?" said Noel. "Well, we are not top-heavy in that respect,
I own. But, after all, it's not worth worrying about. We get on very
nicely without it. And we wouldn't any of us sell a friend."

"I'm glad to know you draw the line somewhere," Mordaunt observed.

"Oh, rather! I wouldn't chouse you for the world. Chris wouldn't either.
But we're both shy of you, you know, because you're so beastly moral." He
gave his brother-in-law a warm hug to soften the effect of his words.
"You may as well tell me what you wanted to say to me just now," he
remarked.

"I was going to request you to behave like a gentleman," Mordaunt
returned. "But as you don't seem to know what that means--" He paused,
looking straight into the Irish eyes that met his with such sublime
assurance. "Do you know what it means, Noel?" he asked.

Noel grinned. "You can take me in hand and teach me if it isn't too much
trouble. I suppose you didn't like me to tell Chris she was lying about
that letter. But she was, you know. There's no getting away from that
fact, even if she is your wife."

"I'm not trying to get away from facts," Mordaunt said. "But I do
object--strongly--to discourtesy. You may be her brother, but that
doesn't entitle you to insult her. Plainly, I won't have it from you or
anyone."

"I didn't insult her," declared Noel. "I only said I knew she was telling
a cram. She knew it too."

"I know what you said," Mordaunt returned with brevity. "And you are not
to say it again. Also, I must ask you to bear in mind that when I say a
thing I mean it--invariably. I've had more than enough disobedience from
you lately."

"Oh, I say," said Noel, winking gaily, "you don't want much, do you?"

Mordaunt relaxed a little. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder for a
moment. "You can be quite a good chap if you try," he said.

Noel responded like a dog to a caress. "The mischief is to keep it up,"
he said. "But we won't quarrel anyhow. I'll make every allowance for you,
old boy, for you're in a beastly unhealthy position; and you'll have to
do the same--savvy? But for all that, that letter was no more written by
Mrs. Pouncefort than by the man in the moon."

"That letter," Mordaunt said very deliberately, "is neither your affair
nor mine."

Could he have seen Chris at that moment he might have changed his mind
upon that point, but her young brother's careless chatter kept him from
seeking her; nor would he very readily have found her had he done so.

For Chris was securely locked in a little room at the top of the house
that had been her childhood's bedroom, and here with blanched face and
hands that shook she was reading and reading again the letter that had
given rise to so much discussion.

The handwriting was cramped and erratic, wholly unfamiliar, barely
decipherable; but she had mastered the contents with tragic dexterity.
Her understanding had leaped to the words.

       *       *       *       *       *

"MY DEAR MRS. MORDAUNT," so went the letter, "You have probably forgotten
my existence by this time, and it is with the utmost humility that I
venture to recall it to your memory. For myself, it will always be a
lasting pleasure to have met you again, and the fact that I share with
you a secret of other days cannot but prove a bond between us. That
secret I am prepared to guard faithfully, since--apparently--it is of
value, if you on your part are ready to purchase my discretion with that
of which all have need, but of which I temporarily am unhappily
deficient. Briefly, madame, for the sum of five hundred pounds I will
undertake that the episode of Valpré shall be consigned to oblivion so
far as I am concerned. Otherwise, the strict husband may hear more than
you have considered it convenient to tell him.

"Yours, with many compliments,
GUILLAUME RODOLPHE."



CHAPTER X

A WARNING VOICE


Five hundred pounds! Five hundred pounds! It represented her year's
income to Chris.

All night long she lay wide-eyed and still, facing her problem with a
quaking heart. It was like a suffocating weight upon her, crushing her
down. Five hundred pounds! And the need thereof so urgent that it must be
dealt with at once! But how to obtain it? How? How?

All through the dark hours she lay revolving the matter, questioning this
way and that, bound hand and foot, yet not daring to contemplate the only
sane means at her disposal of obtaining freedom. To tell her husband the
simple truth, to throw herself unreservedly upon his generosity, to beg
his forgiveness and his help--these were the things she could not do. As
a matter of fact the truth had been so magnified by her fevered fancy
that it had begun to appear monstrous even in her own eyes. Those far-off
happenings at Valpré had become a dream with a nightmare ending. Not even
Aunt Philippa could have distorted them to a more exaggerated semblance
of evil. And to go to her husband now with such a story was utterly
beyond Chris's powers of accomplishment. She lacked the courage to speak
with simplicity and candour, and she was painfully aware that to give a
halting account of the matter would be infinitely more dangerous than to
keep silence. Already her husband's faith in her veracity had been
shaken. Was it likely that he would accept unquestioning her assurance
that this matter, which she had rigorously suppressed for so long and
which she only imparted to him now under compulsion, was in reality one
of trivial importance? Would he believe her? Had she ever fostered his
belief in her? Could he in reason do so even if he desired?

Moreover, there was another obstacle. There was Bertrand. Though he had
offered to speak for her, though he had desired to explain all, and
though she knew that Trevor's faith in him was absolute, yet the presence
of Bertrand in itself made candour impossible. Why this should be she did
not know. It was a problem which she had not attempted to solve. But the
fact remained. She dreaded unspeakably the possibility of having to
describe the intimacy that had existed between herself and Bertrand in
the old, free, Valpré days. She dreaded the keen searching of the grey
eyes that, if they sought long enough, were bound to find her soul, and
not only to find, but to enter it, to penetrate to its most hidden
corner, and to draw out into the full light of day one of her most sacred
possessions. She felt that she could not bear this probing. The very
thought of it was horrible to her, and in connection with it the steady
scrutiny of her husband's eyes became almost a thing abhorrent. Vaguely
she knew, without realizing, that she cherished deep in that inmost
shrine something which he must never see, something that it would be
agony to show him, something that even now gnawed secretly at her
quivering heart. She always shrank from his direct look, though she would
not have him know it. The calm, level gaze frightened her, she knew not
why. Perhaps the secret of all her fear of him lay hidden in this problem
that she dared not face.

No, she could not endure a full revelation of the truth. Bertrand had
declared that Mordaunt could not discover what was non-existent, but it
was not this that Chris feared. It was something infinitely more
terrible, a floating suspicion that might harden into actual fact at any
moment.

And so her whole being was concentrated upon avoiding the catastrophe
that instinct warned her to be impending. Everything hung upon the
keeping of that secret which once had seemed to her so small a thing. It
had grown to mighty proportions of late. She did not ask herself
wherefore; but once in the night she smiled a piteous little smile at the
recollection of Manon, the maid-of-all-work, and her story of the spell
that bound all who entered the Magic Cave. She remembered how she had
laughed over it; but Bertrand had not laughed. He had been quite grave;
she remembered that also. He had even spoken as if he believed in it. For
a little her thoughts dwelt upon that night, on the quick confidences he
had poured out, on her own consternation over the nature of his
enterprise, on the words he had uttered then to comfort her. She had
never given them much thought before. To-night, lying by her husband's
side, they returned to her, and for the first time she pondered them
seriously. He had dismissed ambition and success, even the strife of
nations, at a breath. He had been able to do so even then, when he was
nearing the summit of his aspirations. "What are they?" he had said.
"Only a procession that marches under the windows, only a dream in the
midst of a great Reality."

What had he meant by that? she asked herself, and searched her memory
for more. It came with a curious vividness, a winged message, straight
and sure as an arrow. "We look out above them," he had said, "you and
I"--suddenly she heard the very thrill of his voice, and it pierced her
through and through--"to the great heaven and the sun; and we know that
that is life--the Spark Eternal that nothing can ever quench." Chris did
not ask herself the meaning of that. She hid it away in her heart,
quickly, quickly, lest seeing she should also understand.

It was very early in the morning when she slipped out of bed, and crept
to the open window to watch the stars fade into the dawning. She would
have liked to pray, but no prayer occurred to her. And so she knelt quite
passive, gazing forth over the dim garden, too tired to think any longer,
yet too miserable to sleep. She did not know that her husband's eyes
gravely watched her throughout her vigil, and when presently she lay down
again she still believed him to be sleeping.

In the morning inspiration came to Chris. She believed Rupert to be out
of debt, thanks to Trevor's generosity. She would get him to raise the
money for her. She knew he must have ways and means of so doing which
were quite beyond her reach. At least, it seemed her only resource, and
she would try it.

"Are you quite well, Chris?" her husband asked her when he rose at an
early hour, as was his custom.

"Quite," said Chris. "Why?"

She looked at him nervously with heavy-lidded eyes.

He bent to kiss her before leaving the room. "Don't get up yet," he said
kindly. "Stay in bed and have a sleep."

"But I--I have slept," she stammered.

He put the hair gently back from her forehead. "I know all about it," he
said.

She started away from him in sheer panic. "About what?" she gasped, in a
whisper; then, seeing his brows go up, "Oh, Trevor, I--I'm sorry. No, I
haven't slept very well. But--"

"I thought not," he interposed quietly. "Well, sleep now, dear."

He turned to go, but impulsively she caught his hand, held it a moment,
then suddenly put it to her lips. But she would not look at him, would
not even raise her eyes again; and he, after the briefest pause, withdrew
his hand, touched her cheek with it lightly, and so left her.

When they met again at the breakfast-table she was discussing with Aunt
Philippa the best means of spending the day. Bertrand was not present. He
usually took chocolate at that hour in Mordaunt's room, where he could
continue his secretarial work uninterrupted. Noel was not yet down.

Chris turned at once to address her husband. "I have had a line
from Max. He is coming down for a few days I think he hasn't been
well--overworking, he says."

"I can scarcely believe," said Aunt Philippa, with her acid smile, "that
a Wyndham could ever suffer from that complaint."

"They don't over-rest, anyhow," said Mordaunt, with a glance at his
wife's tired face. "I shall be very pleased to see him, Chris. Write and
tell him so."

"I don't think I need write," she said. "He will be here this
afternoon. Shall I ask Rupert to come over and dine, so that we can all
be together--that is, if Aunt Philippa doesn't mind?"

"Pray do not consider me," said Aunt Philippa.

"Do exactly as you like," said Mordaunt quietly. "Rupert is always
welcome so far as I am concerned."

Chris rose from the table as he sat down. "I will send him a note at once
if I may, or I shall miss the post."

"Have you had any breakfast?" he asked, detaining her as she passed his
chair.

"None at all," said Aunt Philippa.

"Oh, Aunt Philippa, I have, indeed!" protested Chris, colouring vividly.
"Besides, I'm not hungry."

"Besides!" echoed Mordaunt, faintly smiling. "Drink a cup of hot milk
before you go."

She made a wry face. "I can't. I hate it. Please don't keep me!"

"Then do as you are told," he said. "I thought I ordered you to stay in
bed."

"Oh, don't be absurd!" said Chris; but she went back to her place and
poured out the milk as he desired.

"Now drink it," he said, with his eyes upon her.

She obeyed him without further protest, finally setting the cup down with
a sigh of relief.

Mordaunt rose to open the door. "You are not to do anything energetic
to-day," he said.

She threw him a smile, half-shy, half-wistful, and departed without
replying.

He turned back into the room and sat down. "I am not quite satisfied
about Chris," he said.

"Neither am I," said Aunt Philippa, with unexpected severity.

He looked at her with awakened attention. "No?" he said courteously.

"No." Very decidedly came Aunt Philippa's reply. "I intended to speak to
you upon the subject, my dear Trevor, and I am glad that an early
opportunity for so doing has presented itself."

"You think she looks ill?" Mordaunt asked.

"Not at all," said Aunt Philippa. "The intense heat we have had lately is
quite sufficient to account for her jaded looks. She has probably also
been fretting unreasonably over the death of her dog. I believe that
animal was the only thing in the world she ever really cared for."

Mordaunt rested his chin on his hand, and looked at her thoughtfully.
"Indeed!" he said.

Neither his voice nor his face expressed anything whatever beyond a
decorous gravity. Aunt Philippa began to feel slightly exasperated.

"She will get over that," she said, with a confidence that held more of
contempt than tolerance. "None of the Wyndhams are fundamentally capable
of taking anything seriously for long. You must have discovered their
instability for yourself by this time."

"Not with respect to Chris." Was there a hint of sternness underlying the
placidity of the rejoinder? There might have been, but Aunt Philippa was
too intent upon the matter she had taken in hand to notice it.

"Oh, well," she said, "you haven't been married six weeks yet, have you?
You will see what I mean sooner or later. But you may take it from me
that all of them--Chris included--are without an atom of solidity in
their composition. I warn you, Trevor, very seriously; they are not to be
depended upon."

Mordaunt heard her without changing his position. His eyes looked
straight at her from under lids that never stirred. "Is that what you
have to say to me?" he asked, after a moment.

"It leads to what I have to say," returned Aunt Philippa with dignity.

She was quite in her element now, and enjoying herself far too thoroughly
to be lightly disconcerted.

"Pray finish!" he said.

That gave her momentary pause. "I am speaking solely for your welfare,"
she told him.

"I do not question it," he returned.

Yet even she was aware that his stillness was not all the outcome of
courteous attention. There was about it a restraint which made itself
felt, as it were, in spite of him, a dominance which she set down to his
forceful personality.

"The subject upon which I chiefly desire to speak a word of warning," she
said, "is the presence in the house--the constant presence--of your young
French secretary."

"Yes?" said Mordaunt.

He betrayed no surprise, but the word fell curtly, as if he found himself
face to face with an unpleasant task and desired to be through with it as
quickly as possible.

Aunt Philippa proceeded with just a hint of caution. "My dear Trevor,
surely you are aware of the danger!"

"What danger?"

A difficult question, which Aunt Philippa answered with diplomacy. "Chris
was always something of a flirt."

"Indeed!" said Mordaunt again.

His manner was so non-committal that Aunt Philippa began to lose her
patience. "I should have thought that fact was patent to everyone."

"Never to me," said Chris's husband very deliberately.

Aunt Philippa smiled. "Then you are remarkably blind, my dear Trevor.
Flightiness has been her chief characteristic all her life. If you have
not yet found that out, I fear she must be deceitful as well."

"I am not discussing my wife's character," Mordaunt made answer very
steadily.

"You prefer to shut your eyes to the obvious," said Aunt Philippa,
beginning to be aware of something formidable in her path but not quite
grasping its magnitude.

"I prefer my own estimate of her to that of anyone else," he made quiet
reply.

Aunt Philippa made a slight gesture of uneasiness. The steady gaze was
becoming a hard thing to meet. Had the man been less phlegmatic, she
could almost have imagined him to be in a white heat of anger. He was so
unnaturally quiet, his whole being concentrated, as it were, in a
composure that she could not but feel to be ominous.

It was with an effort that the woman who sat facing him resumed her
self-appointed task. "That I can well understand," she said. "But even
so, I think you should bear in mind that Chris is young--and frail. You
are not justified in exposing her to temptation."

"As how?"

Aunt Philippa hesitated for the first time in actual perturbation.

Mordaunt waited immovably.

"I think," she said at length, "that you would be very ill-advised if you
went to town and left her here--thrown entirely upon her own resources."

"May I ask if you are still referring to my secretary?" he said.

She bent her head. "I have never approved of her being upon such intimate
terms with him. She treats him as if--as if--"

"As if he were her brother," said Mordaunt quietly. "I do the same. I
have many friends, but he is the one man in the world who possesses my
entire confidence. For that reason I foster their friendship, for I know
it to be a good thing. For that reason, if I were dying, I would
confidently leave her in his care."

"My dear Trevor, the man has bewitched you!" protested Aunt Philippa.

His eyes fell away from her at last, and she was conscious of distinct
relief, mingled with a most unwonted tinge of humiliation.

"I am obliged to you," he said formally, "for taking the trouble to warn
me. But you need never do so again. Believe me, I am not blind; and Chris
is safe in my care."

He rose with the words, and went to the sideboard for his breakfast. Here
he remained for some time with his back turned, but when he finally came
back to the table there was no trace of even suppressed agitation about
him.

He sat down and began to eat with a perfectly normal demeanour. The
silence, however, remained unbroken until Noel burst tempestuously into
the room. No silence ever outlasted his appearance.

He flung his arms round his brother-in-law and embraced him warmly, with
a friendly, "Hullo, you greedy beggar! Hope you haven't gobbled up
everything! I'm confoundedly hungry. Morning, Aunt Philippa! I suppose
you fed long ago? It's a disgusting habit, isn't it? But one we can't
dispense with at present. Where's Chris?"

"Chris," said Aunt Philippa icily, "has already breakfasted, and so have
I."

She moved towards the door as she spoke. Noel sprang with alacrity to
open it, and bowed to the floor behind her retreating form.

"She looks like a dying duck in a thunderstorm," he observed, as he
returned to the table. "What have you been doing to her? Has there been a
thunderstorm?"

Mordaunt met his inquiring eyes without a smile. "Noel," he said, "if you
can't be courteous to your aunt and your sister, I won't have you at the
table at all--or in the house for that matter."

Noel uttered a long whistle. "I thought I smelt the reek of battle in the
air! What's up? Anything exciting?"

"Do you understand me?" Mordaunt said, sticking to his point.

Noel broke into smiles. "Oh, perfectly, my dear chap! You're as simple as
the Book of Common Prayer. But it would be a pity to kick me out of the
house, you know. You'd miss me--horribly."

Mordaunt leaned back in his chair. "Then I'll give you a sound caning
instead."

Noel nodded vigorous approval. "Much more suitable. I like you better
every day. So does Chris. I believe she'll be in love with you before
long."

"Really?" said Mordaunt.

"Yes, really." Noel was munching complacently between his words. "I never
thought you'd do it. The odds were dead against you. She only married you
to get away from Aunt Philippa. Of course you know that?"

"Really?" Mordaunt said again. He was not apparently paying much
attention to the boy's chatter.

"Yes, really," Noel reiterated, with a grin. "It's solid, simple, sordid
fact. The only chap she ever seriously cared about was a little beast of
a Frenchman she chummed up with years ago at Valpré. I never met the
beggar myself, but I'm sure he was a beast. But I'll bet she'd have
married him if she'd had the chance. They were as thick as thieves."

At this point Mordaunt opened the morning paper with a bored expression,
and straightway immersed himself in its contents.

Noel turned his attention to his breakfast, which he dispatched with
astonishing rapidity, finally remarking, as he rose: "But you never can
tell what a woman will do when it comes to the point--unless she's a
suffragette, in which case she may be safely relied on to make a howling
donkey of herself for all time."



CHAPTER XI

A BROKEN REED


"But, my good girl, five hundred pounds!" Rupert looked down at his
sister with an expression half-humorous, half-dismayed. "What do you
think I'm made of?" he inquired.

She stood before him, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands. "I
must have it! I must have it!" she said piteously. "I thought you might
be able to raise it on something."

"But not on nothing," said Rupert.

"I would pay it back," she urged. "I could begin to pay back almost at
once."

"Why on earth don't you ask Trevor for it?" he said. "He's the proper
person to go to."

"Oh, I know," she answered. "And so I would for anything else, but not
for this--not for this! He would ask questions, questions I couldn't
possibly answer. And--oh, I couldn't--I couldn't!"

"What have you been up to?" said Rupert curiously.

"Nothing--nothing whatever. I've done nothing wrong." Chris almost wrung
her hands in her agitation. "But I can't tell you or anyone what I want
it for. Oh, Rupert, you will help me! I know you will!"

"Steady!" said Rupert. "Don't get hysterical, my child. That won't serve
anybody's turn. I suppose you've been extravagant, and daren't own up.
Trevor is a bit of a Tartar, I own. But five hundred pounds! It's utterly
beyond my reach."

"Couldn't you borrow it from someone?" pleaded Chris. "Rupert, it's only
for a time. I'll pay back a little every month. And you have so many
friends."

Rupert made a grimace. "All of whom know me far too well to lend me
money. No, that cock won't fight. I've a hundred debts of my own waiting
to be settled. Trevor wasn't disposed to be over-generous the last time I
approached him. At least, he was generous, but he wasn't particularly
encouraging. He's such a rum beggar, and I have my own reasons for not
wanting to go to him again at present."

"Of course you couldn't go to him for this," said Chris. "But--Rupert, if
you could only help me in this matter, I would do all I could for you. I
would give you every farthing I could spare, indeed--indeed. I might even
ask him for a little later on--not yet, of course, but by and bye, if I
saw an opportunity. Oh, you don't know what it means to me--how much
depends upon it."

"Why don't you tell me?" Rupert asked.

"Because I can't--I daren't!" Chris laid imploring hands upon his
shoulders; her eyes besought him. "Dear Rupert, it isn't that I don't
trust you. Don't think that! But it wouldn't do any good if you knew, and
I simply can't talk about it. I've shown how much I trust you by asking
you to help me out of my trouble. There is no one else in the world that
I could ask--not even Max. He would make me tell him everything. But you
won't, dear; I know you won't, will you?"

It was impossible not to be moved by her earnest pleading. Rupert slipped
an arm around her. "You needn't be afraid of me," he said.

"I know I needn't," she answered, laying her cheek against him with a
quick gesture of confidence. "And I am of everyone else--even of Bertie.
It's absurd, isn't it? Fancy being afraid of Bertie!" She smiled through
tears.

"He doesn't know, then?" said Rupert.

"Bertie? No, no, of course not! I wouldn't have him know for the world.
He would go and do--something desperate." Chris's startled eyes testified
to her dread of this contingency. "No, I haven't dared to tell anyone,
except you. If you can't help me, there's no one left. I--I shall run
away and drown myself."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Rupert. "There's a way out of every difficulty if
one has the wit to find it. Keep cool, my dear girl! If you let yourself
go, you will give your own show away."

"I know! I know!" gasped Chris. "But what can I do? It would kill me if
Trevor knew!"

Rupert's arm tightened protectingly about her. At least they stood by
each other, these Wyndhams. "Then Trevor mustn't know," he rejoined.
"I'll manage it somehow if it's humanly possible. You must let me think
it over. And in the meantime, for goodness' sake, keep cool. If Trevor
were to see you now, he would know there was something up directly."

As a matter of fact, he himself had never seen his sister so agitated
before. She was like a terrified bird in a trap. What on earth had she
been doing? he wondered. What made her go in such abject fear of her
husband that the very mention of his name was enough to send every
vestige of colour from her face?

He grasped her trembling fingers reassuringly. "There! Leave it to me,"
he said. "I'll find a way out, never fear. I've been in a good many tight
corners in my time, but I've always wriggled out somehow. I suppose you
want the money soon?"

"At once," said Chris.

He made a grimace, as of one swallowing a nauseous draught. "All right,
you shall have it. Now, don't worry any more. It's going to be all
right." He patted her shoulder kindly. "Only, for Heaven's sake, don't do
it again!"

She shivered, and turned away to hide her quivering lips. "If--if you can
get me the money this once," she said, "I--I'll never ask you again, and
I'll give you every farthing--every farthing--"

"My dear child, I don't want your farthings," responded Rupert cheerily.
"If you can make it fifty pounds now, I shall be quite grateful. But I'll
get you yours first, never mind how. Now, hadn't we better go back to the
rest? Aunt Philippa will be wondering what we are conspiring about. By
the way, when does she depart?"

"Soon, I hope," said Chris fervently.

He grinned. "Had enough of her, eh? So, I should imagine, has Trevor. He
is keener on giving advice than taking it, if I know anything about him."

"She wouldn't dare to give Trevor advice," protested Chris.

"Ho! wouldn't she?" He laughed derisively, as they turned to leave the
little room in the roof that was her refuge, but paused at the door to
slip his arm through hers. "You're not to worry, young 'un," he said,
with a patronage that did not veil concern. "Do you know you're looking
downright ill?"

She smiled up at him wistfully. "Things have been pretty horrid lately.
But I won't worry any more if--if you tell me I needn't."

"You needn't," he said, and impulsively he stooped and kissed her. He had
always had a protecting tenderness for his little sister.

They descended to the drawing-room to find Aunt Philippa writing letters
in solitary state. The rest of the company, with the exception of
Mordaunt, who was at work in his own room, were in the billiard-room just
beyond, and Chris and Rupert repaired thither, relieved to make their
escape so easily.

They found Bertrand, who was an expert player, making a long break. He
was playing against Max, whose opinion of him was obviously rising with
this display of skill.

He was engaged upon a most difficult stroke when Chris entered, and she
stopped behind him lest she should disturb his aim. But he turned round
at once to her, leaving the balls untouched.

"_Mais non_!" he declared lightly. "I cannot play with my back to my
hostess. It is an affair _très difficile_, and I must have everything in
my favour."

"Oh, don't let me spoil your luck!" she said.

She came and stood at the end of the table to watch him.

"That would not be possible," he protested, as he applied himself again
to the ball.

He achieved the stroke with that finish and dexterity that marked all he
did.

"Oh, I say!" said Noel disgustedly. "You haven't a look-in, Max. He plays
like a machine."

"You like not to be beaten by a Frenchman, no?" laughed Bertrand. "_Il
faut que les anglais soient toujours, toujours les premiers, hein_?" He
stopped suddenly, for Chris had made the faintest movement, as if his
words had touched some chord of memory. He flashed her a swift look, and
the smile died out of his face. He moved round the table, and again
stooped to his stroke. "But what is success after all," he said, "and
what is failure?"

"You ought to know," Max observed dryly, as again he made his point.

The Frenchman straightened himself. There was something of kinship
between these two, a tacit sympathy that had taken root on the night of
Chris's birthday, an understanding that called for no explanation.

"Yes," he said, with a quick nod, "I know them both. They are worth
just--that." He snapped his fingers in the air. "They pass like"--he
hesitated a moment, then ended with deliberation--"like pictures in the
sand."

"The same remark applies to most things," said Rupert.

Bertrand glanced at him. "To all but one, monsieur," he said, in a queer
tone that was almost tinged with irony.

Again he bent himself to a stroke with a quick, light grace, as though he
regarded success as a foregone conclusion.

"Look at that!" said Noel in dejection, as the ball cannoned triumphantly
down the table. "The gods are all on his side."

The stroke was a brilliant one, but Bertrand did not immediately
straighten himself as before. He remained leaning across the table, as if
he watched the effect of his skill.

There was a brief pause before very carefully he laid his cue upon the
cloth and began to raise himself, slowly, with infinite caution, using
both hands.

"No," he said, speaking jerkily, in a rapid undertone, as if to himself.
"The gods--are no more--on my side."

A sharp gasp escaped him. He stood up, and they saw the sweat running
down his forehead. "Will you--excuse me for a moment?" he said. "I
have--forgotten _quelque chose_."

He turned towards Chris with punctilious courtesy, clicked his heels
together, bowed, and walked stiffly from the room.



CHAPTER XII

A MAN OF HONOUR


An amazed silence followed his exit; then, in a quick whisper, Chris
spoke.

"He isn't well. I'm sure he isn't well. Did you see--his face--when he
stood up?"

She turned with the words as if she would go after him, but Max checked
her sharply. "No, you stay here. I'm going."

She paused irresolute. "Let me come too."

"Don't be silly," said Max. He frowned at her scared face for a moment,
then smiled abruptly. "Don't be silly!" he said again. He passed down the
room with what seemed to her maddening deliberation, opened the door, and
went quietly out.

Aunt Philippa was still busy with her correspondence in the drawing-room.
She glanced up as he went through. "Can you tell me what time the evening
post goes out? I have just asked M. Bertrand, but he did not see fit to
answer me."

"Then he couldn't have heard you," said Max. "The post goes out at
nine-thirty."

"Ah! Then perhaps you would wait a moment while I direct this envelope,
and you can then give it to a servant with orders to take it to the
post-office at once."

Max drew his red brows together and waited.

The scratching of Aunt Philippa's pen filled in the pause. She directed
her envelope, blotted it with care, stamped it with precision, finally
handed it to her nephew with the request, "Please remember that it is
important."

Max received it with reverence. "I shall treat it with the utmost
veneration," he said. He knew that his aunt had a strong dislike for him,
and he fostered it with much enjoyment upon every possible occasion.

He slipped the letter into his pocket as he left the room and promptly
dismissed it from his mind.

He turned aside into the dining-room, rummaged for brandy and found it,
and went with noiseless speed upstairs.

The door of Bertrand's room was unlatched, and he pushed it open without
ceremony. Blank darkness met him on the threshold, but a sound within
told him the room was tenanted. He switched on the light without delay,
entered, and shut the door.

He found Bertrand seated huddled on the edge of his bed, gasping horribly
for breath. He did not apparently hear Max enter. His close-cropped head
was bowed upon his arms. His hands were opening and closing convulsively.
He rocked to and fro almost with violence, but no sound beyond his
spasmodic breathing escaped him.

Max set down the brandy and took him by the shoulders. "Look here," he
said, "lie down. I'll help you."

Bertrand started a little at his touch, and Max had a glimpse of his
tortured face as he glanced up. "_Fermez la porte_!" he said, in a choked
whisper.

The door was already shut. Max wheeled and turned the key. "Now!" he
said.

He stooped over the Frenchman, and with the utmost care lifted him back
on to the pillows, unfastened his collar, then turned to fling the
windows as wide as they would go. The night air, fragrant with rain, blew
in, rustling the curtains. Bertrand turned his face towards it
instinctively. His lips were blue; they worked painfully, as if, between
his gasping, he were still trying to speak.

"Keep still!" Max said.

He mixed some brandy and water, and returning, slipped his arm under the
pillow. "Don't exert yourself," he said. "I'll do it all."

Very steadily he held the glass for Bertrand to drink. He could take but
very little at a time, so agonized was his struggle for breath. Max
waited through each pause, closely watching the drawn face, never missing
his opportunity. And gradually that little took effect. The anguish died
out of Bertrand's eyes, and he lay still.

Max slipped his arm from beneath the pillow and stood up. "Don't move,"
he said. "You're getting better."

"You--will stay--with me?" whispered Bertrand.

"Yes."

He drew up a chair, and sat down, took the Frenchman's wrist between his
fingers, and so remained for a long time.

Bertrand lay with closed eyes, his breathing still short and occasionally
difficult, but no longer agonized.

There came the sound of flying feet along the corridor, and an impatient
hand hammered on the door.

"Hullo, Bertrand! Are you all right? Chris wants to know," shouted a
boyish voice.

Bertrand started violently, and a quiver of pain went through him. He
fixed his eyes imploringly on Max, who instantly rose to the occasion.

"Of course he's all right. You clear out! We're busy."

"What are you doing?" Keen curiosity sounded in Noel's voice.

"Never mind! We don't want you," came the brotherly rejoinder.

"But I say--"

"Clear out!" ordered Max. "Go and tell Chris that Bertrand is writing a
letter to catch the post; which reminds me," he added grimly, "you can
also tell Holmes to come and fetch it in a quarter of an hour. Don't
forget now. It's important."

He pulled the letter entrusted to his keeping from his pocket and tossed
it on to the table.

Noel departed, and with an effort Bertrand spoke.

"But that was not the truth."

"Near enough," responded the second Wyndham complacently. "That is, if
you don't want everyone to know."

Bertrand's brows contracted. "No--no! I would not that your sister should
know, or Mr. Mordaunt."

"They will have to sooner or later," observed Max.

"Then--let it be later," murmured Bertrand.

Again there fell a silence, during which he seemed to be collecting his
strength, for when he spoke again it was with more firmness.

"Mr. Wyndham!"

"All right, you can call me Max. I'm listening," said Max.

Bertrand faintly smiled. That touch of good-fellowship pleased him. Young
as he was, this boy somehow made him feel that he understood many things.

"Then, Max," he said, "I think that you know already that which I am
going to say to you. However, it is better to say it. It is not possible
that I shall live very long."

He paused, but Max said nothing. He sat, still holding Bertrand's wrist,
his gaze upon the opposite wall.

"You knew it, no?" Bertrand questioned.

"I suspected it," Max said. He turned slightly and looked at the man upon
the bed. "This isn't your first attack," he said.

Bertrand shuddered irrepressibly. "Nor my second," he said.

"I can give you something to ease the pain," Max said. "But if you're
wise you will consult a doctor."

Again a faint smile flickered over Bertrand's face. "I am not enough
wise," he said, "to desire to prolong my life under these conditions."

"I should say the same myself," observed Max somewhat curtly.

He offered no further advice, but sat on, waiting apparently for further
developments.

After a little Bertrand proceeded. "I have known now for some time that
this malady was incurable. I think that I would not have it otherwise,
for I am very tired. I am old too--much older than even you can
comprehend. I have undergone the suffering of a lifetime, and I am too
tired to suffer much more. But--look you, Max--I do not want to make
suffer those my friends whom I shall leave behind. That is why I pray
that the end may come quick--quick. And, till then--I will bear my pain
alone."

"And if you can't?" said Max. "If it gets too much for you?"

"The good God will give me strength," the Frenchman said steadfastly.

Max shrugged his shoulders. "It's your affair, not mine. But I don't see
why you shouldn't tell Trevor. He will be hurt by and bye if you don't."

But Bertrand instantly negatived the suggestion. "He is already
much--much too good to me. I cannot--I will not--be further indebted to
him. My services are almost nominal now. Also"--he paused--"if I tell
him, I cannot remain here longer, and--I have made a promise that for the
present I will remain."

Max's shrewd eyes took another quick look at him. "For Chris's benefit, I
suppose?" he said, and though his tone was a question, it scarcely
sounded as if he expected an answer.

Bertrand's eyes met his for an instant in a single lightning glance of
interrogation. They fell again immediately, and there followed a
considerable pause before he made reply: "I do not abandon my friends
when they are troubled and they have need of me."

"Does Chris need you?" Max asked ruthlessly.

Again that swift glance shooting upwards; again a lengthy pause. Then,
"_Vous avez la vue perçante_," Bertrand remarked in a low tone.

"I can't help seeing things," Max returned. "I suppose it's my
speciality. I knew you were in love with her from the first moment I saw
you."

Bertrand made a slight movement, as if the crude statement hurt him; but
he answered quite quietly, "You have divined a secret which is known to
none other. I confide it to your honourable keeping."

The corners of Max's mouth went down. He looked as if he were on the
verge of making some ironical rejoinder, but he restrained it, merely
asking, "Are you sure that no one else knows it?"

"You mean--?" The words came sharply this time; Bertrand's eyes searched
his face with keen anxiety.

"Chris herself," Max said.

"_La petite Christine! Ma foi, no_! She has never known!" Bertrand's
reply was instant and held unshaken conviction.

"You seem very sure of that," Max observed.

"I am sure. Also"--a queer little smile of tenderness touched Bertrand's
drawn face--"she never will know now."

"Meaning you will never tell her?" Max said.

"Me, I will die first!" Bertrand answered simply.

Max grunted. "Women have an awkward knack of finding things out without
being told," he observed.

"She will never discover this while I live," Bertrand answered. "I am her
friend--the friend of her childhood--nothing more than that."

"But if she did find out?" Max said.

"She will not."

"But--suppose it for a moment--if she did?" He stuck to his point
doggedly, plainly determined to get an answer.

"In that case I should depart at once," Bertrand answered.

"Yes, and where would you go to?"

Bertrand was silent.

"You would go back to London and starve?" Max persisted.

"Perhaps." Bertrand spoke as though the matter were one of indifference
to him. "It would not be for long," he said rather dreamily.

"Oh, rot!" Max's rejoinder was intentionally vehement. "Look here," he
said, as Bertrand looked at him in surprise, "you can't go on like that.
It's too damned foolish. If, for any reason, you do leave this place, you
must have some plan of action. You can't let yourself drift."

"No?" Bertrand still looked surprised.

"No," Max returned vigorously. "Now listen to me, Bertrand. If I am to
keep quiet about this illness of yours, you have got to make me a
promise."

Bertrand raised his brows interrogatively.

"Just this," Max said, "that if you find yourself at a loose end, you
will come to me."

Bertrand looked quizzical. "A loose end?" he questioned.

"You know what it means all right," Max returned sternly. "Is it a
promise?"

"That I come to you if I need a friend?" amended Bertrand. "But--why
should I do that?"

"Because I am a friend if you like," said Max bluntly.

Bertrand's hand closed hard upon his. "I have--no words," he said, in a
voice from which all banter had departed.

Max gripped the hand. "Then it's a promise?"

Bertrand hesitated.

"You have no choice," Max reminded him. "And if you will come to me I can
find a way to help you. It wouldn't even be difficult. And you would have
skilled nursing and attention. Come, it's either that or Trevor will have
to be told. He'll see that you don't go back to starve in the streets."

"I will not have Mr. Mordaunt told," Bertrand said quickly and firmly.

"Then you will give me this promise," Max returned immovably.

With a gesture of helplessness the Frenchman yielded. "_Eh bien_, I
promise."

"Good!" said Max. He laid Bertrand's hand down and rose.

Yet a moment he stood above him, looking downwards. "You keep your
promises, eh?" he asked abruptly.

Bertrand flushed. "I am a man of honour," he said proudly.

"Yes, I know you are." Max touched his shoulder with a boyish,
propitiatory movement. "I beg your pardon, old chap. I'd be one myself if
I could."

"But you--but you--" Bertrand protested in confusion.

"I am a Wyndham," said Max, with a bitter smile. "It doesn't run in our
family, that. But I'll play the game with you, man, just because you're
straight."

He patted Bertrand's shoulder lightly, and turned away. There were not
many who knew Max Wyndham intimately, and of those not one who would have
credited the fact that the innate honour of a French castaway had somehow
made him feel ashamed.



CHAPTER XIII

WOMANHOOD


"A thousand thanks, _chère Madame_, for the generous favour which you
have bestowed upon me! I shall make it my business to see that no rumour
of your droll secret of Valpré ever reach the ear of the strict husband,
lest he should imagine that among the rocks of that paradise there lies
entombed something more precious to him than the gay romance of your
youth.

"To this undertaking I subscribe my signature, with many compliments to
the good secretary; and to you, _chère Madame_, my ever constant
devotion.

"_Toujours à vous_,
GUILLAUME RODOLPHE.

"P.S.--It is with profound regret that I find myself unable to visit you,
but my duty recalls me to my regiment in Paris."

A faint sigh escaped Chris, the first breath she had drawn for many
seconds. She stood by her dressing-table in the full glare of the
electric light, dressed in white, her wonderful hair shining like
burnished copper. She was to give her first dinner-party that night. It
was not to be a very large affair, yet it was something of an ordeal in
her estimation. She would probably have faced it more easily away from
Aunt Philippa's critical eyes. But this was a condition not obtainable.
Aunt Philippa had decided to remain some little time longer at Kellerton
Old Park in consequence of an engagement having fallen through, a state
of affairs that Noel regarded with a disgust too forcible to be expressed
in words, and which had driven Max away within three days of his arrival.

Upon Chris had devolved the main burden of her aunt's society, and a
heavy burden she had begun to find it. Aunt Philippa had apparently
determined to spend her time in transforming her young niece into a
practical housewife--a gigantic task which she tackled with praiseworthy
zeal. She had already instituted several reforms in the household, and
her thrifty mind contemplated several more. Chris's attitude, which had
at first been one of indifference, had gradually developed into one of
passive resistance. She was, as a matter of fact, too preoccupied just
then to turn her attention to active opposition; but she did not pretend
to enjoy the tutelage thus ruthlessly pressed upon her. She had been
compelled to relinquish her readings with Bertrand, of whom she now saw
very little; for, though rigidly courteous at all times, he consistently
avoided Aunt Philippa whenever possible. She on her part treated him with
disdainful sufferance, much as she had treated Cinders in the old days.
She resented his presence, but endured it perforce.

Under these circumstances it was not surprising that there should occur
moments of occasional friction between her niece and herself, especially
since, under the most favourable conditions, they had never yet managed
to discover a single point in common.

This constant jarring in the background of the ceaseless anxiety that
consumed her night and day had worn Chris's nerves to a very thin edge,
and now that relief had come at last in the form of the letter she held
in her hand she was almost too spent to feel it. The tension had endured
for so long that it seemed impossible that it could have relaxed all in a
moment. She had received a roll of banknotes from her brother two days
before, but that had in a fashion but added to her fever of unrest. Now
that she knew them to be safe in the pocket of the blackguard for whom
they were intended, now surely was the time for peace to return.

But had it? Standing there, still reading and re-reading those gibing
words, she asked herself dully if ever peace could return to her--the
thoughtless, happy peace of her childhood that she had valued so
lightly--the careless security of a mind at rest. Had it gone from her
for ever? Was that also buried among the rocks at Valpré? She
wondered--she wondered!

There came a low knock at the door between her room and her husband's.
She started violently. He had been in town for a few hours. She had not
expected him back for another quarter of an hour at least.

"Oh no," she called out quickly, "you can't come in!"

Yet she stood as she was under the glaring light, the letter still
clutched stiffly in her hand, her eyes still staring widely at the
irregular, un-English writing. The letters seemed to writhe and squirm
into life before her distorted vision, to wriggle like a procession of
monstrous insects across the page. Were they insects or were they
reptiles? She asked herself the question dazedly.

"Chris!" Her husband's voice came to her softly through the closed door.
"Let me come in for a moment. I have something to show you."

"Wait!" she called back desperately. "Wait!"

Yet it was as if iron chains were loaded upon her. She could speak, but
she could not move. Were they reptiles she was watching so intently? Or
stay! Were they crabs? They were certainly rather like the funny little
crabs that she and Cinders used to hunt for in the shallow pools of
Valpré. She gave a little laugh. Surely it was the sort of thing that
might have happened to Alice in Wonderland!

And then quite suddenly her brain flashed back to understanding, to
vivid, appalling consciousness; and she knew that her husband was waiting
to enter, while she held in her hand the one thing which she would have
sacrificed her life sooner than let him see. The awfulness of the
realization spurred her back to action. Her limbs were free again,
though horribly--so horribly--unsteady. The letter seemed to burn her
fingers. She dropped it into the small drawer in which she kept her
trinkets, turned the key with feverish haste, and, withdrawing it, thrust
it down inside her dress. The cold steel sent a shiver to her very heart,
but it stilled the wild fever of her fear. When she turned from the
dressing-table she had nerved herself; she was calm.

She crossed the room to the door at which Trevor stood waiting, and
quietly opened it.

"How impatient you are!" she said, with a smile.

For a woman who held her fate at bay it was admirably done; but for
Chris--little Chris of the sunny eyes and eager, impetuous actions--it
was so overwhelming a failure that Mordaunt, standing on the threshold,
made no movement to enter, but stood, and looked and looked, as though
he had never seen her before.

She met the look as a duellist meets his opponent's blade, instantly but
warily, summoning all the craft of her newly awakened womanhood to her
aid. She was not conscious of agitation. Her heart felt as if it were
turned to stone; it did not seem to be beating at all.

"Well," she said, as he did not speak, "have you got through your
business in town?"

He did not answer her, but came straight forward into the room, took her
by the shoulders, and drew her round so that she faced the light. "What
have you been doing?" he said.

She faced him unshrinking, undismayed. The Chris of a few hours before
would have drawn back in open fear from the piercing scrutiny of those
grey eyes, but this Chris was different. This Chris was a woman with pale
lips that smiled a baffling smile and eyes that barred the way to her
soul, a woman who had found in her womanhood a weapon of defence that no
man could thrust aside.

"I haven't been doing anything," she said indifferently, "except run
round after Aunt Philippa--oh yes, and write up to town for some things I
wanted. Aunt Philippa is really going to leave us to-day week. I can't
think what we shall do without her, can you? Now tell me about your
doings."

She lifted her face suddenly for his kiss, ignoring the fact that he was
still holding her as if for inquisition.

He drew her sharply into his arms and held her fast. "You are very cold,
sweetheart," he said.

She flushed a little at his action, though the lips he kissed were like
ice. "I am tired," she said.

She expected him to set her free, but he did not. He held her closer
still. Not till afterwards did she realize that it was the first time he
had ever held her thus and she had not quivered like a frightened bird
against his breast. She was scarcely thinking of him now. She was as one
who stands before a scorching fire too rapt in reverie to feel the heat.

Yet after a little he did succeed in infusing a certain degree of warmth
into her. Her arms went round his neck, though hardly of her own
volition, and her lips returned his kiss. But there was no spirit in her.
She leaned against him as if spent.

"Are you quite well, dear?" he asked her tenderly.

"Oh, quite! I am always well." She uttered a little tremulous laugh and
raised her head from his shoulder. "Trevor," she said, "I am afraid you
will think me very extravagant, but, do you know, I haven't any money to
go on with. I had a notice from the bank to-day to say my account was
overdrawn."

Again it was not the Chris he knew who uttered the words. It was a woman
of the world to whom his passing displeasure had become a matter almost
of indifference.

"Chris," he said abruptly, "what is the matter with you, child? Are you
bewitched?"

That roused her. She suddenly realized that she was on dangerous ground,
that to blind him she must recall the child who had vanished so
inexplicably. And so for the first time she deliberately set herself to
deceive this man who till now had ever impelled her to a certain measure
of honesty. She did it with a sick heart--but she did it.

She laid her hands on the front of his coat, grasping it nervously,
lifting pleading eyes to his.

"No, I'm not bewitched. I'm only pretending not to be frightened. Trevor,
don't be vexed. I'm very sorry about it. Really I couldn't help it."

"It's all right, dear," he said at once, and his hands closed instantly
and reassuringly upon hers. He smiled into her eyes. "It's very naughty,
of course, but I'm glad you have told me. How much do you want?"

She hesitated momentarily. "I--I'm afraid rather a lot, Trevor."

"How much?" he repeated; and then, as she still hesitated, his hold
tightened and his face grew grave. He looked straight down into her eyes.
"Chris," he said, "you haven't forgotten, have you, that it is against my
wish that you should let your brothers have money?"

She met the look unflinching. "No, Trevor."

He released her without further question. "Then you need not be afraid to
tell me how much."

She made a little grimace. The part was getting easier to play. She was
beginning to feel almost natural. But the other woman--the woman of the
world who surely had never been Chris Wyndham--was still there in the
background watching the farce and smiling cynically. Chris was beginning
to be afraid of this new personality of hers. It was infinitely more
formidable than her husband had ever been.

"How much, dear?" Mordaunt asked quietly.

She started slightly. "Thirty pounds," she said.

"Your account is overdrawn to that amount?"

"Yes." She glanced at him nervously. "I am very sorry," she said again.

He remained grave, but perfectly kind. "I will pay in fifty pounds
to-morrow," he said. "That will take you to the end of the month."

"Oh, thank you, Trevor!" She threw him a quick smile of gratitude. "I
will pay you back as soon as ever I can."

"No, it isn't a loan," he said.

"Oh, don't give it me!" Impulsively she broke in upon his words. It was
growing strangely easy, this part she had to play. Or had she indeed been
bewitched for those few dreadful seconds? Was she in reality herself
again, the quick-hearted Chris he knew, and that other woman but a
phantom born of the horrible strain she had undergone? She told herself
that this was the true explanation, even while in her heart she knew
otherwise.

"Don't give it me," she said again. "I would really rather you didn't."

"Why?" he asked.

She put out her hand to him with a little movement of entreaty. "I can't
explain. But--I would like to pay it back if you don't mind."

He smiled at her persistence. "No, I don't mind, if you particularly wish
it. Now come into my room for a moment. I want to show you something."

She went with him, her hand in his, not willingly but because she could
not do otherwise.

He led her to the table, and pointed out a box upon it. "That is for you,
Chris."

"For me!" She looked at him as if startled. "What is it, Trevor?"

"Open it and see," he said.

She hesitated. She seemed almost afraid. "I hope it isn't anything
very--very--"

"Open it and see," he repeated.

She obeyed him with hands that had begun to tremble, took out an
object wrapped in tissue-paper, unfolded the coverings, and disclosed a
jewel-case.

Then again she hesitated, standing as one in doubt. "Trevor, I--I--"

"Open it, dear," he said gently.

And mutely she obeyed.

Diamonds flashed before her dazzled eyes, a myriad sparkling colours shot
spinning through her brain. She stood gazing, gazing, as one beneath a
spell. For the passage of many seconds there was no sound in the room.

Then with a sudden movement she closed the case. It shut with a sharp
snap, and she raised a haggard face.

"Trevor, it's lovely--lovely! But I can't take it--anyhow, not yet--not
till I have paid you back."

"My dear little wife, what nonsense!" he said.

"No, no, it isn't! I am in earnest." Her voice quivered; she held out the
case to him beseechingly. "I can't take it--yet," she said. "I thank you
with all my heart. But I can't--I can't!"

Her words ended upon a sudden sob; she laid the case down again among its
wrappings, and stood before him silent, with bent head. It was not easy
to refuse this gift of his, but for some reason to accept it was a
monstrous impossibility. He would not understand, of course, but
yet--whatever he thought--she could not take it.

A long pause followed her last words. She shed no tears, but another sob
was struggling for utterance. She put her hand to her throat to strangle
it there.

And then at last Mordaunt spoke. "Chris, have you been doing something
that you are afraid to tell me of?"

She was silent. Silence was her only refuge now.

He put his arm round her. "Because," he said very tenderly, "you needn't
be afraid, dear, Heaven knows."

That pierced her unbearably. Woman though she was, she almost cried out
under the pain of it.

She drew herself away from him. "Don't! please don't!" she said rather
breathlessly. "You--you must take things for granted sometimes. I can't
always be explaining my feelings. They won't stand it."

She tried to laugh, but could not. Again desperately she pressed her hand
to her throat. How would he take it? She wondered. Would he regard it as
a mere childish whim? Or would he see that he was dealing with a woman,
and a desperate woman at that?

She scarcely knew what she expected of him, but most assuredly she did
not anticipate his next move.

Quite quietly he picked up the jewel-case, and re-entered her room.

"It may as well go among your other treasures," he said. "You needn't
wear it--unless you wish--until you have paid me back."

His tone was perfectly ordinary. She wondered what was in his mind, how
he regarded her behaviour, why he treated her thus; not guessing that he
had set himself resolutely, with infinite patience, to show her how small
was her cause for fear.

He laid his hand upon the drawer that contained her trinkets, tried it,
turned round to her, faintly smiling.

"May I have the key?"

She had followed him in silence, and now she stood still, The key! The
key! It seemed to be searing her flesh, burning through to her very
heart. She suddenly felt as if all the Fates were arrayed against her.
Why--why--why had she chosen that drawer to guard her secret? Yet how
could she have foreseen this? A mist swam before her eyes. Her new-found
composure tottered.

"I--have lost it," she murmured.

"Lost it!" he echoed.

"I mean--I mean--" She was stammering now in open confusion--"I must have
laid it down somewhere. I--I shall find it again, no doubt."

He turned fully round and looked at her. She clasped her hands to still
her quivering nerves. This fresh ordeal was proving too much for her.

"I can't help it," she said, with white lips. "I often mislay things. I
am careless, I know. But I always find them again sooner or later. I will
have a look for it while you are dressing."

Her words ran on almost meaninglessly. She was speaking for the sake of
speaking, because silence would have been too terrible to be borne,
because if she had ceased to speak she must have screamed. Even as it
was, the fact that her husband said nothing whatever was driving her
almost to distraction.

Suddenly she realized that he was waiting for her to stop, that her words
were making no impression, that he was not so much as listening to them,
his attention being focussed upon her and her alone.

She broke off in desperation. She met his steady eyes. "Don't you--don't
you believe me, Trevor?"

He did not instantly reply. For one dreadful moment she thought that he
was going to answer in the negative. And then very deliberately he
declined her direct challenge.

"I think," he said quietly, "that you don't know what you are saying."

And with that he went slowly back to his own room, taking the jewel-case
with him. The door closed softly and she was left alone.

For many seconds thereafter Chris made no movement of any sort. It was as
if she were afraid to stir. Her eyes were wide, gazing straight before
her, as though fascinated by some scene of terror.

She moved at last stiffly, went to the window, drew a long, deep breath.
She asked herself no questions of any sort. There was no need. For the
first time in her life she was face to face with her own soul, beyond all
possibility of self-deception.

The child Chris was gone for ever, the woman Chris remained, a woman with
a tragic secret that must never be revealed. She knew now why she had
fought so desperately to keep that episode of Valpré from her husband's
knowledge. She only marvelled that the reason had never come home to her
before. She knew now why she had always shrunk inwardly from the
searching of his eyes. She had always dreaded that he might see too much,
even that same secret of which she herself must have been vaguely
conscious for years.

It was all clear to her now, so clear that she could never shut her eyes
to it again. All her life long she must carry it in her heart, and no one
must ever know. Sleeping and waking, she must keep it safely hidden. She
must go on living a lie all her life, all her life.

She flung out her arms with a sudden gesture of fierce rebellion. Oh, why
had she married? Why? Why? Why? Had she not always known in her heart
that she was making a terrible, an irrevocable, mistake? How was it she
had been so blind? Why had there been no one to warn her of the snare
into which she was walking? Why had no hand held her back?

Trevor himself--but no, Trevor did not so much as know that she had left
her childhood behind her yet. He was still wondering what childish
peccadillo was troubling her, keeping her from accepting his gift. At
least, he was very far from suspecting her actual reason; nor must he
ever suspect.

Never, as long as they lived, must he know that she had refused the first
thing of value that he had offered her since their wedding because in an
instant of overwhelming revelation she had just recognized the fact that
she loved--had loved for years--another man.



PART III



CHAPTER I

WAR


Two days before that on which Aunt Philippa had decided to take her
departure Mordaunt went again to town. Noel, whose holidays were drawing
to a close, accompanied him to the station in a state of high jubilation,
albeit Holmes was in charge of the motor and there was not the faintest
chance of his being allowed to take the wheel.

"I hope you're going to behave yourself," were Mordaunt's last words.

And the youngster's cheery grin and impudent "You bet, old chap!" ought
to have warned him not to hope for behaviour too exemplary.

Noel, in fact, had been anticipating his brother-in-law's departure with
considerable eagerness. Though he liked him thoroughly, he was an
undoubted check upon his enjoyment. He kept him within bounds after a
fashion which had at first amused but had of late begun somewhat to pall
upon him; and Noel was only awaiting a suitable opportunity to kick over
the traces and gallop free. On this occasion Mordaunt had decided to
spend the night in town, so circumstances were propitious.

As for Mordaunt, he had dismissed Noel from his mind almost before the
train was out of the station. But for her aunt's presence, he would have
persuaded Chris to go with him, even though he knew that she had not the
smallest wish to do so. He was growing very anxious with regard to her,
and he was firmly determined that she should have a change of scene as
soon as Noel's holidays and Aunt Philippa's protracted stay came to an
end. It was not that she seemed ill, but she was very far from being
herself, and there were times when he even fancied that she simulated
gaiety for the deliberate purpose of deceiving him. He knew, too, that
her sleep was often broken and troubled, but he never commented upon
this; she was so plainly averse to any criticism from him or anyone. A
shrewd suspicion had begun to take root in Mordaunt's mind to account for
this unwonted reticence; and because of it he treated her with the utmost
patience and consideration, asking no question, giving no sign that he so
much as noticed the change in her. He invariably turned from any subject
she seemed to find distasteful. If she seemed unusually nervous or
unreasonable, he passed it over, bearing with her with a tenderness that
sometimes moved her in secret to passionate tears the while she asked
herself what she had ever done that he should love her so.

For if she had ever doubted the quality of his love, she could not do so
now. It surrounded her whichever way she turned, asking nothing of her,
never intruding upon her, content simply to shelter her. And though the
very fact of it hurt her, it comforted her subtly as well, lulling her
fear of him, giving her a certain measure of confidence.

Of Bertrand, in those days, she saw less and less. In the first shock of
realization she had instinctively avoided him, possessed by a haunting
dread that he might guess her secret. But upon this point she was very
soon reassured. The consistent and unwavering friendliness of his
attitude quieted her misgivings, and nerved her to treat him, if with
less intimacy, at least without visible awkwardness. Whether he noticed
her avoidance or not she did not know, but he certainly seemed to be
withdrawing himself more and more out of her life. His work with her
husband apparently occupied all his thoughts, and then there was Aunt
Philippa also to keep him at a distance. How it would be when her aunt
departed Chris had no notion, but she was looking forward to that event
with an eagerness almost feverish. All her natural sweetness
notwithstanding, there were occasions upon which she actively disliked
this domineering relative of hers. Aunt Philippa, on her part, who had
never taken so much trouble with her niece before, openly marvelled at
her intractability, which even the fact that Chris was one of those
headstrong Wyndhams did not, in her opinion, wholly justify. No open
rupture had occurred, but a very decided animosity had begun to smoulder
between them, which a very little provocation might at any moment fan
into open hostility.

Chris was leaning against a pillar of the porch when her brother
returned. There was very decided dejection in her attitude.

"Cheer up!" Noel exhorted her, as he sprang from the car. "I've got a
ripping plan."

He came and twined his arm in hers, and Chris smiled with a hint of
wistfulness. She felt as if she had left Noel and his boyish pleasures
very far behind of late.

"What do you want to do?" she said.

"Come into the gun-room and I'll tell you." Noel was all eagerness.
"Coast clear?" he questioned. "Where's Aunt Phil?"

"Waiting for me to go and help her find fault with the gardeners." Chris
was still smiling a little, but there was not much humour in her voice.

"Oh, rats! Don't go!" said Noel. "Come along into the gun-room, and help
me make some fireworks. It will be much more fun."

A spark of the old ardour kindled in Chris's eyes. "Oh, are you going to
make fireworks?" she said. "Have you got the ingredients?"

He nodded. "Nearly all. Come and see. What we haven't got we must
manufacture. I know where there are plenty of cartridges."

Chris yielded to the eager pulling of his arm. "I suppose Trevor wouldn't
mind for once," she said. She had grown unaccountably scrupulous in this
respect.

But Noel jeered at the notion. "Who cares? It'll be all over long
before he comes home to-morrow. We will have a regular jollification
to-night. You and I will run the show, and Aunt Phil and Bertrand can
look on and admire. I say, Chris, I've got a ripping receipt for
Catherine wheels--not the big ones, those little things you hold and buzz
round. You know!"

His enthusiasm was infectious. It drew her almost in spite of herself.
Besides, it meant a temporary respite from the continual burden that
weighed her down, and brief though it must be, she could not bring
herself to refuse it. She went with him, therefore, with the feeling of
one who has signed a truce with the enemy, and in a couple of minutes
they were securely closeted in the gun-room, with the door locked against
all intruders, and all thoughts of Aunt Philippa and any other troublous
problems as resolutely excluded from their minds.

The hours of the morning literally flew. Luncheon-time found them
absorbed in a most critical process.

"Bust lunch!" said Noel. "We can't possibly leave this now."

But Chris's sense of duty proved too strong for her inclination at this
juncture, and she sallied forth from their retreat to rescue Bertrand
from a _tête-à-tête_ meal with her aunt.

There was a sparkle of merriment in her eyes when she entered the
dining-room. The engrossing work of the morning had done her good. She
was fully five minutes late, and Bertrand, who had presented himself
sharp on the hour with military punctuality, was waiting by the window.

He came swiftly to meet her. She had not seen him before that day.

"You are looking well this morning," he said, in his quick, friendly way.
"You have been busy, yes?"

His soft eyes interrogated her, as for an instant he held her hand. Never
once had she found those eyes impossible to meet. They held the fidelity
of unswerving friendship.

"Oh yes," she said, "busy in a fashion--a very childish fashion, Bertie.
Noel and I are making fireworks!"

"Fireworks!" he echoed.

"Yes, we are going to have a grand display tonight. Will you come and
look on?"

He smiled. "But yes," he said. "I think that I will come and take care of
you."

She nodded. "Do! But they are not dangerous, not very. Where is Aunt
Philippa?"

He spread out his hands whimsically. "She has not given me her
confidence."

Chris laughed. Actually she was feeling almost lighthearted. Till that
moment she had had a morbid dread of being alone with him, and now behold
her dread vanishing in mirth! Surely she had been very foolish, like a
child frightened at shadows!

"I wonder where she is," she said. "I am afraid I have been playing
truant this morning. I shall have to apologize, though it was all Noel's
fault. Do see if you can find Mrs. Forest," she added to a servant just
entering. "Ask her if she is ready for luncheon."

"Mrs. Forest is out in the motor, and has not yet returned," was the
information this elicited.

"How odd!" said Chris. "What had we better do?"

Bertrand shrugged his shoulders, still looking quizzical. "We must not
lunch without her, _bien sûr_. Let us go into the garden."

They went into the garden, and walked for a space in the September
sunshine.

They talked at first upon commonplace topics, and Chris was wholly at her
ease. But presently Bertrand turned the conversation with an abrupt
question.

"Christine, tell me, you have never seen that scoundrel Rodolphe again?"

She started a little, and was conscious that she changed colour, but she
answered him instantly. "No, never. But--why do you ask?"

Very gravely he made reply. "I have feared lately that there was
something that troubled you. I was wrong, yes?"

He looked at her anxiously.

She did not answer him, she could not.

"_Eh bien_," he said gently, after a moment. "It was not that. You have
heard that he has been recalled to France--that there is a rumour that
there have been revelations that may lead to a court-martial?"

"No!" said Chris in amazement. "Do you mean--"

He bent his head. "It is possible."

"That you may be vindicated?" she questioned eagerly. "Oh, Bertie!"

"It is possible," he repeated. "Yet I will not permit myself to hope. It
is no more than a rumour. It is also possible that it may not even touch
the old _affaire_, since he made no appearance at my trial."

"But if it did!" said Chris.

He gave her an odd look. "If it did, Christine?" he questioned.

"You would go back with flying colours," she said. "You would be
reinstated surely!"

He shook his head. "I do not think it."

"You mean you wouldn't go?" she asked.

He turned his face up to the sun with a peculiar gesture. "Who can say?"
he said, with closed eyes. "Me, I think that the good God has other plans
for me. I may be justified--I do not know. But I shall wear the uniform
of the French Army--never again."

He spoke perfectly calmly, with absolute conviction; but there was that
in his face that startled her, something she had never seen before.

She put out a hesitating hand, and touched his sleeve. "Bertie!"

Instantly he looked at her, saw the scared expression in her eyes, and,
smiling, pressed her hand.

"_Mais_, Christine, these things--what are they? Ambition, success,
honour--loss, failure, shame; they seem so great in this little life of
mortality. But, after all, they are no more than the tools with which the
good God shapes us to His destiny. He uses them, and when His work is
done He throws them aside. We leave them behind us; we pass on to that
which is greater." He paused a moment, and his eyes kindled as though he
were on the verge of something further; then suddenly they went beyond
her, and he relinquished her hand. "Madame has returned," he said. "Let
us go!"

Looking up, Chris saw Aunt Philippa upon the terrace above them.

The expression on her relative's face was one of severe and undisguised
disapproval, as her gaze rested upon the two in the garden. Chris, as she
moved to meet her, felt a sudden flame of indignation at her heart. How
dared Aunt Philippa look at them so?

"We have been waiting for you," she said, speaking in some haste to
conceal her resentment. "Has anything happened?"

Aunt Philippa replied in the measured accents habitual to her. "Nothing
has happened. I have been to Sandacre Court, at Mrs. Pouncefort's
invitation, to see the gardens. I waited for you, Chris, for nearly an
hour this morning, but you did not see fit either to come to me or to
send any word of explanation to account for your absence. Therefore I
started late. Hence my late return."

Chris coloured. "I am sorry, Aunt Philippa. Noel wanted me. I am afraid I
forgot you were waiting."

"It seems to me," said Aunt Philippa, with cutting emphasis, "that you
are apt to forget every obligation when in Mr. Bertrand's society."

"Aunt Philippa!"

Furious indignation rang in Chris's voice. In a second--in less--it would
have been open war, but swift as an arrow Bertrand intervened.

"Ah! but pardon me," he said, in his soft voice. "I am not responsible
for Mrs. Mordaunt's negligence. She has been occupied with her affairs,
and I with mine. Had she been in my society"--he smiled with a flash of
the teeth--"she would not have forgotten her duties so easily. I am an
excellent monitor, madame. Acquit me, I beg, of being accessory to the
crime, and accept my sympathies the most sincere."

Aunt Philippa ignored them in icy silence, but he had accomplished his
end. The evil moment was averted. Whatever Chris might have to endure
later, at least she would be spared the added mortification of his
presence during the infliction. Airily he turned the subject. He could
overlook a snub more adroitly than Aunt Philippa could administer one.

They went into the house, and during the meal that followed Bertrand made
himself gracefully agreeable to both ladies. So delicate were his
attentions that Chris found herself more than once on the verge of
hysterical laughter.

But when he left them at length, with many apologies, to resume his
interrupted labours, her sense of humour ceased to vibrate. Never before
had she desired her husband's presence as she desired it then.

Her hope that Aunt Philippa might retire to her room to rest was a very
slender one, and destined almost from the outset to disappointment. Aunt
Philippa was on the war trail, and she would not rest until she had
tracked down her quarry.

She began at once to speak of her morning's visit to Mrs. Pouncefort,
whom she knew as a London hostess. Personally, she disapproved of her,
but she could not afford to pass her over, since her status in society
was by no means inconsiderable, being, in fact, almost capable of
rivalling her own.

"I should have remained to luncheon," she said, "but for the fact that
you were here quite unchaperoned. Had you accompanied me, as I had hoped
you would, I should not have had to hasten back in the heat."

"But I wasn't invited," said Chris, "and I know every inch of those
gardens. I knew them long ago, before the Pounceforts came."

"The invitation," said Aunt Philippa, not to be diverted from her
purpose, "was quite casual. You could quite well have accompanied me. In
fact, I think Mrs. Pouncefort was surprised not to see you. However, we
need not discuss that further. Doubtless you had your own reasons for
desiring to remain at home, and I shall not ask you what those reasons
were. What I do ask, and what I think I have a right to know, is whether
you have had the proper feeling to tell your husband that the Captain
Rodolphe you met at Pouncefort Court a little while ago is the man with
whom you were so deplorably intimate at Valpré in your girlhood, or
whether you have had the audacity to pretend that he was a total stranger
to you."

Chris almost gasped at this unexpected attack, but its directness
compelled an instant reply without pausing to consider the position.

"I was never intimate with Captain Rodolphe," she said quickly. "I never
spoke to him before the other day."

And there she stopped suddenly short, arrested by the look of open
incredulity with which her aunt received her hasty statement.

There was a moment's silence. Then, "Really!" said Aunt Philippa. "He
gave Mrs. Pouncefort to understand otherwise."

Chris felt the blood rush to her face. This was intolerable. "What did he
give Mrs. Pouncefort to understand?" she demanded.

"Merely that you were old friends," said Aunt Philippa, with the calm
superiority of one not to be shaken in her belief.

"Then he lied!" said Chris fiercely.

Aunt Philippa said "Indeed!" with raised eyebrows.

Chris's hands clenched unconsciously. "He lied!" she repeated. "We are
not friends! We never could be! I--I hate the man!"

"Then you know him well enough for that?" said Aunt Philippa.

Chris sprang to her feet with hot cheeks and blazing eyes. "Aunt
Philippa, you have no right--you and Mrs. Pouncefort--to--to talk me over
and discuss my acquaintances!"

"My dear child," said Aunt Philippa, "all that passed between us was a
remark made by Mrs. Pouncefort to the effect that one of her guests,
Captain Rodolphe--an old friend of yours whom she believed you had
originally met at Valpré--had just returned to Paris. What led to the
remark I do not remember. But naturally the name recalled certain
regrettable circumstances to my mind, and I felt it my duty to ask if you
had been quite candid with Trevor upon the subject. I am sincerely
grieved to know that my suspicion in this respect was but too well
founded."

"He was not the man I knew at Valpré" burst forth Chris, with passionate
vehemence. "You may believe it or not; it is the truth!"

"Then, my dear," said Aunt Philippa, with the calmness of unalterable
conviction, "there must have been two men who enjoyed that privilege."

Chris broke into a wild laugh--a laugh that had been struggling for
utterance for the past hour.

"Two! Why, there were a dozen at least, some soldiers, some fishermen!
Ask Trevor! He can tell you all about them--if he thinks it worth while!"

"And yet you have not mentioned Captain Rodolphe to him?" said Aunt
Philippa. Her eyes were fixed unsparingly upon the girl's face, and she
saw the colour dying away as swiftly as it had risen. "That is strange,"
she remarked, with emphasis.

"It is not strange!" flashed back Chris. The laugh had gone from her
lips, leaving them white, but she faced her adversary unflinchingly. It
was open war now--a fierce and bitter struggle for the mastery, for which
she knew herself to be ill-equipped, but in which she must fight to the
last. She knew that Aunt Philippa had always regarded her with cold
dislike, and it dawned upon her in that moment that now--now that her
position was assured, now that she was rich and popular and the wife of a
man who was universally honoured in that great world of society in which
her aunt had always striven for a leading place--the dislike had turned
to a cruel jealousy that demanded her downfall. And she was horribly at
her mercy; deep in her heart she knew that also, but she would not own
it, even to herself. Aunt Philippa had not yet unmasked the truth. Until
she succeeded in doing so, all was not lost.

"It is not strange," she repeated, and this time she spoke quietly,
summoning all her strength to the unequal contest. "Captain Rodolphe was
not of sufficient importance to mention to Trevor. Besides--"

"Although you hate him so bitterly!" Aunt Philippa reminded her.

Chris pressed on, ignoring the thrust. "Besides, Trevor does not need,
does not so much as wish to be told of every little incident that ever
happened in my life. He prefers to trust me."

"And have you never abused his confidence?" asked Aunt Philippa.

It was inevitable. She flinched ever so slightly, but she covered it with
instant defiance. "What do you mean, Aunt Philippa?"

Aunt Philippa made no direct reply. She knew the value of insinuation in
such a battle as this. "Ask yourself that question," she said
impressively.

It might have provided a way of escape, at least temporarily, but Chris
was too far goaded to see it. "Tell me what you mean," she said.

Aunt Philippa's thin lips smiled ironically. "My dear, are you really so
blind, or is deceit the very air you breathe? Can you look me in the face
and assure me that nothing has ever passed between you and your husband's
secretary of which you would not wish him to know?"

That went home, straight to her quivering heart. For a moment the pain of
it held her dumb. Then, with a gasp, she turned from the pitiless eyes
that watched her.

"Oh, how dare you, Aunt Philippa! How dare you!" she cried in impotence.

"I trust that I am not afraid to do my duty," said Aunt Philippa, very
gravely.

But Chris had already turned, completely routed, and fled from the scene
of her defeat; nor did she pause until she had reached her haven at the
top of the house, where, like a wounded bird, she crouched down in
solitude and so remained for a long, long time.

Not till the afternoon was far advanced did any measure of comfort come
to her stricken soul, and then at last she remembered that, after all,
she was comparatively safe. Her husband's trust was still hers, implicit
and unwavering, and she knew that he would not so much as notice a single
hint from Aunt Philippa, however adroitly offered. That was her one and
only safeguard, and as she realized it the bitterness of her heart gave
place to a sudden burst of anguished shame. What had she ever done to
deserve the generous, unquestioning trust he thus reposed in her?
Nothing--less than nothing!



CHAPTER II

FIREWORKS


When Chris emerged from her seclusion, she found that her aunt had
decided to suspend hostilities, and to treat her with the majestic
condescension of the conqueror. It was something of a relief, for Chris
was not fashioned upon fighting lines, and long-sustained animosity was
beyond her. She was thankful for Noel's plans for the evening's
entertainment as a topic of conversation, even though Aunt Philippa
openly disapproved of the enterprise. She had begun feverishly to count
the hours to her aunt's departure. She would not feel really safe,
reassure herself how she might, until she was finally gone.

It was not until after dinner that Noel emerged from his lair in the
gun-room and announced everything to be in readiness. He called Chris out
on to the terrace to assist him, and Aunt Philippa and Bertrand were
left--an ill-assorted couple--to watch and admire the result of his
efforts. Aunt Philippa invariably maintained a demeanour of haughty
reserve if she found herself alone with her host's French secretary, an
attitude in which he as invariably acquiesced with an impenetrable
silence which she resented without knowing why. He was always courteous,
but he never tried to be agreeable to her, and this also Aunt Philippa
resented, though she would have mercilessly snubbed any efforts in that
direction had he exerted himself to make them.

The night was dark and still, an ideal night for fireworks. Noel began
with the failures which he had not the heart to waste. He was keeping the
choicest of his collection till the last. Consequently there were a good
many crackling explosions on the ground with nothing but a few sparks to
compensate for the noise, and Aunt Philippa very speedily tired of the
din.

"This is childish as well as dangerous," she said. "I shall go to the
library. There will at least be peace and quietness there."

"Without doubt," said Bertrand.

He accompanied her thither with a polite regard for her comfort for which
he received no gratitude, and then returned to smoke his cigarette in
comfort by the open French window that overlooked the terrace.

A ruddy glare lit up the scene as he took up his stand. The failures were
apparently exhausted, and Noel had begun upon the masterpieces. Chris's
quick laugh came to him, as he stood there watching. Yet he frowned a
little to himself as he heard it, missing the gay, spontaneous, childish
ring that he had been wont to hear. What had come to her of late? Was it
true that she had told him on the night of Cinders' death? Was she indeed
grown-up? If so--he changed his position slightly, trying to catch a
glimpse of her in the fitful glare of one of Noel's Roman candles--had
the time come for him to go? He had always faced the fact that she would
not need him when her childhood was left behind. And certainly of late
she had not seemed to need him. She had even--he fancied--avoided him at
times. He wondered wherefore. Could it have been at her aunt's
instigation? Surely not. She was too staunch for that.

There remained another possibility, and, after a little, reluctantly,
with clenched teeth, he faced it. Had she by some means discovered that
which he had so studiously hidden from her all this time? He cast his
mind back. Had he ever inadvertently betrayed himself? He knew he had
not. Never since her marriage had he given the faintest sign; no, not
even on that fateful afternoon when she had clung to him in anguish of
soul and he had held her fast pressed against his heart. He had been
strictly honourable, resolutely loyal, all through. He had always held
himself in check. He had never forgotten, never relaxed his vigilance,
never once been other than faithful, even in thought, to the friend who
trusted him. Yet--Max's words recurred to him, piercing him as with a
stab of physical pain--without doubt women had a genius _incroyable_ for
discovering secrets. And if Chris were indeed a woman--was it not
possible--

Again her laugh broke in upon his thoughts, and he turned swiftly in the
direction whence it came. She was standing not more than a dozen yards
from him, a red whirl of fire all about her, in her hand a whizzing,
spitting-aureole of flame. The light flared upwards on her face and
gleaming hair. She looked like some fire-goddess, exulting over the
radiant element she had created. And, like a sword-thrust to his heart,
there went through him the memory of her standing poised like a bird on
the prow of a boat. Just so had she stood then; just so, goddess-like,
had she exulted in the morning sunshine and the sparkling water; just so
had her bare arms shone on the day that first he had consciously
worshipped her, on the day that she had told him of her desire to find
out all the secrets that there were. Ah! how much had she found out since
then--his bird of Paradise with the restless, ever-fluttering wings? How
much? How much?

A sudden cry banished his speculations--a cry uttered by her voice, sharp
with dismay. "Oh, Noel! My sleeve!"

Before the words were past her lips Bertrand had leaped forth to the
rescue. He traversed the distance between them as a meteor hurling
through space. But even so, ere he reached her, the filmy lace that hung
down from her elbow had blazed into flame. She had dropped the firework,
and it lay hissing on the ground like a glittering snake. He sprang over
it and caught her in his arms.

She cried out again as he crushed her to him, cried out, and tried to
push him from her; but he held her fast, gripping the flaming material
with his naked hands, rending it, and gripping afresh. Something white
which neither noticed fluttered upon the ground between them. It must
have actually passed through that frantic grip. It lay unheeded, while
Bertrand beat out the last spark and ripped the last charred rag away
from the soft arm.

"You are hurt, no?" he queried rather breathlessly.

"You, Bertie! What of you?" she cried hysterically, clinging to him.
"Your hands--let me see them!"

"By Jove, that was a near thing!" ejaculated Noel, who had followed close
upon Bertrand's heels. "I thought you were done for that time, Chris. How
on earth did you manage it? You must have been jolly careless."

Chris did not attempt to answer. Now that the emergency had passed, she
was hanging upon Bertrand almost in a state of collapse.

"Let us go in," the latter said gently.

"Yes, run along," said Noel, who had a wholesome dread of hysterics.
"Don't be silly, Chris; there's no harm done. But if it hadn't been for
this chap here you'd have been in flames in another second. I
congratulate you, Bertrand, on your presence of mind. Not hurt yourself,
I suppose?"

"I am not hurt," the Frenchman answered; but his words sounded as if
speech were an effort to him, almost as if he spoke them through clenched
teeth.

Chris straightened herself swiftly. "Yes, let us go in," she said.

She leaned upon Bertrand no longer, but she still held his arm. As they
entered the drawing-room alone together, she turned and looked at him.

"Ah! I knew you were hurt," she said quickly. "Sit down, Bertie. Here is
a chair."

He sank down blindly, his face like death; he had begun to gasp for
breath. His hand groped desperately towards an inner pocket, but fell
powerless before reaching it.

"Let me!" whispered Chris.

She bent over him, and slipped her own trembling hand inside his coat.
Her fingers touched something hard, and she drew out a small bottle.

"Is it this?" she said.

His lips moved in the affirmative. She removed the stopper and shook out
some capsules.

"_Deux_!" whispered Bertrand.

She put them into his mouth and waited. Great drops had started on his
forehead, and now began to roll slowly down his drawn face. She took his
handkerchief after a little to wipe them away, but almost immediately he
reached up with a quivering smile and took it from her.

"I am better," he said, and though his voice was husky he had it under
control. "You will pardon me for giving you this trouble. It was only--a
passing weakness."

He mopped his forehead, and leaned slowly forward, moving with caution.

"But you are ill! You are in pain!" Chris exclaimed.

"No," he said. "No, I have no pain. I am better. I am quite well."

Again he looked up at her, smiling. "But how I have alarmed you!" he said
regretfully. "And your arm, _petite_? It is not burnt--not at all?"

He took her hand gently, and put back the tattered sleeve to satisfy
himself on this point.

Chris said nothing. Her lips had begun to tremble. But she winced a
little when he touched a place inside her arm where the flame had
scorched her.

He glanced up sharply. "Ah! that hurts you, that?"

"No," she said, "no. It is nothing." And then, with sudden passion:
"Bertie, what does a little scorch like that matter when you--when
you--" She broke off, fighting with herself, and pointed a shaking finger
at his wrist.

It had been blistered by the flame, and his shirt-cuff was charred; but
the injury was slight, remarkably so in consideration of the utter
recklessness he had displayed.

He snapped his fingers with easy indifference. "Ah, bah! It is a
_bagatelle_, that. In one week it will be gone. And now--why, _chérie_--"

He stopped abruptly. She had dropped upon her knees beside him, her hands
upon his shoulders, her face, tragic in its pain, upturned to his.

"Bertie, why do you try to hide things from me? Do you think I am quite
blind? You are ill. I know you are ill. What is it, dear? Won't you tell
me?"

He made a quick gesture as if he would check either her words or her
touch, and then suddenly he stiffened. For in that instant there ran
between them once again, vital, electric, unquenchable, that Flame that
had kindled long ago on a morning of perfect summer, that Flame which
once kindled burns on for ever.

It happened all in a moment, so swiftly that they were caught unawares in
the spell of it, so overwhelmingly that neither for the space of several
throbbing seconds possessed the volition to draw back. And in the deep
silence the man's eyes held the woman's irresistibly, yet by no conscious
effort, while each entered the other's soul and gazed upon the one
supreme secret which each had mutely sheltered there.

It was to the man that full realization first came--a realization more
overwhelming than anything that had gone before, striking him with a
stunning force that shattered every other emotion like a bursting shell
spreading destruction.

He came out of that trance-like stillness with a gesture of horror, as if
freeing himself from some evil thing that had wound itself about him
unawares.

Her hands fell away from his shoulders instantly. She was white to
the lips. She even for one incredible moment--the only moment in her
life--shrank from him. But that impulse vanished as swiftly as it came,
vanished in a rush of passionate understanding. For with a groan Bertrand
sank forward and bowed his head in his hands.

"_Mon Dieu_!" he said. "What have I done?"

She responded as it were instinctively, not pausing to choose her words,
speaking in a quick, vehement whisper, because his distress was more than
she could bear.

"It is none of your doing, Bertie. You are not to say it--not to think it
even. It happened long, long ago. You know it did. It happened--it
happened--that day at Valpré--the day you--took me into your boat."

He groaned again, his head dropping lower. She knew that also! Then was
she woman indeed!

There followed a silence during which Chris remained kneeling beside him,
but she was no longer agitated. She was strangely calm. A new strength
seemed to have been given her to cope with this pressing need. When at
last she moved, it was to lay a hand that was quite steady upon his knee.

"Bertie," she said, "listen! You have done nothing wrong. You have
nothing to reproach yourself with. It wasn't your fault that I took so
long to grow up." A piteous little smile touched her lips, and was gone.
"You have been very good to me," she said. "I won't have you blame
yourself. No woman ever had a truer friend."

He laid his hand upon hers, but he kept his eyes covered. She could only
see the painful twitching of his mouth under the slight moustache.

"Ah, Christine," he said at last, with an effort, "I have tried--I have
tried--to be faithful."

"And you have never been anything else," she said very earnestly. "You
were my _preux chevalier_ from the very beginning, and you have done more
for me than you will ever know. Bertie, Bertie"--her voice thrilled
suddenly--"though it's all so hopeless, do you think it isn't easier for
me now that I know? Do you think I would have it otherwise if I could?"

His hand closed tightly upon hers with a quick, restraining pressure. He
could not answer her.

For some seconds he did not speak at all. At length, "Then--you trust me
still, Christine?" he said, his voice very low.

Her reply was instant and unfaltering. "I shall trust you as long as I
live."

He was silent again for a space. Then suddenly he uncovered his face and
looked at her. Again their eyes met, with the perfect intimacy of a
perfect understanding.

"_Eh bien_," Bertrand said, speaking slowly and heavily, as one labouring
under an immense burden, "I will be worthy of your confidence. You are
right, little comrade. We have travelled too far together--you and I--to
fear to strike upon the rocks now."

He paused a moment, then quietly rose, drawing her to her feet. So for a
while he stood, her hands clasped in his, seeming still upon the verge of
speech, but finding no words. His eyes smiled sadly upon her, as the eyes
of a friend saying good-bye. At last he stooped, and reverently as though
he sealed an oath thereby, he pressed his lips upon the hands he held.

An instant later he straightened himself, and in unbroken silence turned
and left her.

It was one of the simplest tragedies ever played on the world's stage.
They had found each other--too late, and there was nothing more to be
said.



CHAPTER III

THE TURN OF THE TIDE


It was evening when Mordaunt returned on the following day. He was met at
the station by Noel. Holmes was in charge of the motor, and greeted his
master with obvious relief. The care of the youngest Wyndham was plainly
a responsibility he did not care to shoulder for long.

"All well?" Mordaunt asked, as he emerged from the station with his young
brother-in-law hooked effusively on his arm.

"All well, sir," said Holmes, with the air of a sentry relaxing after
long and arduous duty.

"Flourishing," said Noel, "though it's the greatest wonder you haven't
come back to find Chris a heap of ashes. She would have been if Bertrand
hadn't--at great personal risk--put her out."

"What has happened?" demanded Mordaunt sharply.

"All's well, sir," said Holmes reassuringly.

"Fireworks!" explained Noel. "My word, I made some beauties! I wish you
could have seen 'em. I got singed a bit myself. But, then, that's only
what one would expect playing with fire, eh, Trevor?" He rubbed his cheek
ingratiatingly against Mordaunt's shoulder. "You needn't be anxious.
Chris was really none the worse. But the Frenchman had a bad attack of
blue funk when the danger was over, and nearly fainted. He's feeling
ashamed of himself apparently, for I haven't seen him since. By the way,
Aunt Phil and Chris had a mill yesterday, and the old lady is suffering
from a very stiff neck in consequence. I asked Chris what she did to it,
but she wouldn't tell me. Thank the gods, she goes to-morrow! You'll let
me drive her to the station, won't you? I should like to go to heaven in
Aunt Phil's company. She would be sure to get into the smartest set at
once."

He rattled on in the same cheery strain without intermission throughout
the return journey, having imparted enough to make Mordaunt thoroughly
uneasy, notwithstanding Holmes's assurance.

The first person he met upon entering the house was Aunt Philippa. She
accorded him a glacial reception, and explained that Chris had retired to
bed with a severe headache.

"It's come on very suddenly," remarked Noel, with frank incredulity.
"Where's Bertrand? Has he got a headache too?"

Aunt Philippa had no information to offer with regard to the French
secretary! She merely observed that she had given orders for dinner
to be served in a quarter of an hour, and therewith swept away to the
drawing-room.

Mordaunt shook off his young brother-in-law without ceremony, and went
straight up to his wife's room.

His low knock elicited no reply, and he opened the door softly and
entered.

The room was in semi-darkness, but Chris's voice accosted him instantly.

"Is that you, Trevor? I'm here, lying down. I had rather a headache, or I
would have come to meet you."

Her words were rapid and sounded feverish, as though she were braced for
some ordeal. She was lying with her back to the curtained windows and her
face in shadow.

Mordaunt went forward with light tread to the bed. "Poor child!" he said
gently.

He stooped and kissed her, and found that she was trembling. Quietly he
took her hand into his, and began to feel her pulse.

She made a nervous movement to frustrate him, but he gently insisted and
she became passive.

"There is nothing serious the matter," she said uneasily. "I--I didn't
sleep very well last night, that's all. I thought you wouldn't mind if I
didn't come to meet you."

Mordaunt, with the tell-tale, fluttering pulse under his fingers, made
gentle reply. "Of course not, dear. I think you are quite right to take
care of yourself. Is your head very bad?"

"No, not now. I think I'm just tired. I shall be all right after a
night's rest."

Again she tried to slip her hand out of his grasp, and after a moment he
let it go.

"Please don't worry about me," she said. "You won't, will you?"

"Not if there is really no reason for it," he said.

She stirred restlessly. "There isn't--indeed. Aunt Philippa will tell you
that. I was letting off fireworks with Noel only last night."

"And set fire to yourself," said Mordaunt.

She started a little. "Who told you that?"

"Noel."

"Oh! Well, nothing happened, thanks to--to Bertie. He put it out for me."

"I think there had better not be any more fireworks unless I am there,"
Mordaunt said. "I don't like to think of my wife running risks of that
sort."

"Very well, Trevor," she said meekly.

"Where did the fireworks come from?" he pursued.

"We made them--Noel and I. We used some of your cartridges for gunpowder.
He got saltpetre and one or two other things from the chemist. They were
quite a success," said Chris, with a touch of her old light gaiety.

"And you are paying for it to-day," he said. "It will be a good thing
when Noel goes back to school."

"Oh no," she answered quickly. "It wasn't the fireworks. I often have
wakeful nights."

It was the first time she had ever alluded to the fact. He wondered if
she would summon the courage to tell him something further. He earnestly
hoped she would; but he hoped in vain. Chris said no more.

He paused for a full minute to give her time, but, save that she became
tensely still, she made no sign. Very quietly he let the matter pass. He
would not force her confidence, but he realized at that moment more
clearly than ever before that she had only really belonged to him during
the brief fortnight that they had been alone together. The two months of
their married life had but served to teach him this somewhat bitter
lesson, and he determined then and there to win her back as he had won
her at the outset, to make her his once more and to keep her so for ever.

"I am going to take you away, Chris," he said. "You are wanting a change.
Noel's holidays will be over next week. We will start then."

"Where shall we go?" said Chris, and he detected the relief with which
she hailed the change of subject.

"We will go to Valpré," he said, with quiet decision.

"Valpré!" The word leaped out as if of its own volition. Chris suddenly
sprang upright from her pillows, and gazed at him wide-eyed. In the dim
light he could not see her face distinctly, but there was something
almost suggestive of fear in her attitude. "Why Valpré?" she said, in a
queer, breathless undertone as if she could not control her voice.

He looked down at her in surprise. "You would like to go to Valpré again,
wouldn't you?"

She gasped. "I--I really don't know. But what made you choose it? You
have never been there."

"No," he said. "You will be able to introduce me to all your old haunts."

She gasped again. "You chose it because of that?"

He put a steadying hand upon her shoulder. "Chris, what makes you so
nervous, child? No, I didn't choose it because of that. As a matter of
fact, I didn't choose it at all. I am due there on business in three
weeks' time, but I thought we might put in a fortnight together there
beforehand. Wouldn't you like that?"

She shivered under his hand, and made no reply. She only said, "What
business?"

He hesitated a moment, then deliberately sat down upon the bed and drew
her close to him. "You remember that blackguard Frenchman Rodolphe who
was staying with the Pounceforts two or three weeks ago?"

"Yes," whispered Chris.

"He is to be court-martialled at Valpré, and I have accepted an offer to
go as correspondent to the _Morning Despatch_ and report upon his trial.
As you know, I represented them at Bertrand's _affaire,_ and this is a
sequel to that. In fact, Bertrand himself is very nearly concerned in it.
Certain transactions have recently come to light tending to show that the
crime of which he was accused was not only committed by this same
Rodolphe, but that he also deliberately manufactured evidence to shield
himself at the expense of Bertrand, the author of the betrayed invention,
against whom it seems he had a personal grudge. By the way, he managed
skilfully to keep in the background at Bertrand's trial. I fancy he was
away on some special mission at the time, and he did not appear. I never
saw him before that day at Sandacre Court, and I did not so much as know
then that he and Bertrand were acquainted. Did you know that?"

She started at the question, but answered it more naturally than she had
before spoken. "Yes. I knew that Bertie had belonged to the same
regiment. They did not speak to each other that afternoon. You see, I was
there."

"Ah! And you never met him in the old Valpré days?"

Again she answered without apparent agitation; but her hands were fast
gripped together in the gloom. "I may have seen him. I never spoke to
him. Bertie was the only one I ever knew."

"Ah!" Mordaunt said again. He was plainly thinking of Bertrand's affairs.
"Well, he is to stand his trial now, and I couldn't resist the chance of
being present at it. He was recalled to Paris a week ago, and summarily
arrested; but as popular feeling is running very high, the trial is to be
held at Valpré, which is a fairly important military station. That means
that the court-martial will take place probably in the fortress in which
the crime was committed--a pleasing consummation of justice."

"And--Bertie will be vindicated?" breathed Chris.

"If Rodolphe is convicted," Mordaunt answered, "Bertrand will be in a
position to return to France and demand a second trial, the outcome of
which would be practically a foregone conclusion, and at which I hope I
shall be present."

Chris drew a sharp breath. "Then--then he will go to Valpré too?"

"Not yet. He would be arrested and imprisoned if he did, and might
possibly ruin his cause as well. No, he will have to play a waiting game
for the present. I think myself it is the turn of the tide, but things
may yet go against him. There is no knowing. He is better off where he is
till we can see which way the matter will go. He doesn't want to spend
the rest of his life in a fortress."

Chris shuddered uncontrollably at the bare thought. "Oh no--no! Trevor,
you won't let him run any risk of that?"

"I shall certainly counsel prudence," Mordaunt answered. "If he runs any
risks, it will be with his eyes open."

He paused a moment, then turned her face tenderly up to his own, and
kissed it. "And you don't like the Valpré plan?" he said, with great
gentleness.

She hesitated.

"We can go elsewhere if you prefer it," he said. "The court-martial will
probably only take a few days. We can stay somewhere near while it is in
progress. But I must have you with me wherever it is."

He spoke the last words with his arms closely enfolding her. She turned
with sudden impulse and clasped him round the neck.

"Oh, Trevor," she murmured brokenly, "you are good to me--you are good!"

"My darling," he whispered back, "your happiness is mine--always."

She made a choked sound of dissent. "I'm horribly selfish," she said,
with a sob.

"No, dear, no. I understand. I ought to have thought of it before."

She knew that he was thinking of Cinders, and that a return to the old
haunts could but serve to reopen a wound that was scarcely closed. She
was thankful that he interpreted her reluctance thus, even while she
marvelled to herself as she realized how far she had travelled since the
bitter day on which she had parted with her favourite. Looking back, she
saw now clearly what that tragedy had meant to her. It had been indeed
the commencement of a new stage in her life's journey. It was on that day
that she had finally stepped forth from the summer fields of her
childhood, and she knew that she would wander in them no more for ever.

The thought went through her with a dart of pain. They had been very
green, those fields, and the great thoroughfare which now she trod seemed
cruelly hard to her unaccustomed feet.

A sharp sigh escaped her as she gently withdrew herself from her
husband's arms. "Shall we talk about it to-morrow?" she said.



CHAPTER IV

"MINE OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND"


Sitting in his writing-room with Bertrand that night Mordaunt imparted
the news that concerned him so nearly.

The young Frenchman listened in almost unbroken silence, betraying
neither surprise nor even a very great measure of interest. He sat and
smoked, with eyes downcast, sometimes fidgeting a little with the fingers
of one hand on the arm of his chair, but otherwise displaying no sign of
agitation.

Only at the end of the narration did he glance up, and that was but
momentarily, when Mordaunt said, "It transpires that this Rodolphe had an
old score to pay off. You were enemies?"

Bertrand removed his cigarette to reply, "That is true."

"You once fought a duel with him?" Mordaunt proceeded.

Bertrand's eyelids quivered, but he did not raise them. He merely
answered, "Yes."

"That fact will probably figure in the evidence," Mordaunt said. "The
cause of the duel is at present unknown."

"It is--immaterial," Bertrand said, in a very low voice. He paused a
moment, then said, "And you, you will be at the trial to report?"

"Yes. I am going. Chris will go with me."

"Ah!" The exclamation seemed involuntary. Bertrand's hand suddenly
clenched hard upon the chair-arm. "You will take her--to Valpré?" he
questioned.

"Probably not to the place itself," Mordaunt made answer. "I think she is
not very anxious to go there. It has associations that she would rather
not renew. We shall stay somewhere within easy reach of Valpré. Perhaps
you can tell me of a suitable resting-place not too far away. You know
that part of the world."

"I know it well," Bertrand said, and fell silent, as though pondering the
matter. At the end of a lengthy pause he spoke, abruptly, with just a
tinge of nervousness. "But why do you take her if she does not desire to
go?"

Mordaunt raised his brows a little.

"You will pardon me," Bertrand added quickly, "but it occurs to me that
possibly she may prefer to remain at home. And if that were the case you
would not, I hope, consider my presence here as an obstacle, for"--again
he flashed a swift look across--"it is not my intention to remain."

"What are your intentions?" Mordaunt asked.

Bertrand shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know yet. Circumstances will
decide. But it is certain that I can trespass no more upon your kindness.
I have already accepted too much from you--more than I can ever hope to
repay. Moreover"--he paused--"I do not wish to inconvenience you, and
since I cannot accompany you to France--" he paused again, and finally
decided to say no more.

"Chris will go with me in any case," said Mordaunt quietly. "We have
already arranged that. You would cause no inconvenience to anyone by
staying here. In fact, it would be to my advantage."

"To your advantage!" Bertrand echoed the words sharply, as if in some
fashion they hurt him; and then, "But no," he said with decision. "It has
never been to your advantage to employ me. You have done it from the
kindness of your heart, but it would have been better for you if you had
entrusted your affairs to a man more capable. And for that reason I am
going to ask you to find another secretary as soon as possible, one who
will perform his duties faithfully and merit his pay."

"Is that the only reason?" Mordaunt asked unexpectedly.

There fell a sudden silence. Bertrand, with bent head, appeared to be
closely examining the leather on which his fingers still drummed an
uneasy tattoo. At last, "It is the only reason which I have to give you,"
he said, his voice very low.

"It is not a very sound one," Mordaunt remarked.

Again that quick shrug of the shoulders, and silence. Several moments
passed. Then with an abrupt movement Bertrand rose, laid aside his
cigarette, which had gone out, and seated himself at the writing-table.

A pile of letters lay upon it that had arrived by the evening post. He
began to turn them over, and presently took up a paper-cutter and deftly
slit them open one by one.

Mordaunt sat and smoked as one lost in thought. Finally, after a long
silence, he looked up and spoke.

"Why this sudden hurry to dissolve partnership, Bertrand?" he asked, with
his kindly smile. "Is it this Rodolphe affair that has unsettled you?
Because surely it would be wiser to wait and see what is going to happen
before you take any decided step of this sort."

"Ah! It is not that!" Bertrand spoke with a vehemence that sounded almost
passionate. "It is nothing to me--this affair. It interests me--not
that!" He snapped his fingers contemptuously. "No, no! The time for that
is past. What is honour, or dishonour, to me now--me who have been down
to the lowest abyss and who have learned the true value of what the world
calls great? Once--I admit it--I was young; I suffered. Now I am old,
and--I laugh!"

Yet there was a note that was more suggestive of heartbreak than of mirth
in his voice. He applied himself feverishly to extracting a letter from
an envelope, while Mordaunt sat and gravely watched him.

Suddenly, but very quietly, Mordaunt rose, strolled across, and took the
fluttering paper out of his hands. "Bertrand!" he said.

The Frenchman looked up sharply, almost as if he would resent the action,
but something in the steady eyes that met his own altered the course of
his emotions. He leaned back in his chair with the gesture of a man
confronting the inevitable.

Mordaunt sat down on the edge of the writing-table, face to face with
him. "Tell me why you want to leave me," he said.

There was determination in his attitude, determination in the very
coolness of his speech. It was quite obvious that he meant to have an
answer.

Bertrand contemplated him with a faint, rueful smile. "But what shall I
say?" he protested. "You English are so persistent. You will not be
content with the simple truth. You demand always--something more."

"There you are mistaken," Mordaunt made grave reply. "It is the simple
truth that I want--nothing more."

"_Ciel_!" Bertrand jumped in his chair as if he had been stabbed in the
back. "You insult me!"

Mordaunt's hand came out to him instantly and reassuringly. "My dear
fellow, I never insult anyone. It is not my way."

"But you do not believe me!" Bertrand protested. "And that is an
insult--that."

"I believe you absolutely." Very quietly Mordaunt made answer. The hand
he would not take was laid with great kindness on his shoulder. "I happen
to know you too well to do otherwise. Why, man," he began to smile a
little, "if all the world turned false, I should still believe in you."

"_Tiens_!" The word was almost a cry. Bertrand shook the friendly hand
from his shoulder as if it had been some evil thing, and almost with the
same movement pushed his chair back sharply out of reach. "You should not
say these things to me!" he stammered forth incoherently. "I do not
deserve them. I am not--I am not what you imagine. You do not know me. I
do not know myself. I--I--" He broke off in agitation and sprang
impetuously to his feet.

With a gesture half-hopeless, half-appealing, he turned and walked to the
window, as if he could no longer bear to meet the level, grey eyes that
watched him with so kindly a confidence.

There fell a silence in the room while Mordaunt, still sitting on the
writing-table, deliberately finished his cigarette. That done, he spoke.

"Don't you think you had better tell me what is the matter?"

Bertrand jerked his shoulders convulsively; it was the only response he
made.

Mordaunt waited a few moments more. Then, "Very well," he said, without
change of tone or countenance. "We will dismiss the subject. If you
really mean to leave me, I will accept your resignation in the morning,
but not to-night. If--as I hope--you have thought better of it by then
and decide to remain, nothing further need be said. Will that satisfy
you?"

Bertrand wheeled abruptly, and stood facing him, the length of the room
intervening. His mouth worked as if he were trying to speak, but he said
nothing whatever.

Mordaunt turned without further words to the letter in his hand, and
studied it in silence. After a pause Bertrand came slowly back to the
writing-table. He had mastered his agitation, but he looked unutterably
tired.

Mordaunt moved to one side at his approach. "Sit down!" he said, without
raising his eyes.

Bertrand sat down, and began to turn his attention to sorting the letters
he had opened. Mordaunt stood motionless, reading with bent brows.

Suddenly he spoke. "There is something here I can't understand."

Bertrand glanced up. "Can I assist?"

"I don't know. Read that!" Mordaunt laid the letter before him. "I can't
account for it. I think it must be a mistake."

Bertrand took the letter and read it. It was an intimation from the bank
that in consequence of the bearer cheque for five hundred pounds
presented and cashed the week before, Mordaunt's account was overdrawn.

"What cheque can it be?" Mordaunt said. "Have you any idea?"

Bertrand shook his head. "But no! It is perhaps some charity--a gift that
you have forgotten?"

"My good fellow, I may be careless, but I'm not so damned careless as
that." Mordaunt pulled out a bunch of keys with the words. "Let me have a
look at my cheque-book. You know where it is."

Yes, Bertrand knew. He was as cognizant of the whereabouts of Mordaunt's
possessions as if they had been his own, and he had as free an access to
them. Such was the confidence reposed in him.

He took the keys, selected the right one, stooped to fit it into the
lock. And then suddenly something happened. A violent tremor went through
him. He clutched at the table-edge, and the keys clattered to the ground.

"Hullo!" Mordaunt said.

Bertrand was staring downwards with eyes that saw not. At the sound of
Mordaunt's voice he started, and began to grope on the floor for the keys
as if stricken blind.

"There they are, man, by your feet." Mordaunt stooped and recovered them
himself. "What's the matter? Aren't you well?"

Bertrand lifted a ghastly face. "I am quite well," he said. "But--but
surely the bank would not cash a cheque so large without reference to
you!"

Mordaunt looked at him a moment. "I have been in the habit of drawing
large sums," he said. "But I usually write a note to the bank to
accompany a cheque of this sort."

He turned to the drawer and unlocked it. His cheque-book lay in its
accustomed place within. He took it out and commenced a careful
examination of the counterfoils of cheques already drawn.

Bertrand sat quite motionless, with bowed head. He seemed to be numbly
waiting for something.

Mordaunt was very deliberate in his search. He came to the end of the
counterfoils only, but went quietly on through the sheaf of blank cheques
that remained, gravely scrutinizing each.

Minutes passed. Bertrand was sunk in his chair as one bent beneath some
overpowering weight, the pile of letters untouched before him.

Suddenly Mordaunt paused, became tense for an instant, then slowly
relaxed. His eyes travelled from the open cheque-book to the man in the
chair. He contemplated him silently.

After the lapse of several seconds, he laid the open book upon the table
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."

Max drew up a chair, and sat down beside his _protégé_. For nearly three
weeks now Bertrand had been with him. A post-card written from a squalid
back-street lodging had been his first intimation that the Frenchman was
in London, and within two hours of receiving it Max had removed him to
the private nursing-home in which he himself was at that time domiciled.
For, notwithstanding his youth, Max Wyndham was a privileged person, and
owned as his greatest friend one of the most distinguished physicians in
London.

His natural brilliance had brought him in the first place to the great
man's notice; and though he was but a medical student, his foot was
already firmly planted upon the ladder of success. There was little doubt
that one day--and that probably not many years distant--Max Wyndham would
be a great man too. Even as it was, his grip upon all things that
concerned the profession he had chosen was so prodigious that his patron
would upon occasion consult with him as an equal, detecting in him that
flare of genius which in itself is of more value than years of
accumulated knowledge. He had the gift of magnetism to an extraordinary
degree, and he coupled with it an unerring instinct upon which he was not
afraid to rely. Equipped thus, he was bound to come to the front, though
whether the Wyndham blood in him would suffer him to stay there was a
proposition that time alone could solve.

His effect upon Bertrand was little short of magical. Sitting there
beside him with the wasted wrist between his fingers, and his green eyes
gazing at nothing in particular, there was little about him to indicate a
remarkable personality. Yet the drawn look passed wholly away from the
sick man's face, and he leaned back among his pillows with a restfulness
that he had been very far from feeling a few seconds earlier.

"So you are reading all about the Rodolphe _affaire_," Max said
presently.

"It is Mr. Mordaunt's own report," Bertrand explained. "It interests
me--that. I feel as if I heard him speak."

Max grunted. He had asked no question as to the circumstances that had
led to Bertrand's departure, and Bertrand had volunteered no information.
It had been a closed subject between them by mutual consent. But to-night
for some reason Max approached it, warily, as one not sure of his ground.

"When do you hope to see him again?"

A slight flush rose in Bertrand's face. "Never--it is probable," he said
sadly.

"Ah! Then you had a disagreement?"

Bertrand looked at him questioningly.

Max smiled a little. "No, it isn't vulgar curiosity. Fact is, I came
across my cousin Jack Forest to-day. You remember Jack Forest? I've been
dining with him at his club. We hadn't met for ages, and naturally we had
a good deal to say to one another."

He paused, gently relinquishing his hold upon Bertrand's wrist, and
got up to pour something out of a bottle on the mantelpiece into a
medicine-glass.

"Drink this, old chap," he said, "or I shall tire you out before I've
done."

"You have something to say to me?" Bertrand said quickly.

Max nodded. "I have. Drink first, and then I will tell you. That's the
way. You needn't be in a hurry. You were going to tell me about that
disagreement, weren't you? At least, I think you were. You have been rash
enough to trust me before."

"But naturally," Bertrand said. He handed the glass back with a courteous
gesture of thanks. "And I have not had cause to regret it. I will tell
you why I disagreed with Mr. Mordaunt if you desire to know. It was
because he found that he had been robbed, and that I"--he spread out
his hands--"was the robber."

Max stared. "Found that you had robbed him! You!"

Bertrand nodded several times, but said no more.

"I don't believe it," Max said with conviction.

Bertrand smiled rather ruefully. "No? But yet the evidence was against
me. And me, I did not contradict the evidence."

"I see. You were shielding someone. Who was it? Rupert?"

At Bertrand's quick start Max also smiled with grim humour. "You see, I
know my own people rather well. I'm glad it wasn't Chris, anyway. Then
she had nothing at all to do with your quarrel with Trevor?"

"Nothing," Bertrand said--"nothing." He paused a moment, then added, with
something of an effort, "But I had decided that I would go before that.
Mr. Mordaunt did not know why."

"Because of Chris?" There was a touch of sharpness in Max's voice.

Bertrand bent his head. "You were right that night. A man cannot hope to
hide his heart for ever from the woman whom he loves."

"You told her, then?"

"It arrived without telling," Bertrand answered with simplicity.

"That means she cares for you?" Max said shrewdly.

Bertrand looked up. "_Mais c'est passé_," he said, his voice very low.
"You have guessed the truth, but you only know it. Her husband--"

"My dear fellow, that's just the mischief. He knows it too," Max said.

"He!" Bertrand started upright.

Instantly Max's hand was upon him, checking him. "Keep still, Bertrand!
You can't afford to waste your strength. Yes, Trevor knows. He knew on
the very day you left. He found out that that blackguard Rodolphe had
been blackmailing her. He had a scene with Chris, and she left him."

"Rodolphe! _Le canaille! Est-ce possible? Alors_, she is not--not with
him--at Valpré--as I thought?" gasped Bertrand.

"No. She has not been near him since. I knew nothing of this till to-day.
She hardly ever writes. I thought--as you did--that she had gone to
France with Trevor. Instead of that, Jack tells me, she has been with his
sister in Yorkshire all this time. She has been ill, is so still, I
believe. They are coming to town to-morrow, to Percy Davenant's flat.
Jack is very worried about it. He saw Trevor before he left England, but
couldn't get him to listen to reason. He seems to have made up his mind
to have no more to do with her, while she is fretting herself to a
skeleton over it, but daren't make the first move towards a
reconciliation. It probably wouldn't do any good if she did. He is as
hard as iron. And if his mind is once made up--" Max left the sentence
unfinished, and continued: "I think I shall go to Valpré and see what I
can do. This has gone on long enough, and we can't have Chris making
herself ill. I should think even he would see the force of that. This
trial business will be over in a few days, and if I don't catch him he
may go wandering, Heaven knows where. But it won't do. He must come back
to her. I shall tell him so."

But at that Bertrand laid a nervous hand upon his arm. "My friend," he
said, "you will not persuade him."

Max looked at him, and was confronted by eyes of gleaming resolution. "I
believe I shall," he said. "I can persuade most people."

"You will not persuade him," Bertrand repeated. "That _scélérat_ has
poisoned his mind. Moreover, you do not even know what passed between
us."

"I don't need to know," Max said curtly.

Bertrand began to smile. "And you think you can plead your sister's cause
without knowing, _hein_? No, no! the affair is too much advanced. There
is only one man who can help the little Christine now. He would not
listen to you, _mon cher_, if you went. But--to me, he will listen, even
though he believes me to be a thief; for he is very just. I know that I
can make him understand. And for that I shall go to him to-morrow. As you
say, we cannot let _la petite_ fret."

He spoke quite quietly, but his eyes were shining with a fire that had
not lit them for many a day.

"My dear chap, you can't go. You're not fit for it." Max spoke with quick
decision. "I won't let you go, so there's an end of it."

But Bertrand laughed. "So? But I am more fit than you think, _mon ami_.
Also it is my affair, this, and none but I can accomplish it. See, I
start in the morning, and by this hour to-morrow I shall be with him."

"Folly! Madness!" Max said.

But indomitable resolution still shone in the Frenchman's eyes. "Listen
to me, Max," he said. "If I spend my last breath thus, why not? I have
not the least desire to cling to life. And is that madness? I love _la
petite_ more than all. And is that folly? Why should I not give the
strength that is still in me to accomplish the desire of my heart? Is
mortal life so precious to those who have nothing for which to live?"

"Rot!" Max said fiercely. "You have plenty to live for. When this
scoundrel Rodolphe is disposed of they will be reinstating you. You've
got to live to have your honour vindicated. Does that mean nothing to
you?"

Bertrand shrugged his shoulders. "It would interest me exactly as the
procession under the windows interests those who watch. The procession
passes, and the street is empty again. What is that to me?" He snapped
his fingers carelessly. But the animation of his face had transformed it
completely, giving him a look of youth with which Max was wholly
unfamiliar. "See!" he said. "_Le bon Dieu_ has given me this thing to do,
and He will give me the strength to do it. That is His way, _mon ami_. He
does not command us to make bricks without straw."

Max grunted. "Whatever you do, you will have to pay for," he observed
dryly. "And how are you going to get to Valpré without being arrested?"

"But I will disguise myself. That should be easy." Bertrand laughed
again, and suddenly stretched out his arms and rose. "I am well," he
declared. "I have been given the strength, and I will use it. Have no
fear, Max. It will not fail me."

"I shall go too, then," Max said abruptly. "Sit down, man, and be
rational. You don't suppose I shall let you tear all over France in your
present condition by yourself, do you? If you excite yourself in this
fashion, you will be having that infernal pain again. Sit down, I tell
you!"

Bertrand sat down, but as if he moved on wires. "No," he said with
confidence, "I shall not suffer any more to-night. You say that you will
go with me? But indeed it is not necessary. And you have your work to do.
I would not have you leave it on my account."

"I am coming," Max said, with finality, "And look here, Bertrand, I shall
be in command of this expedition, and we are not going to travel at
break-neck speed. You will not reach Valpré till the day after to-morrow.
That is understood, is it?"

Bertrand hesitated and looked dubious.

"Come, man, it's for your own good. You don't want to die before you get
there." Max's tone was severely practical.

"Ah no! Not that! I must not fail, Max. I must not fail." Bertrand spoke
with great earnestness. He laid an impressive hand on his companion's
arm. For a moment his face betrayed emotion. "I cannot--I will not--die
before her happiness is assured. It is that for which I now live, for
which I am ready to give my life. Max--_mon ami_--you will not let me die
before--my work--is done!"

He spoke pantingly, as though speech had become an effort. The strain was
beginning to tell upon him. But his eyes pleaded for him with a dumb
intensity hard to meet.

Max took his wrist once more into his steady grasp. "If you will do as I
tell you," he said, "I will see that you don't. Is that a bargain?"

A faint smile shone in the dark eyes at the peremptoriness of his speech.
"But how you are despotic--you English!" protested the soft voice.

"Do you agree to that?" insisted Max.

"_Mais oui_. I submit myself--always--to you English. How can one--do
other?"

"Then don't talk any more," said Max, with authority. "There's no time
for drivel, so save your breath. You will want it when you get to
Valpré."

"Ah, Valpré!" whispered Bertrand very softly as one utters a beloved
name; and again more softly, "Valpré!"



CHAPTER V

THE STRANGER


A long wave broke with a splash and spread up the sand in a broad band of
silver foam. The tide was at its lowest, and the black rocks of Valpré
stood up stark and grotesque in the evening light. The Gothic archway of
the Magic Cave yawned mysteriously in the face of the cliff, and over it,
with shrill wailings, flew countless seagulls, flashing their wings in
the sunset.

The man who walked alone along the shore was too deeply engrossed in
thought to take much note of his surroundings, although more than once he
turned his eyes towards the darkness of the cave. A belt of rocks
stretched between, covered with slimy, green seaweed. It was evident that
he had no intention of crossing this to explore the mysteries beyond.
Just out of reach of the sea he moved, his hands behind him and his head
bent.

All through the day he had been pent in a stuffy courtroom, closely
following the evidence that, like a net of strong weaving, was gradually
closing around the prisoner Guillaume Rodolphe. All France was seething
over the trial. All Europe watched with vivid interest.

Another man's name had begun to be uttered on all sides, in court and out
of it, coupled continuously with the name of the man who was standing his
trial. Bertrand de Montville, where was he? All France would soon be
waiting to do him justice, to pay him high honour, to compensate him for
the indignities he had wrongfully suffered. He would have to face another
court-martial, it was true; but the outcome of that would be a foregone
conclusion, and his acquittal would raise him to a pinnacle of popularity
to which he had surely never aspired, even in the days when ambition had
been the ruling passion of his life.

Undoubtedly he would be the hero of the hour, if he could be found. But
where was he? Everyone was asking the question. None knew the answer.
Some said he was in England, awaiting the turn of events, abiding his
opportunity; others that he was already in France, lying hidden in Paris,
or even risking arrest at Valpré itself. The police were uniformly
reticent upon the subject, but it was generally believed that there would
be small difficulty in finding him when the moment arrived. Some went so
far as to assert that he had actually been arrested, and was being kept a
close prisoner by the authorities, who were plainly in fear of serious
rioting. Whatever the truth of the matter, the fact remained that the
tide of public opinion had set very strongly in his favour, and was
likely to wax to a tumultuous enthusiasm exceedingly difficult to cope
with when the object thereof should present himself.

With all of this Trevor Mordaunt was well acquainted; but he, on his
part, was firmly convinced that Bertrand would keep away until he himself
had left France. To come to Valpré now would be to court a meeting with
him, and this, he was convinced, Bertrand would do his utmost to avoid.
The break between them had been quite final. Moreover, he probably
believed that Chris was at Valpré also, and he had apparently determined
not to see her again. But here an evil thought forced its way. Might they
not, quite possibly, be in communication with one another? It had
presented itself many times before, that thought, and he had sought to
put it from him. But to-night it would not be denied. It conquered and
possessed him. Was it at all likely that the parting between them had
been final?

Only that afternoon evidence had been given of the episode that had led
to the duel on the Valpré sands more than four years before. He had
listened with a set face to the account of the insult and the subsequent
challenge, and though no name had been mentioned, he had known and faced
the fact that the woman in the case had been his wife. Even then,
Bertrand had regarded her as his peculiar charge, as under his exclusive
protection. And she--had she not told him with burning unrestraint that
she had always loved this man, would love him till she died?

With the gesture of one who relinquishes his hold upon something he has
discovered to be valueless, Trevor Mordaunt turned in his tracks and
began to walk back over the long stretch of sand. He looked no longer in
the direction of the Magic Cave, but rather quickened his steps as though
he desired to leave it far behind. But there was no escaping that
all-mastering suspicion. It went with him, closely locked with his own
spirit, and he could not shake it off.

Back to his hotel he walked, with no glance at sea or shining
sunset, and went straight to his own room. There was a private
sitting-room adjoining, which he was wont to share with some of his
fellow-journalists. They used it as a club writing-room when the
proceedings of the court-martial were over for the day. He had his notes
in his pocket; his report was not yet written. He remembered that he must
catch the midnight mail, and decided that he would not stop to dress.
That day's sitting had been longer than usual, and his walk along the
shore had made him late.

He passed straight through his bedroom, therefore, and into the
sitting-room that overlooked the sea. A small, round-backed man, with a
shag of black hair upon his face, was sitting by the window. There were
three other men in the room, all writing busily. All, save the man by the
window, glanced up at Mordaunt's entrance and nodded to him. They were
all English, with the exception of the stranger, who was obviously
French.

Mordaunt looked at him questioningly, but no one volunteered an
explanation. He had evidently been sitting there for some time. His gaze
was fixed upon the darkening sea. It was plain that he had no desire to
court attention.

Quietly Mordaunt crossed the room to him. He was crouched like a monkey,
his chin on his hand, and made no movement at his approach.

Mordaunt reached him, and bent a little. "_Est-ce que vous attendez
quelqu'un, monsieur_?"

Dark eyes flashed up at him, and sharply Mordaunt straightened himself.

"I await Mr. Mordaunt," a soft voice said.

There was an instant's pause before, "That is my name," Mordaunt said
very quietly.

"_Eh bien, monsieur_! May I speak with you--in private?"

The stranger rose shufflingly. He had the look of an old man.

"Come this way," Mordaunt said.

He re-crossed the room, his visitor hobbling in his wake. No one spoke,
but all surveyed the latter curiously, and as the door of Mordaunt's
bedroom closed upon him there was an interchange of glances and a raising
of brows.

But nothing passed behind the closed door that would have enlightened any
of them. For Mordaunt scarcely waited to be alone with the man before he
said, "I must ask you to wait some time longer if you wish to speak to
me. I am not at liberty at present."

"If I may wait here--" the stranger suggested meekly.

"Yes. You can do that. Have you dined?"

"But no, monsieur."

Mordaunt rang the bell. His face was quite immovable. He stood and waited
in silence for an answer to his summons.

Holmes came at length. He betrayed no surprise at sight of the stranger
in the room, but stood stiffly at attention, as though prepared to remove
him at his master's bidding.

"Holmes," Mordaunt said very distinctly, "this--gentleman has private
business with me, and he will wait in this room until I am able to attend
to him. Will you get him some dinner, and see that no one but yourself
comes into the room while he is here?"

"Very good, sir," said Holmes.

He looked his charge over with something of the air of a sentry taking
stock of a prisoner, and turned about.

"See that he has all that he wants," Mordaunt added.

"Very good, sir," Holmes said again, and withdrew.

Mordaunt turned at once towards the other door. "I may be a couple of
hours," he said, and passed through gravely into his sitting-room.

The trio assembled there glanced up again at his entrance with
professional curiosity, but Mordaunt's face was quite inscrutable.
Without speaking, he went to the table, took out his notebook, and began
to write. The evidence had that evening been completed, and the trial
adjourned for two days. It was his intention to write a short _résumé_ of
the whole, and this he proceeded to do with characteristic clearness of
outline. His pen moved rapidly, with unwavering decision, and for upwards
of an hour he was immersed in his task, to the exclusion of all other
considerations.

The three other men in the room completed their own reports, and went out
one by one. The hotel was full of journalists from all parts, and the
dinner-hour was always a crowded time. It was considered advisable by the
English _coterie_ to secure the meal as early as possible, but to-night
Mordaunt neglected this precaution. He did not look up when the others
left, or stir from his place until the article upon which he was engaged
was finished.

He threw down his pen at last, and leaned back to run his eye over what
he had written. It was a very brief inspection, and he made no
corrections.

Finally he shook the loose sheets together, added two or three sketches
from his notebook, thrust them into a directed envelope, and went to the
door.

Holmes came to him at once along the passage.

"Get this sealed and dispatched without delay," Mordaunt said. "The
gentleman is still waiting, I suppose?"

"Still waiting, sir," said Holmes.

"He has dined?"

"If you can call it dining, sir."

"Very well. You can go, Holmes."

But Holmes lingered a moment. "Won't you dine yourself, sir?"

"Later on. I am engaged just now. All right. Don't wait."

Holmes shook his head disapprovingly without further words, and turned to
obey.

Mordaunt closed the door and turned the key, then walked slowly across
the room to the window by which the Frenchman had sat that afternoon, and
opened it wide. The night was very dark, and through it the sea moaned
desolately. The wind was rising with the tide and blew in salt and cold,
infinitely refreshing after the stuffy heat of the day. He leaned his
head for a while against the window-frame. There was intense weariness in
his attitude.

He uttered a great sigh at last and stood up, paused a moment, as though
to pull himself together, then, with his customary precision of movement,
he turned from the open window and walked across to the door that led
into the next room. His face was somewhat paler than usual, but perfectly
composed.

Without hesitation he opened the door and spoke. "Now, Bertrand!"



CHAPTER VI

MAN TO MAN


There was a quick movement in answer to the summons, and in a moment the
visitor presented himself. He had taken the false hair from his face, and
his gait was no longer halting. He looked up at Mordaunt with sharp
anxiety as he came through.

"No one else has recognized me?" he asked.

"I believe not."

He drew a quick breath of relief. "_Bien_! It has been an affair _très
difficile_. I have feared detection _mille fois_. Yet I did not expect
you to recognize me so soon."

"You see, I happen to know you rather well," Mordaunt said.

The Frenchman spread out his hands protestingly. The excitement of the
adventure had flushed his face and kindled his eyes. He looked younger
and more ardent than Mordaunt had ever seen him. The weariness that had
so grown upon him during his exile had fallen from him like a cloak. "But
you do not know me at all!" he said.

Mordaunt passed over the remark as if he had not heard it. "What have you
come for?" he asked.

"To see you, monsieur." The reply was as direct as the question. A
momentary challenge shone in Bertrand's eyes as he made it.

But Mordaunt remained coldly unimpressed. "It was not a very wise move on
your part," he remarked. "You will be arrested if you are discovered. The
authorities are not ready for you yet. They are quite capable of
suppressing you for good and all if it suits their purpose."

"I know it. But that is of no importance after to-night." Bertrand stood
and faced him squarely. "After to-night," he said, "they may do what they
will. I shall have accomplished that which I came to do."

"And that?" said Mordaunt. He looked back into the eager eyes with the
aloofness of a stranger. His manner was too impersonal to express either
enmity or contempt.

The keenness began to die out of Bertrand's face, and a certain dignity
took its place. "That," he made answer, "is to tell you the truth in such
a fashion that, although you think that I am a thief, you will believe
it."

"I do not think that you are in a position to tell me anything that I do
not know already," Mordaunt answered quietly. "By the way, it may
interest you to hear that the affair of the cheque has been cleared up. I
wronged you there, but I do not think that I was responsible for the
wrong."

"I was responsible," Bertrand said, his voice very low. "I deceived you.
And for that you will not pardon me, no?"

But the level grey eyes looked through and beyond him. "That," Mordaunt
said, "is a matter of small importance now. Deceptions of that kind are
never excusable in my opinion; but as I do not expect you to share my
point of view, it seems scarcely worth while to discuss it."

Bertrand bowed stiffly. "It is not of that that I desire to speak.
Of myself you will think--what you will. I have merited--and I will
endure--your displeasure. But of _la petite_"--he paused--"of
Christine"--he faltered a little, and finally amended--"of _madame votre
femme_, you will think only that which is good. For that is her nature,
that. And for me," his voice throbbed with sudden passion, "I would
rather bear any insult than that you should think otherwise of her. For
she is pure and innocent as a child. Do you not see that I would sooner
die than harm her? And it has always, always been so. You believe me,
no?"

Mordaunt's face was as stone. "I shouldn't go on if I were you," he said.
"You have nothing whatever to gain. As I have told you, I know already
all that you can tell me upon this subject, and what I think of it is my
affair alone. It is a pity that you took the trouble to come here. If you
take my advice, you will leave me on the earliest opportunity."

"But you are mistaken. You do not know all." Impulsively Bertrand threw
back the words. "You cannot refuse to listen to me," he said. "I appeal
to your honour, to your sense of justice. If you knew all, as you say,
you would not leave her thus. If you believed her to be blameless--as
she is--you would not abandon her in her hour of trouble. I tell you,
monsieur"--his breath quickened suddenly and he caught his hand to his
side--"if you know the truth, you are committing a crime for which no
penalty is enough severe."

He broke off, panting, and turned towards the open window.

Mordaunt said nothing whatever. His face was set like a mask. The only
sign of feeling he gave was in the slow clenching of one hand.

After a few moments Bertrand wheeled round. "See!" he said. "I have
followed you here to tell you the truth face to face, as I shall tell
it--_bientôt_--to the good God. You shall bind me by any oath that you
will, though it should be enough for you that I have nothing at all to
gain, as you have said. I shall hide nothing from you. I shall extenuate
nothing. I shall tell you only the truth, man to man, as my heart knows
it. For her sake, you will listen, yes?"

His voice slipped into sudden pleading. He stretched out his hands
persuasively to the impassive Englishman, who still seemed to be looking
through him rather than at him. He waited for an answer, but none came.

"_Eh bien_!" he said, with a quick sigh of disappointment. "Then I shall
speak in spite of you. I begin with our meeting four years ago among the
rocks of Valpré. It was an accident by which we met. I was working to
complete my invention, and for the greater privacy I had taken it to the
old cave of the contrabandists upon the shore--a place haunted by the
spirits of the dead--so that I was safe from interruption. Or so I
thought, till one afternoon she came to me like a goddess from the sea.
She had cut her foot among the stones, and I bound it for her and carried
her back to Valpré. She was only a child then, with eyes clear as the
sunshine. She trusted herself to me as if I had been her brother. That is
easy to comprehend, is it not?"

Again he paused for an answer, but Mordaunt said no word; his lips were
firmly closed.

With a characteristic lift of the shoulders Bertrand continued.
"_Après cela_ we met again and then again. _La petite_ was lonely,
and I, I played with her. I drew for her the pictures in the sand. We
became--pals." He smiled with a touch of wistfulness over the word that
his English friend had taught him. "We shared our secrets. Once--she
was bathing"--his voice softened imperceptibly--"and I took her into my
boat and rowed her back. It was then that I knew first that I loved her.
Yet we remained comrades. I spoke to her no word of love. She was too
young, and I had nothing to offer. I said to myself that I would win her
when I had won my reputation, and in the meantime I would be patient. It
was not very difficult, for she did not understand. And then one day we
went to explore my cavern--she called it the Magic Cave, of which she was
the princess and I her _preux chevalier_. We were as children in those
days," he put in half-apologetically, "and it was her _fête_. _Bien_, we
started. _Le petit_ Cinders went with us, and almost before we had
entered he ran away. We followed him, for Christine was very anxious. I
had never been beyond the second cavern myself, and we had only one
lantern. We came to a place where the passage divided, and here we agreed
that she should wait while I went forward. I took the lantern. We could
hear him yelp in the distance, and she feared that he was hurt. So I left
her alone, and presently, hearing him, as I thought, in front of me, I
ran, and stumbled and fell. The lantern was broken and I was stunned. It
was long before I recovered, and then it was with great difficulty that I
returned. I found her awaiting me still, and Cinders with her. It was
dark and horrible, but she was too brave to run away. I heard her
singing, and so I found her. But by that time the sea had reached the
mouth of the cave, and there was no retreat. We had no choice. We were
prisoners for the night. It might have happened to anyone, monsieur. It
might have happened to you. You blame me--not yet?"

Again the note of pleading was in his voice, but Mordaunt maintained his
silence. Only his eyes were no longer sphinx-like. They were fixed
intently upon the Frenchman's face.

Bertrand went on as though he had been answered. "I kept watch all
through the night, while she slept like an infant in my arms. You would
have done the same. In the morning when the tide permitted, we laughed
over the adventure and returned to Valpré. She went to her governess and
I to the fortress. By then everybody in Valpré knew what had happened.
They had believed that we were drowned, and when we reappeared all were
astonished. Later they began to whisper, and that evening the villain
Rodolphe, being intoxicated, proposed in my presence an infamous toast. I
struck him in the mouth and knocked him down. He challenged me to a duel,
and we fought early in the morning down on the sand. But that day the
gods were not on my side. Christine and Cinders were gone to the sea to
bathe, and, as they returned, they found us fighting. _Le bon_ Cinders,
he precipitate himself between us. _La petite_ rush to stop him--too
late. Rodolphe is startled; he plunge, and my sword pierce his arm.
_C'était là un moment très difficile. La petite_ try to explain, to
apologize, and me--I lead her away. _Après cela_ she go back to England,
and I see her not again. But Rodolphe, he forgive me--never. That,
monsieur--and only that--is the true story of that which happened at
Valpré. The little Christine left--as she arrived--a pure and innocent
child."

He stopped. Mordaunt's eyes were still studying him closely. He met them
with absolute freedom.

"I will finish," he said, "and you shall then judge for yourself. As
you know, I had scarcely attained my ambition when I was ruined. It was
then that you first saw me. You believed me innocent, and later, when
Destiny threw me in your path, you befriended me. I have no need to tell
you what your friendship was to me. No words can express it or my
desolation now that I have lost it. I fear that I was never worthy of
your--so great--confidence." His voice shook a little, and he paused to
steady it. "It was my intention--always--to be worthy. The fault lay in
that I did not realize my weakness. I ought to have left you when I knew
that _la petite_ was become your fiancée."

For the first time Mordaunt broke his silence. "Why not have told me the
truth?"

Bertrand raised his shoulders. "I did not feel myself at liberty to tell
you. Afterwards, I found that her eyes had been opened, and she was
afraid for you to know. It did not seem an affair of great importance,
and I let it pass. We were pals again. She gave me her confidence, and I
would sooner have died," he spoke passionately, "than have betrayed it. I
thought that I could hide my heart from her, and that only myself would
suffer. And this I can say with truth: by no word, no look, no action, of
mine were her eyes opened. I was always _le bon frère_ to her, neither
less nor more, until the awakening came. I was always faithful to you,
monsieur. I never forgot that she belonged to you--that she was--the wife
of--my friend."

Something seemed to rise in his throat, and he stopped sharply. A moment
later very slowly he sat down.

"You permit me?" he said. "I am--a little--tired. As you know, I began to
see at last that I could not remain with you. I resolved to go. But the
death of Cinders prevented me. She was in trouble, and she desired me to
stay. I should have grieved her if I had refused. I was wrong, I admit
it. I should have gone then. I should have left her to you. I do not
defend myself. I only beg you to believe that I did not see the danger,
that if I had seen it I would not have remained for a single moment more.
Then came the day at Sandacre, the encounter with Rodolphe. I knew that
evening that something had passed between them; what it was she would not
tell me. I tried to persuade her then to let me tell you the whole truth.
But she was terrified--_la pauvre petite_. She thought that you would be
angry with her. She feared that you would ask questions that she could
not answer. She had kept the secret so long that she dared not reveal
it."

"In short," Mordaunt said, "she was afraid that I should suspect her of
caring for you."

His words were too quiet to sound brutal, but they were wholly without
mercy. Bertrand's hands gripped the arms of his chair, and he winced
visibly.

Yet he answered with absolute candour. "Yes, monsieur. I believe she was.
I believe that it was the beginning of all this trouble. But had I known
that Rodolphe would use his knowledge to extort money from her, I would
not have yielded--no, not one inch--to her importunity. I did not know
it. Christine was afraid of me also. I had fought one duel for her;
perhaps she dreaded another. And so the mischief was done."

"And who told you that she had been blackmailed?" Mordaunt demanded
curtly.

Bertrand made answer without hesitation. "I heard that two days ago from
Max."

"Max?"

"Her brother, Max Wyndham."

"And who told him?"

Bertrand's black brows went up. "I believe it was his cousin Captain
Forest."

"Ah! So he sent you, did he? I might have known he would." For the first
time Mordaunt spoke with bitterness.

"Monsieur, no one sent me." There was dignity in Bertrand's rejoinder, a
dignity that compelled belief. "I came as soon as I knew what had
happened. I came to redress a great wrong. I came to restore to you that
which is your own property--of which, in truth, you have never been
deprived. With your permission, I will finish. On the night of the
fireworks, the night you were in London, I--betrayed myself. I cannot
tell you how it happened. I know only that my love became suddenly a
flame that I could not hide. She had been in danger, and me--I lost my
self-control. The veil was withdrawn, I could hide my love no more. I
showed her my heart just as it was, and--she showed me hers."

Bertrand rose with none of his customary impetuosity and stood in front
of Mordaunt, meeting the steady eyes with equal steadiness.

"I tell you the truth," he said. "We understand each other, and we love
each other. But you--you are even now more to her than I have ever been.
She has need of you as she has never had of me. You are the reality in
her life. I"--he spread out his hands--"I am the romance."

He paused as if to gather his strength, then went rapidly on. But his
face was grey. He looked like a man who had travelled fast and far.
"Monsieur," he said very earnestly, "believe me, I do not stand between
you. I love her--I love you both--too much for that. My one desire, my
one prayer, is for her happiness--and yours. Do not, I beseech you, make
me an obstacle. You are her protector. Do not leave her unprotected!"

Again for an instant he paused, seeming to strive after self-control.
Then suddenly he relinquished the attempt. He flung his dignity from
him; he threw himself on his knees at the impassive Englishman's feet.
"Mr. Mordaunt," he cried out brokenly, "I have told you the truth. As
a dying man, I swear to you--by God--that I have hidden nothing.
Monsieur--monsieur--go back to her--make her happy--before I die!"

His voice dropped. He sank forward, murmuring incoherently.

Mordaunt stooped sharply over him. "Bertrand, for Heaven's sake--" he
began, and broke off short; for the face that still tried to look into
his was so convulsed with agony that he knew him to be for the moment
beyond the reach of words.

He lifted the huddled Frenchman to a chair with great gentleness; but the
paroxysm did not pass. It was terrible to witness. It seemed to rack him
from head to foot, and through it he still strove to plead, though his
speech was no more than broken sound, inexpressibly painful to hear,
impossible to understand.

Mordaunt bent over him at last, all his hardness merged into pity. "My
dear fellow, don't!" he said. "Give yourself time. Haven't you anything
with you that will relieve this pain?"

Bertrand could not answer him. He made a feeble gesture with his right
hand; his left was clenched and rigid.

Mordaunt began to feel in his pockets; his touch was as gentle as a
woman's. But his search was unavailing. He only found an empty bottle.
Bertrand had evidently taken the remedy it had contained earlier in the
evening.

He turned to get some brandy, but Bertrand clutched at his sleeve and
detained him. "Max is here," he gasped. "Find Max! He--knows!"

His hand fell away, and Mordaunt went to the door. Holmes had returned to
his post in the passage. He came forward as the door opened.

"Mr. Max Wyndham is somewhere here," Mordaunt said. "Go and find him, and
bring him back with you--at once."

Holmes nodded comprehension and went.

Mordaunt turned back into the room. Bertrand had slipped to the floor
again, and was lying face downwards. His breathing was anguished, but he
made no other sound.

Mordaunt poured out some brandy and went to him. He knelt down by his
side and tried to administer it. But Bertrand could not drink. He could
only gasp. Yet after a moment his hand came out gropingly and touched
the man beside him.

Mordaunt took it and held it.

"You--believe me?" Bertrand jerked out.

"I believe you," Mordaunt answered very gravely.

"You--you forgive?"

Painfully the question came. It went into silence. But the hand that had
taken Bertrand's closed slowly and very firmly.

"_Et la petite--la petite--_" faltered Bertrand.

The silence endured for seconds. It seemed as if no answer would come.
And through it the man's anguished breathing came and went with a
dreadful pumping sound as of some broken machinery.

At last, slowly, as though he weighed each word before he uttered it,
Mordaunt spoke.

"You may trust her to me," he said.

And the hand in his stirred and gripped in gratitude, Bertrand de
Montville had not spent himself in vain.



CHAPTER VII

THE MESSENGER


"Roses!" said Chris. "How nice!"

She held the white blossoms that Jack had sent her against her face, and
smiled.

It was a very pathetic smile, a wan ghost of gaiety, possessing more of
bravery than mirth. She lay on a couch by the window, looking out under
the sun-blinds at the dusty green of the park. Though October had begun,
the summer was not yet over, and the heat was considerable. It seemed
oppressive after the fresh air of the moors, and Hilda watched her
cousin's languor with some anxiety. For her face had scarcely more colour
than the flowers she held.

"Is the paper here?" asked Chris.

She also was closely following the progress of the Valpré trial. Though
she never discussed it, Hilda was aware that it was the only thing in
life in which she took any interest just then.

She gave her the paper containing the last account that Mordaunt had
written, and for nearly an hour Chris was absorbed in it. At last, with a
sigh, she laid it down, and drew the roses to her again.

"It's very dear of Jack to send them. Hilda, don't you want to go out?
You mustn't stay in always for me."

"I want you to come out too, dear," Hilda said.

"I? Oh, please, dear, I'd rather not." Chris spoke quickly, almost
beseechingly. She laid a very thin hand upon Hilda's. "You don't mind?"
she said persuasively.

Hilda took the little hand and stroked it. "Chris darling," she said, "do
you know what is the matter with you?"

The quick blood rushed up over the pale face, spread to the temples, and
then faded utterly away. "Yes," whispered Chris.

Hilda leaned down, and very tenderly kissed her. "I felt sure you did.
And that's why you will make an effort to get strong, isn't it, dear? It
isn't as if it were just for your own sake any more. You will try, my own
Chris?"

But Chris turned her face away with quivering lips. "I think--and I
hope--that I shall die," she said.

"Chris, my darling--"

"Yes," Chris insisted. "If it shocks you I can't help it. I don't want to
live, and I don't want my child to live, either. Life is too hard. If--if
I had had any choice in the matter, I would never have been born. And so
if I die before the baby comes, it is the best thing that could possibly
happen for either of us. And I think--I think"--she hesitated momentarily
before a name she had not uttered for weeks--"Trevor would say the same."

"My dear child, I am quite sure he wouldn't!" Hilda spoke with most
unaccustomed vigour. "I am quite sure that if he knew of this, he would
be with you to-day."

"Oh no, indeed!" Chris said. She spoke quite quietly, with absolute
conviction. "You don't know him, Hilda. You only judge him from outside.
If he knew--well, yes, he might possibly think it his duty to be near me.
But not because he cared. You see--he doesn't. His love is quite dead.
And"--she began to shiver--"I don't like dead things; they frighten me.
So you won't let anyone tell him; promise me!"

"But, my dear, he would love the child--his child," urged Hilda softly.

"Oh, that would be worse!" Chris turned sharply from her. "If he loved
the child--and--and--hated the mother!"

"Chris! Chris! You are torturing yourself with morbid ideas! Such a thing
would be impossible."

"Not with him," said Chris, shuddering. "He is not like Percy, you know.
You think him gentle and kind, but he is quite different, really. He is
as hard--and as cold--as iron. Ah, here is Noel!" She broke off with
obvious relief. "Come in, dear old boy. I've been wondering where you
were."

Noel came in. He usually haunted Chris's room during the day. The
Davenants had done their utmost to persuade him to go to school, but Noel
had taken the conduct of his affairs into his own hands, and firmly
refused.

"I shan't go while Chris is ill," he declared flatly. "We'll see what
she's like at the mid-term."

Jack's authority was invoked in vain, for Jack was on the youngster's
side.

"I've squared him," said Noel, with satisfaction. "Of course, I'm sorry
to be a burden to you, Hilda, but I'll pay up when I come of age."

Which promise invariably silenced Hilda's protests, and made Lord Percy
chuckle.

Aunt Philippa was still absent upon her autumn round of visits, a
circumstance for which Noel was openly and devoutly thankful. Not that
her influence was by any means paramount with him, but her presence might
of itself have been sufficient to drive him away. The only person who
could really manage him was his brother-in-law, but as he had apparently
forgotten Noel's very existence, it seemed unlikely that his authority
would be brought to bear upon him. Meanwhile, Noel swaggered in and out
of his sister's presence, penniless but content, and Chris plainly liked
to have him.

On the present occasion he interrupted their conversation without
apology, pushed Chris's feet to one side, and seated himself on the end
of the sofa.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he said to Hilda.

"Yes, I do," said Hilda.

"All right, then. You'd better go." He pulled a clay pipe out of his
pocket, and an envelope that contained tobacco. "I know Chris doesn't
mind," he said, with a twinkling glance in her direction. "Also, my
cousin, someone wants you in the next room."

"Who is it?" said Hilda.

"Don't ask me," said Noel.

She hesitated momentarily. "Well, I suppose I must go. But mind, Noel,
you are not to smoke in here."

"Say please!" said Noel imperturbably.

"Please!" said Hilda obediently.

He rose and accompanied her to the door. "Madam, your wishes shall be
respected."

He opened the door with a flourish, bowed her out, closed it, and softly
turned the key.

Then he wheeled round to his sister with gleaming eyes. "That's done the
trick, I bet. Trevor has just turned up with Jack. But you needn't be
afraid. I shan't let him in."

"What!" said Chris.

She started up, uttering the word like a cry.

Noel left the door swiftly, and came to her. "It's all right, old girl.
Don't you worry yourself. We'll hold the fort, never fear. He shan't come
in here, unless you say the word."

Chris's hands clutched him with feverish strength. Her face was deathly.
"Oh, Noel!" she breathed. "Oh, Noel!"

He hugged her reassuringly. "It's all right, I tell you. Don't get in a
blue funk for nothing. He's not coming in here to bully you."

But Chris only clung faster to him, not breathing. The sudden shock had
sent all the blood to her heart. She felt choked and powerless.

"There! Lie down again," said Noel. "I'm here. I'll take care of you. I
knew he would turn up again; it's what I've been waiting for. But I swear
he shan't come near you against your will. That's enough, isn't it? You
know you are safe with me."

She could not answer him, but she crouched back upon the sofa in response
to his persuasion. She was shaking from head to foot.

Noel sat solidly down beside her. "Don't be frightened," he said. "We're
going to have some fun."

"What--what can he have come for?" whispered Chris.

"Goodness knows! But he isn't going to get it, anyway. Good old Hilda!
She went like a bird, didn't she? I call this rather amusing."

Noel began to whistle under his breath, obviously enjoying the situation
to the utmost.

But Chris restrained him. "I want to listen," she murmured piteously.

He became silent at once, and several seconds crawled away, accompanied
by no sound save the interminable buzzing of a fly on the window-pane.

Noel arose at length and with a single swoop of the hand captured and
killed it. Then he went back to Chris.

"I say, don't look so scared! No one is going to hurt you."

The words were hardly uttered before Hilda's light step sounded outside,
and her hand tried the door.

Chris started violently, and cowered among her cushions. Noel chuckled
softly.

"Chris dear, what is the matter? Let me in!" Anxiety and persuasion were
mingled in Hilda's voice.

Noel's chuckle became audible. "She isn't going to. She doesn't want
anyone but me. Do you, Chris?"

Chris made no reply. She was staring at the door with starting eyes.

Noel went leisurely across and set his back against it. His eyes still
gleamed roguishly, but his mouth had ceased to smile.

"I say, Hilda," he said, over his shoulder, "if you want to do Chris a
good turn, tell that beastly cad behind you to go. I shan't let him in,
anyhow, not if he stays till doomsday. So he may as well clear out at
once."

"My dear Noel, how can you be so absurd?" Hilda's placid tones held real
annoyance for once.

But the cause of it was quite unimpressed.

"Your dear Noel is acting up to his lights," he returned, "and he has no
intention of doing anything else, absurd or otherwise. Chris is nearly
scared out of her wits, so you had better take my advice sharp."

This last information took instant effect upon Hilda. She turned her
attention to Chris forthwith.

"My dear, do let me in! There is nothing whatever to frighten you. I
promise you shall not be frightened. Chris, tell that absurd boy to open
the door--please, dearest!"

"I--can't!" gasped Chris.

"She isn't going to," said Noel. "You run along, Hilda. And you can tell
Trevor with my love that if he'll clear out now I'll meet him at any time
and place he likes to mention and have a damned old row."

"Very good of you!" Another voice spoke on the other side of the door,
and Noel jumped in spite of himself. "But at the present moment you don't
count. Is Chris there? I want to speak to her."

The leisurely tones came, measured and distinct, through the closed door,
and Chris covered her face and shivered. "Oh, you'll have to let him in!"
she said. "Only--don't go away! Don't leave me alone with him!"

"Chris!" Mordaunt's voice, calm and unhurried, addressed her directly.
"Jack is here with me. Will you let us in?"

Chris lifted a haggard face. "Open the door, Noel!" she said.

"Why?" demanded Noel, with sudden ferocity. "We are not going to knock
under to him. Why should we?"

"It's no use," she said. "We can't help it. Besides--besides--" She broke
off with something like a sob, and rose from the sofa.

Noel looked at her under drawn brows. "You really mean it?"

"Yes." She pushed the hair from her forehead, and made a great effort to
still her agitation. "I do mean it, Noel. I--wish it."

"All right." The boy whizzed round and turned the key.

He met Mordaunt face to face on the threshold with clenched hands, his
face dark with passion. "If you hurt her--I'll kill you!" he said.

Had Mordaunt laughed at him, he would probably have attempted to carry
out his threat then and there, for his mood was tempestuous. But the
quiet eyes that met his blazing ones held no derision. They went beyond
him instantly, seeking the girlish figure that leaned against the
sofa-head for support; but a hand grasped his shoulder at the same moment
and turned him back into the room.

"I shan't quarrel with you on that account," Mordaunt said. "You can stay
if you like, and satisfy yourself."

Jack entered behind him, and went straight to Chris. He took her
quivering hands into his, and held them fast.

"That boy deserves to be horsewhipped for startling you like this," he
said.

She smiled at him wanly, but not as if she heard his words. "You will
stay with me, Jack?" she said beseechingly.

"If you wish it, dear. But Trevor wants to say something rather private.
Really, you have nothing to be afraid of."

His kindly eyes looked down reassuringly into hers. They seemed to reason
with her, to persuade and soothe at the same time.

But Chris's hands clung to his. "Don't--don't go!" she said. "I want
you--I want you, Jack."

"Suppose we sit down," said Jack practically. "Trevor, I wish you'd kick
that boy downstairs. It would do him good and me too. This isn't a family
conclave."

"Noel can stay," Mordaunt answered quietly. He was still looking towards
his wife, but he did not seem to be regarding her very intently. "You are
mistaken in thinking that I have anything to say to Chris in private. I
have only come to tell her what I have already told you, that Bertrand is
at Valpré, ill and wanting her. I will take her to him--if she will
come."

"Trevor!" She turned to him with eyes of sudden horror--horror so
definite that it swamped all her personal shrinking. "How is he ill?
You--you have hurt him!"

"I have done nothing to him," Mordaunt answered. "He is suffering from
heart-disease, and cannot be moved. I must start from Charing Cross in an
hour. Will you come with me?"

"To go to him?" Her eyes were still dilated, but they did not waver from
his.

"To go to him." He repeated the words with precision, and waited for her
answer.

But Chris sat in silence, her hands in Jack's.

"Look here," Noel broke in abruptly, "if Chris goes, I go."

"Very well," Mordaunt said. "If Chris desires it, you may."

Chris came out of her silence with a little shudder, and turned to the
man beside her. "Jack, tell me what to do!"

"I think you had better go, dear," Jack said.

"But if--but if--oh, is he very ill?" She looked again at her husband.

"He is very ill indeed," Mordaunt said.

"You think I ought to go?" She asked the question with an obvious effort.

"I have come to fetch you," he said.

"Then--he is dying!" she said, with sudden conviction.

Mordaunt was silent.

Abruptly she left Jack and went up to him. "Trevor," she said, "would you
want to take me to him if--if--"

"If--?" he repeated quietly.

"If you thought I was doing wrong to go?"

He made a slight movement, as if the question were unexpected. "I should
have explained to you," he said, "that your brother Max is in charge of
him, so that when I am not with you--and, as you know, I am attending the
Rodolphe trial--you will not be alone."

"Oh, Max is there!" she said, with relief. "But what is he doing at
Valpré?"

"He went there with Bertrand."

"But I thought Bertrand could not go to France," she hazarded.

"He went in disguise."

"Why?" Her lips trembled upon the word.

"Because he had something to say to me." With the utmost calmness his
answer came.

"Ah!" She started and turned so white that he put out a hand to steady
her.

She laid her own within it, as it were instinctively, because she needed
support.

"What was it?" she whispered.

He looked at her gravely. "Are you afraid to be alone with me?" he said.

"No."

"Then--quick march!" said Jack, with his hand through Noel's arm.

They went out together, Noel glancing back for the smallest sign from his
sister to remain.

But she made none. She stood quite still, with her hand in her husband's,
waiting.

As the door closed Mordaunt spoke. "Have you been ill?"

"No," she said faintly. "Not--not really ill."

She was aware of his close scrutiny for a moment, but she made not the
slightest attempt to meet it.

"You want to know what Bertrand said to me," he said. "And you have a
right to know. He told me the whole history of your friendship from the
beginning to the end."

"He told you about--about Valpré?" Her eyelids quivered, as if she wished
to raise them but dared not.

"Yes."

"Then you know--" Her hand fluttered in his.

"I know everything," he said.

Her white face quivered piteously. "And you--you are still angry?"

"No, I am not angry." He led her back to the sofa. "Sit down a minute,"
he said. "I don't think you are quite fit for this, and if you are going
back with me to Valpré, you will need to reserve your strength."

He sat down beside her, both her hands firmly clasped in his, as if
thereby he would impart to her the strength she lacked.

"You mean me to go, then?" murmured Chris.

"Don't you want to go?" he asked.

"If he really wants me--" she faltered. "And if you--you wish it, too."

"My dear," he said, "do my wishes make any real difference?"

She caught her breath sharply, and bent her head that he might not see
her face. "Yes," she whispered, under her breath.

"Very well," he said, "I wish it, too."

She was silent, but suddenly her tears began to fall upon the strong
hands that held hers. She would have given anything to have repressed
them at that moment. With her whole soul she shrank from showing him her
weakness, but it overpowered her. She bowed her head lower still, and
wept.

He sat quite motionless for seconds, so that even in the depth of her
distress she marvelled at his patience. But at last, very gently, he
moved, let her hands go, and rose.

He stood awhile turned from her, his face to the window, though the
sun-blind was all that could have met his view; finally, with grave
kindness, he spoke.

"I think I had better leave you to prepare for the journey. There is not
much time at your disposal, and you will probably need it all. It is
settled that Noel is to go with us?"

"You won't mind?" she whispered.

"I think it a very good plan," he answered.

He turned round and came back to her. She had commanded herself to a
certain extent, but still she could not raise her face. She waited
tensely as he approached, possessed by a sudden, almost delirious longing
to feel the touch of his lips.

Her desire surged into leaping hope as he stopped beside her. Would
he--could he? But he did not stoop. He only laid his hand for a moment
upon her head.

"Chris," he said, "try to think of me as a friend--and don't be afraid."

She thrilled at the low-spoken words. In another moment she would have
conquered all hesitation and sprung up to feel his arms about her, to
hide her face against him, to open to him all her quivering heart. But
for that moment he did not wait.

With the utterance of the words his hand fell, and he moved away.

The opening and the closing of the door told her he had gone.



CHAPTER VIII

ARREST


"Ah, but what a night for dreams!"

The cool salt air came in from the sea like a benediction, blowing softly
about the sick man by the window, sending a gleam of life into eyes grown
weary with long suffering. He leaned back upon his pillows for the first
time in many hours.

"It is as if the door of heaven had opened," he said.

"You're not going yet, old chap!" Max answered, a curious blending of
grimness and tenderness in his voice.

"But no--not yet--not yet." Softly Bertrand made answer, but resolution
throbbed in his words also. "I must not fail her--my little pal--my bird
of Paradise. But the night is very long, Max, _mon ami_. And the
darkness--the darkness--"

Max's hand came quietly down and closed upon his wrist. "I'll see you
through," he said.

"Yes--yes. You will help me. You are one of those created to help. That
is why you will be great. The great men are always--those who help."

The words came slowly, sometimes with difficulty, but the young medical
student made no attempt to check them. He only sat with shrewd eyes upon
the sick man's face and alert finger on his wrist, marking the waning
strength while he listened. For he knew that the night was long.

Years afterwards it came to be said of him that his patients never died
until his back was turned. It was not strictly true, but it conveyed
something of the magnetism with which he wrought upon them. He knew the
crucial moment by instinct, when to grapple and when to slacken his hold,
and he never went by rule.

And so on that his second night of vigil by the side of a dying man,
though he recognized speech as a danger, he made no effort to silence
him. He knew that weariness of the spirit that finds no vent was a
greater danger still.

"So you think I have a future before me?" he said.

"I am sure of it." Bertrand spoke with conviction. "It will not be an
easy future, _mon ami_. Perhaps it will not be happy. Those who climb
have no time to gather the flowers by the way. But--it will be great. You
desire that, yes?"

"In a fashion," Max said. "I don't know that I consider greatness in
itself as specially valuable. Do you?"

"I?" said Bertrand. "But I have passed all that. There was a time when
ambition was to me as the breath of life. I thought of nothing else. And
then"--his voice dropped a little--"there came a greater thing--the
greatest of all. And I knew that I had climbed above ambition. I knew
success and fame as a procession that passes--that passes--the mirage in
the desert--the dream in the midst of our great Reality. I knew all this
before my ruin came. It was as if a light had suddenly been held up, and
I saw the work of my life as pictures in the sand. Then the great tide
rushed up, and all was washed away. But yet"--his voice vibrated, he
looked at Max and smiled--"the light remained. For a time, indeed, I was
blind, but the light came back to me. And I know now that it was always
there."

He paused, and turned his head sharply.

"What is it?" said Max.

"I heard a sound."

"There are plenty of sounds in this place," Max pointed out.

"Ah! but this was different. It sounded like--" He stopped with a gasp
that made Max frown.

Undoubtedly there was a sound outside, the tread of feet, the jingle of a
sword. Max got up, still frowning, and went to the door.

He had barely reached it before there came a loud knock upon the panels,
and a voice cried: "_Ouvrez_!"

Max's knowledge of French was exceedingly limited, but that fact by no
means dismayed him. He turned round to Bertrand for a moment.

"I'm going to have a talk with this johnny. Don't agitate yourself. You
are not to move till I come back."

"_Ouvrez_!" cried the voice again.

"All right?" questioned Max.

Bertrand was leaning forward. His eyes were very bright, his breathing
very short. "They have come--to take me," he said.

"I'll see them damned first," said Max. "You keep still, and leave it to
me."

His hand was on the door with the words. A moment more he stood,
thick-set and British, looking back. Then with a curt nod, he opened the
door, and passed instantly out, pulling it after him.

Half a dozen soldiers filled the passage. The one who had knocked--an
officer--stood face to face with him.

"Now what do you want?" asked Max.

He stood, holding the door-handle, his red brows drawn, a glint of battle
in the green eyes beneath them. And so, during a brief silence, they
measured each other.

Then quite courteously the Frenchman spoke. "Monsieur, my duty brings me
here. Will you have the goodness to open that door?"

"It's a good thing you can speak English," Max remarked, with his
one-sided smile. "What do you want to go in there for? The room is mine."

"And you are entertaining a friend there, monsieur." The Frenchman still
spoke suavely; he even smiled an answering smile.

"That is so," Max said. "Do you know his name?"

"It is Bertrand de Montville." There was no hesitation in the reply. He
looked as if he expected the Englishman to move aside, as he made it. But
Max stood his ground.

"And what is your business with him?" he asked.

The officer's brows went up. "Monsieur?"

"You have come to arrest him?" Max questioned.

The Frenchman hesitated for a moment, then: "I must do my duty," he said.

The green eyes contemplated him thoughtfully for a space. Then, "I
suppose you know he is dying?" Max said slowly.

"Dying, monsieur!" The tone was sharp, the speaker plainly incredulous.

Max explained without emotion. "He is suffering from an incurable disease
of the heart, caused by hardship and starvation. If you go in and agitate
him now, I won't give that for his chances of lasting through the night."

He snapped his fingers without taking his eyes from the other's face.

"Is it true?" the Frenchman said.

"It is absolutely true." Max spoke quietly, but there was force behind
his words. "You can do what you like to safeguard him, though he is quite
incapable of getting away. You can surround the house and post sentries
at the door. But unless you want to kill him outright, you won't take him
away from here. You can send one of your own doctors to certify what I
say. You don't want to kill him, I presume?"

The Frenchman was listening attentively. It was evident that Max Wyndham
was making an impression.

"My orders are to arrest him and to take him to the fortress," he said.

"Dead or alive?" asked Max.

"But certainly not dead, monsieur. All France will be calling for him
to-morrow."

"That's the funny part of it," said Max. "France should have thought of
that before. Well, sir, if you want him to live, all you can do is to
wait. I will keep him going through the night, and you can send a doctor
round in the morning."

"You are a doctor?" asked the Frenchman keenly.

"No. I am a medical student."

"And you are friends, _hein_?"

"Yes, we are friends. It was I who brought him here."

"But what a pity, monsieur!" There was a touch of kindly feeling in the
words.

"Yes," Max acknowledged grimly. "It was a pity. But his reason for coming
was urgent. And, after all, it made little difference. It has only
hastened by a few weeks the end that was bound to come."

"You think that he will die?"

"Yes." Max spoke briefly. His tone was one of indifference.

The Frenchman looked at him curiously. "And what was his reason for
coming?"

"It was a strictly private one," Max said. "This trial had nothing to do
with it. It will certainly never be made public, so I am not at liberty
to speak of it."

"And has he done--that which he left England to do?"

"Not yet, sir, but he may do it--if he lives long enough." Again Max's
tone was devoid of all feeling. He still stood planted squarely against
the closed door.

"And you think he will not do that?"

"On the contrary," said Max, "I think he will--if I am with him to keep
him going."

He spoke with true British doggedness, and a gleam of humour crossed the
Frenchman's face. He made a brief bow.

"M. de Montville is fortunate to possess such a friend," he said.

The corner of Max's mouth went down. "As to that," he said dryly, "he
might do a good deal better, and a very little worse. Now, sir, what are
you going to do?"

The Frenchman looked quizzical. "It seems that I must take your advice,
monsieur, or risk very serious consequences. I shall leave a guard here
during the night, and I must ask you to give me the key of this door.
_Après cela_"--he shrugged his shoulders--"_nous verrons_."

Max turned without protest, opened the door, and withdrew the key. He
stood a moment listening before he turned back and laid it in the
officer's hand. His face was grave.

"I think I must go to him," he said. "You will see to it that he is not
disturbed?"

"No one will enter without your permission," the Frenchman answered. "And
you, monsieur, will remain with him until I return."

"I see," said Max. Again, for an instant, the fighting gleam was in his
eyes, then carelessly he laughed. "Well, I shan't try to run away. He and
I are down in the same lot. You would find it harder to turn me out than
to keep me here."

"I believe it, monsieur." There was no irony in the words or in the bow
that accompanied them. "And I repeat, he is a happy man who possesses
your friendship."

"Oh, rats!" said Max, and suddenly turned scarlet. "You are talking
through your hat, sir. If you've quite done, I'll go."

It was the most boyish utterance he had permitted himself, and as he gave
vent to it he was so obviously ill at ease that the Frenchman smiled.

"But you are younger than I thought," he said. "Will you shake hands?"

Max gave his customary hard grip. They looked into each other's eyes for
a moment, and separated with mutual respect.

Five seconds later Max had returned to his self-appointed task of helping
a dying man to live through the night.



CHAPTER IX

VALPRÉ AGAIN


"How dark it is!" said Chris. "And how we are crawling!"

She turned her white face from the carriage-window with the words. They
were the first she had uttered since leaving Paris.

Neither of her two companions responded at once. Noel was curled up in
the farther corner asleep, and her husband sitting opposite was writing
rapidly in a notebook. He stopped to finish his sentence before he looked
up. She was conscious of a little sense of chill because he did so.

"Why don't you try to get a sleep?" he said then. "We shall not reach
Valpré for another two hours."

"I can't sleep," she said.

Her eyes avoided his instinctively. They were more nearly alone together
at this moment than they had been since their brief interview that
morning at the Davenants' flat. It seemed weeks ago to Chris already.

"Have you tried?" he asked.

"No."

He did not make the obvious rejoinder, but glanced again at his writing,
added something, and put it away. Then, with his usual deliberation of
movement, he left his seat and came over to her side.

She had a moment of desperate shyness as he sat down. "Don't let me
interrupt you," she said nervously.

He ignored the words, as if he considered them foolish "I should like you
to get a little sleep," he said. "You have had a long day. Look at that
fellow over there, setting the good example."

"He hasn't so much to think about," said Chris, with a smile that
quivered in spite of her.

"Are you thinking very hard?" he asked.

"Yes." She brought out the word with an effort, for suddenly she wanted
to cry again, and she was determined to keep back her tears this time.

He made no comment, but sat and looked at the blank darkness of the
window.

After a time she mastered herself, and stole a glance at his grave face.

"You--I suppose you will be busy at the court again to-morrow?" she said.

"Yes." He turned to her in his quiet way. "It will be the last day in all
probability."

"You think the verdict will be made known?"

"Yes."

She shivered a little. "And the sentence?"

"The sentence will probably not be disclosed till later."

She shivered again, and he reached forward and drew the window a little
higher.

"I'm not cold," she said quickly. "Trevor, aren't you--just
a little--sorry for him?"

"For whom?"

"For the prisoner--for--for Captain Rodolphe." She stammered the name
with downcast eyes.

"No." Very calmly and very decidedly came his answer. "I have no pity for
a man of that sort. I think he should be shot."

"Oh, do you?" she said with a gasp.

"Yes, I do. A treacherous scoundrel like that is worse than a murderer in
my opinion. So is anyone who is fundamentally untrustworthy."

"Oh, but--but--Trevor--," she said, and suddenly there was a note of
pleading in her halting words, "that includes the weak people with the
wicked. Don't you think--that is rather hard?"

"Quite possibly." He made the admission in a tone she did not understand,
and relapsed into silence.

She felt as if the subject were closed, and did not venture to pursue it.

But after a moment he surprised her by a quiet question: "Why don't you
try to convince me that I am wrong?"

She looked up at him quickly, as if compelled. His eyes were waiting for
hers, met them, held them.

"I am not suggesting that you should defend Rodolphe," he said. "You were
not thinking of him. He is not one of the weak."

"I was thinking of myself," she said. "And--and--and--" She wavered and
stopped.

"Rupert?" he suggested.

She caught her breath. "What made you think of him?"

"You were thinking of him, were you not?"

She made a gesture of helplessness. "Yes."

"I see," he said. "But you needn't be anxious about Rupert. He came to me
long ago and told me the truth."

She opened her eyes wide. "What made him do that?"

"He heard that Bertrand was bearing the blame for his misdeeds, and he
had the decency to be ashamed of himself."

"Oh!" said Chris. She was silent for a moment, still meeting his steady
gaze. Suddenly her mouth quivered and she turned from them. "Trevor, I--I
am ashamed too."

"Hush!" he said.

The word was brief, it sounded stern; but in the same instant his hand
found hers and held it very tightly.

She mastered herself with a great effort in response to his insistence.
"Were you very angry with him?" she whispered.

"No."

"You didn't--punish him in any way?"

"No. I told him to forget it and said I should do the same. As a matter
of fact, I had forgotten it until this moment." Mordaunt's tone was
unemotional; he released her hand as he was speaking, and again she was
conscious of that small sense of chill.

"You forgave him, then?" she said.

"Yes, I did." He paused a moment; then: "By and bye," he said, "Rupert
will take on the management of the Kellerton estate, and I think he will
probably be a great help to me."

Chris's eyes shot upwards in amazement. "Trevor! Not really?"

He smiled a little. "Yes, really. It is the sort of life that suits him
best; and he will be pretty busy, so it ought to keep him out of
mischief."

"Oh, but, Trevor--" she said, and stopped short.

"Well?" he said gently.

"I didn't think you would do that," she murmured in confusion. "I didn't
think you would ever trust any of us again."

"You think I may regret it?" he said.

She turned her face to the window and made no answer.

He sat beside her for a little longer in silence, then rose, bundled up a
travelling-rug to form a cushion, and arranged it in her corner. "Lean
against that," he said kindly. "I know you can sleep if you don't try not
to."

She thanked him with trembling lips, and as he turned away she caught his
hand for a moment and held it to her cheek.

He withdrew it at once though with absolute gentleness. He did not speak
a word.

Thereafter she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the drumming of
the train was in her ears perpetually, and she could not forget it.
Present also was the consciousness of her husband's quiet watchfulness.
Though he held aloof from her, his care surrounded her unceasingly. Not
once had she felt it relax since she had placed herself in his charge.
Did he guess? she asked herself, and trembled inwardly. He was being very
kind to her in a distant, measured fashion. Was that the reason for it?
Could it be?

Her thoughts went back to her talk with her cousin, to the bitter words
she had uttered. Would he really care if she were to die? Would he? Would
he? She longed to know.

But of course he would not, or he could not be so cold. For Bertrand's
sake he had come to fetch her. He had evidently forgiven Bertrand just as
he had forgiven Rupert. He forgave everybody but her, she thought to
herself forlornly. For his wife alone he could not make allowances.

Again the hot tears welled up, and her closed lids could not keep them
back. The dumb anxiety that had gnawed at her heart all through the day
returned upon her overwhelmingly, became a burden too heavy to be borne.
She covered her face and sobbed.

"Chris!" Her husband's voice came down to her in the depths of her
distress. His hand pressed her head. "Leave off crying," he said. "You
mustn't cry."

She turned her face upwards, all blinded with tears. "Trevor, I know--I
know we shan't be in time!"

They were not the words she wanted to say to him, but they came uppermost
and were uttered almost before she knew. She wondered if they would make
him angry, but it was too late to recall them. She reached out her hands
to him imploringly.

"Oh, forgive me for caring so much!"

"Hush!" he said again very gently. "I understand."

He put the hair back from her forehead, and dried her eyes. There was
something almost maternal in his touch.

"You mustn't cry," he said again. "I think you will be in time, and if
you are, you will need all your strength; so you mustn't waste it now.
Come, you are going to be brave?"

"I'll try," she said faintly.

"See if you can get to sleep," he said.

"But I know I can't," whispered Chris.

"I think you can." He spoke with grave conviction.

"Will you--will you hold my hand?" faltered Chris.

He took it at once. She felt his fingers close steadily upon it, and a
sense of comfort stole over her. She clasped them very tightly, and
closed her eyes.

The train drummed on through the night, bearing her back to Valpré, back
to the old enchantments, to the sands, the caves, and the rocks. She
began to hear again the long, low wash of the sea. Or was it the sound of
wheels that raced over the metals? Before her inner vision came the
spreading line of foam that had rushed how often to catch her dancing
feet. And the quiet pools crystal-clear among the rocks, with the
sunshine that turned their pebbly floors to gold, so that they became
palaces of delight, draped with exquisite curtains of rose and palest
green, peopled with scuttling crabs that were not really crabs at all,
but the spellbound retinue of the knight who dwelt in the Magic Cave.

She looked towards the Gothic archway, expectant, with quickening
breath. Surely he would be coming soon! Ah, now she saw him--a radiant,
white-clad figure, with the splendour of eternal youth upon him and the
Deathless Magic in his eyes.

And suddenly her own eyes were opened, so that she knew beyond all
doubting that the spell that bound him--that bound them both--was the
spell of Immortality, the Divine Passport--Love the Indestructible.

Thereafter came a wondrous peace, solacing her, calming her, wrapping her
round. Once she stirred, and was conscious of a quiet hand holding hers,
lulling her to a more assured restfulness. And so at last she slipped
into the quiet of a deep slumber, and the throbbing anxiety sank utterly
away.

When she opened her eyes again it was in answer to her husband's voice.
She awoke quite naturally to find him bending over her.

"We are at Valpré," he said.

She sat up quickly. "Why, I have been asleep!"

"Yes," he said. "And you will be the better for it. Noel has gone to
secure a conveyance. The place is crammed, as you know. You are feeling
all right?"

Again for a moment she felt his scrutiny, and her heart quickened under
it. But she mustered a smile.

"Yes, quite. You will let me come with you, Trevor? You won't go on
first?"

"I shall not leave you," he said.

He gave her his hand to descend from the train, and she clung to it while
they threaded their way through the noisy, gesticulating crowd that
thronged the platform.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she found herself at last in the
ramshackle _fiacre_ which Noel by strenuous effort had managed to
commandeer. The din bewildered her. But for her husband's protecting
presence she would have felt like a lost child.

As they rumbled away over the stones of Valpré he spoke. "We are in time,
Chris."

Her heart gave a great throb. "Are we? But how do you know?"

"Everyone is talking of him," he said quietly. "And I gather that he has
been arrested."

"Oh, Trevor!" she breathed in dismay.

"Max is with him," he reminded her. "I don't think they would get rid of
him very easily. We shall know more when we get there."

They clattered on to the _plage_, and the cold sea wind blew in upon
them.

Noel snuffed it appreciatively. "Smells decent, anyway. Wonder if they're
still running the same old show. I say, Chris, do you remember the Goat?"

Chris did. With her face to the dark sea and the sound of its waves in
her ears, she recalled the old light-hearted days and the shrill
admonitions of Mademoiselle Gautier. How often had she prophesied
disaster for her charge among the rocks of Valpré! Chris smiled a little
piteous smile. Ah, well!

The _fiacre_ jerked and jolted over the stones. They left the _plage_
behind and came to a standstill with a violent swerve.

"Now what?" said Noel.

They seemed to have come suddenly upon a crowd of people. Late though it
was, all Valpré apparently was awake and abroad.

They staggered on again at a snail's pace, hearing voices all about
them, now and then catching glimpses of faces in the light of the
carriage-lamps.

"Feels like a funeral procession!" observed Noel jocularly.

"Shut up!" said Mordaunt curtly.

Chris squeezed his hand very hard and said nothing.

Slowly, slowly they drew near to the hotel. A glare of lights shone upon
them. The whole place was a buzz of excitement.

They turned into the courtyard, passing two soldiers on guard at the
gate. No one spoke to them, or attempted to delay their progress. They
stopped before the swing-doors.

An obsequious official came forward to greet them as they descended, and
Mordaunt entered into conversation with him. Two soldiers were on guard
here also, standing like images on each side of the entrance. Noel
studied them with frank interest. Chris stood and waited as one in a
dream.

At last her husband turned to her. He introduced the obsequious one, who
bowed very low and declared himself enchanted. And then she found herself
moving through the vestibule, where a great many men of all nationalities
looked at her curiously and a great babble of voices hummed like some
immense machinery.

She turned to the man beside her with a touch of nervousness, and at once
his hand closed upon her arm.

"Bertrand is still living," he said.

She looked up at him imploringly. "Can't we go to him?"

"Yes, we are going now. He is upstairs. They wanted to take him to the
fortress, but he is too ill to be moved."

They went on together. He led her into a lift, and they passed out of
reach of the staring crowd.

A familiar figure was awaiting them above, and greeted Chris
deferentially as she stepped into the corridor.

"Why, Holmes!" she said, and held out her hand to him.

He took it with reverence. For the first time in her memory she detected
a hint of emotion on his impassive face.

"He--hasn't gone, Holmes?" she whispered breathlessly.

"No, madam. He is waiting for you," Holmes made answer, very gently.

Waiting for her! She smiled piteously in her relief. Bertrand de
Montville would be her perfect knight to the last.

As they went on down the long corridor she missed the grasp of her
husband's fingers, and stopped like a child to slip her hand back into
his.

He looked down at her gravely, saying nothing. And so they came at last
to the door of Bertrand's room.

Two soldiers were on guard here also. The door was closed.

Holmes went quietly forward and showed a paper to one of the sentries.

Chris waited with a beating heart. Suddenly, with a sob, she turned and
clung to her husband's arm. "Trevor, I--I am afraid!"

"There is no need," he said.

"I have never seen death," she whispered. "Will he seem--different?"

He looked at her for a second in such a way that her eyes fell from his.

"Would you like me to go in first?" he asked.

"No--no. Only, Trevor, hold my hand! You won't let go? Promise!"

He did not promise, but somehow without words he reassured her. The door
opened before them, and they entered.



CHAPTER X

THE INDESTRUCTIBLE


Within the room all was dim.

An arm-chair piled with many pillows stood facing the open window, and as
her eyes became accustomed to the twilight Chris discerned the outline of
a figure that reclined in it. At the same moment there came to her the
sound of a voice, husky and difficult, yet how strangely familiar.

"Ah, but the tide--the tide!" it said. "Can we not hold it back my dear
Max--a little longer? It rushes up so fast--so fast. Soon all will be
gone. Only a picture in the sand, you say? But no, it is more than that.
See, it is greater than all the things in the world--greater than
the Sphinx, _ma petite_--greater than your Cleopatra's Needle. Ah, you
laugh, because you have no need of it. But yet it is your own, and so
will it always be. Do you hear the tide among the rocks, _mignonne_? It
is there that my heart is buried. Come with me, and I will show you the
place--if the tide permit."

There came a gasp, and silence.

Some one guided Chris gently forward till she stood behind the great
chair at the window, looking down upon the black head that rested
against the pillow. Her fear had passed, but yet she drew no nearer.
Instinctively she stood and waited.

Suddenly, and more clearly, the voice spoke again.

"We must climb, _chérie_, we must climb. We dare not stay upon these
rocks. It is steep for your little feet, but to remain here is to die.
_Alors_, we will say our prayers and go. _Le bon Dieu_ will keep us safe.
And we have been--pals--since so long."

A softer note in the last sentence made her aware that he was smiling.
She bent a little above him. But still she waited.

"_Comment_?" he said. "You are afraid? But why, my bird of Paradise? Is
it life that you fear--this little life of shadows? Or Death--which is
the gateway to our great Reality? Listen, _mignonne_! I am a prisoner
while I live, but the gate opens to me. Soon I shall be free. No, no!
I cannot take you with me. I would not, _chérie_, if I could. Your place
is here. But remember--always--that I love you still. And my love is
stronger than death. It stretches into eternity."

He paused, and made a slight gesture of refusal. "Ah, no!" he said. "I do
not want a priest. My sins are all known--and pardoned. I only want--one
thing now."

"What is it, old chap?" It was Max Wyndham's voice, but pitched so low
that Chris scarcely recognized it.

The head on the pillow moved, turning towards the speaker. "So, _mon
ami_, you are still there?"

"What is it you are wanting?" Max said.

Bertrand drew a breath that was cut short and ended in a gasp. "_Mon
ami_, I only want--to hold her little hand in mine--and to hear her
say--that she is--happy."

And then it was that Chris moved forward, as if impelled by a volition
not her own, and knelt down by Bertrand's side.

"Do you want me, Bertie?" she said. "I've come, dear! I've come!"

He put out his hand to her at once, but slowly, as though feeling his
way. "Christine!" he said.

She took the groping hand, and held it fast pressed between her own.
"Yes, dear?" she murmured.

"You are really here?" he said. "It is not--a dream?"

"No, Bertie, no! It is I myself, here with you at Valpré."

She felt his hand close within her own. "You are come--to say good-bye to
me?" he said. "And Mr. Mordaunt--is he here also?"

"He brought me," whispered Chris.

"Ah!" She heard the relief in his voice. "Then--Christine, all is right
between you?"

But she was silent, for she could not answer him.

He stirred. He leaned slowly forward. "Tell me," he said, very earnestly,
"tell me that all is well between you."

But Chris said no word. She only bowed her head over the hand she held.

There was a brief silence. Bertrand was bending over her. He seemed to be
trying to see her face. He moved at last, passed his free arm around her,
and spoke. "Mr. Mordaunt--is he here?"

"Yes, I am here." Very steadily came Mordaunt's answer. Mordaunt himself
took Max's place beside him.

Bertrand looked up at him. "Monsieur--" he said, and hesitated.

"Ask him what he wants," muttered Max, gripping his brother-in-law's
elbow with tense insistence.

"Do you want anything?" He uttered the question at once, quite clearly,
without emotion.

"Monsieur," Bertrand said again, and there was entreaty in his voice,
"out of your great goodness of heart you have brought _la petite_ to
say adieu to me. Will you not--extend that goodness--a little farther?
Will you not--now that you understand--now that you understand"--he
repeated the phrase insistently--"remove the estrangement of which I have
been--the so unhappy cause?"

"Bertie, no--no!" There was sharp pain in Chris's voice. She raised
herself quickly. "You don't understand, dear, and I--can't explain. But
you are not to ask that of him. I can't bear it."

There was a quiver of passion in the last words. It was as though they
were uttered in spite of her.

Mordaunt stood motionless, in utter silence. His face was in shadow.

Bertrand turned to the kneeling girl. "Will you, then, plead for
yourself, _chérie_?" he said. "He will not refuse you. He knows all."

"No, no; he doesn't," said Chris.

"But you will tell him," urged Bertrand gently. "See, I cannot leave
you--my two good friends--thus. Since I have caused so much trouble
between you, I must do my possible to redress the evil. _Chérie_, promise
me--that you will go back to him. Not otherwise shall I die happy."

"I can't!" whispered Chris. "I can't!"

"But why not?" he said. "You love him, yes?"

But Chris was silent. She was trembling from head to foot.

"I know that you love him," Bertrand said, with confidence. "And for
that--you will go back to him. You cannot live your life apart from him.
You belong to him, Christine, and he--he belongs to you. Mr. Mordaunt--my
dear friend--is it not so?"

But before he could answer, feverishly Chris again broke in. "Bertie,
hush--hush! It isn't right! It isn't fair! Oh, forgive me for saying it!
But can't you see that it isn't? He has forgiven me, and we are friends.
But you mustn't ask any more than that, because--because it's no use." A
sudden sob rose in her throat. She swallowed it with an immense effort.
"He has been kind to me--for your sake," she said, "not my own. I have
done nothing to deserve his kindness. I have never been worthy of him,
and he knows it. I married him, loving you. Oh no, I didn't know it, but
I ought to have known. And when I did know, I would have left him and
gone with you. Nothing can ever alter that. And do you suppose he will
ever forget it? Because I know--I know--that he never can!"

She ceased abruptly, and turned aside to battle with her agitation.
Bertrand's hand stroked hers very tenderly, but his eyes were raised to
the man who stood like a statue by his side.

He spoke after a moment very softly, almost as if to himself.
"Neither will he forget," he said, "that our love was a summer
idyll that came to us unawares in the days when we were young, and
that though the idyll will come to an end, our love is a gift
immortal--imperishable--indestructible--a flame that burns upwards and
always upwards--reaching the Divine. And because he remembers this,
he will understand, and think no evil. Christine," he turned to her again
very persuasively, "you love him. You have need of him. I know it well.
You are sad. You are lonely. Your heart cries out for him. Little
Christine, will you not listen to it? Will you not go back to him?"

The man's whole soul was in the words. They quivered with the intensity
of his appeal. Yet they went into silence. Chris was turned away from
him. Only by the convulsive holding of her hand did he know that they had
reached her heart.

The silence lengthened, became oppressive, became a burden too heavy to
be borne.

"Christine!" He was becoming exhausted. His voice was no more than a
whisper, but it throbbed with earnest entreaty.

Yet Chris remained silent still, for she could not speak in answer.

Several seconds passed. It seemed that the appeal would go unanswered.
But at length the man who stood on Bertrand's other side made a quiet
movement, bending down a little.

"You need not distress yourself, Bertrand," he said, very steadily, and
as he spoke his hand was on the Frenchman's shoulder. "Chris will never
leave me again."

"Ah!" Eagerly Bertrand looked up at him. He had begun to gasp again,
and his words were hurried and difficult of utterance. "And you,
monsieur--you will not--leave her?"

Mordaunt made no verbal answer, but their eyes must have met in the
dimness and some message have passed between them, for there was a tremor
of sheer relief in his voice when Bertrand spoke again.

"Oh, my friend!" he said. "My dear friend!" And, yielding to the hand
that gently pressed him back, he reclined upon his pillows and became
passive.

Mordaunt remained beside him for several seconds longer, but he did not
speak again. When he straightened himself at length, he glanced round for
Max, and motioned him away.

They went together into the adjoining room and softly closed the door.

And so Chris and her _preux chevalier_ were left alone by the open window
to end their summer idyll to the music of the rising tide that crooned
and murmured among the rocks of Valpré that had seen its beginning.



CHAPTER XI

THE END OF THE VOYAGE


How the sun was shining on the water! What a glorious morning for a
bathe! Chris laughed to herself--a happy little, inconsequent laugh.

But she must be quick or Mademoiselle Gautier would catch her and forbid
her to go! Poor old Mademoiselle, who had been brought up in a convent
and thought all nice things were improper!

Would Bertie be there with his boat, a white-clad, supple figure, with
his handsome olive face, and his dark eyes with their friendly laugh?
Surely it was the flash of his oars in the sunlight that dazzled her so!
She would swim to him through the crystal water, and he would stretch out
his hands to her, and she would go up to him like a bird from the sea,
and perch upon the stern. He would scold her a little for swimming out so
far, but what of that? She liked being scolded by Bertie!

How warmly the sun shone down upon them! And how she loved to watch the
slim activity of him as he bent to his work! She wished they did not move
quite so fast, even though the speed was so delicious, for they were
nearing the rocks. Oh no, she was not afraid! Who could be afraid with
Bertie in the boat? But when they reached the rocks, it would be the end
of the voyage, and she did not want it to end.

Ah! now she could catch the sparkle of the sand, and there away in the
distance a powdery whirl which was all she could see of Cinders. He was
evidently digging for dear life, and again Chris laughed.

And now she stood with her back to the glittering sea, and her face to
the mysterious granite of the ages. Where had he gone--her _preux
chevalier_? Was he hidden in the dark recesses of the Magic Cave? She
would go in search of him. He would not hide long from her, for she
possessed the secret of the spell that would draw him forth.

But the rocks were slippery under her feet, and more than once she
stumbled. She found herself confronted by obstacles such as had never
before obstructed her path. A little tremor of distress went through her.
Why had she quitted that sunny sea? Why had she ever suffered herself to
be beguiled into the boat?

It became increasingly difficult, wellnigh impossible, to go forward. She
turned aside. Ah! there was Bertie, after all, out on the sand, waiting
for her. He held a naked sword in his hand. Evidently he was drawing
pictures. She knew what they would be before she reached him: St. George
and the Dragon, that "beast enormous with eyes of fire"; the Sphinx, and
Cleopatra's Needle. She saw them all; and soon the great tide would race
up with a mighty roaring and wash them all away. Was it not the destiny
of all things--save one?

Stay! Was it the sand on which he was expending his skill thus? Why,
then, did his sword move so swiftly, like lightning-flashes, where the
sun caught it? Ah, now she saw more clearly. It was a duel. He was
fighting with every inch of him, steadfast, unflinching, in her cause.
How splendidly he controlled himself! The clear grace of his every
movement held her spellbound.

For a while she watched him, not heeding his adversary, watched the glint
of the crossed swords, the pass, the thrust, and the return. And then, by
some mysterious influence, her eyes were drawn upward to the face of his
opponent, and it was as if one of those flashing blades had found her
heart. For Bertrand de Montville was fighting the grey-eyed, level-browed
Englishman who was her husband!

With a cry she sprang forward to intervene. She flung herself between
them in an agony. One of them--Trevor--caught her in his arms. The other
staggered backwards and fell upon the sand. She saw his dead face as he
lay....

"Oh, Trevor!" she cried in anguish. "Trevor! Trevor!"

He held her closely to him. She felt his hand laid in soothing on her
head. Gasping, she opened her eyes upon his face.

"That's better," he said gently. "You've had a bad dream."

"Was it a dream?" she asked him wildly. "Was it a dream?"

And then she remembered that Bertrand had fallen asleep in the very early
hours of the morning, and that they had led her away to another room to
rest. Worn out in mind and body, she had yielded. She marvelled now that
she had been so easily persuaded.

She turned within the circle of her husband's arm. "Trevor, you promised
you would call me if he waked."

His hand was still upon her head; its touch was sustaining, subtly
comforting. "He did not wake, dear," he said.

The words were few, but in a flash she knew the truth. Her eyes grew wide
and dark. Her clinging hands tightened upon his arm. She made no sound of
any sort. She even ceased to breathe.

He drew her head down upon his shoulder, and held her fast pressed
against his breast. "Don't be afraid," he said.

But she remained tense in his arms, till her rigidity and silence alarmed
him. He began to rub her cold cheek.

"Chris, speak to me!"

She turned her face into his breast, and with relief he heard her begin
to breathe again. But she did not speak. She only lay there dumbly in
crushed stillness.

For a while he waited, but at last, as she made no movement, he spoke
again. "Chris, would you like me to leave you?"

That reached her. She turned her face quickly upwards. "No, Trevor."

The wide, strained look was still in her eyes, but they did not flinch
from his.

"I knew he was dead," she said, speaking very quickly, "when I woke up
just now. I thought--I thought--" She broke off, as if she could not
continue. "And afterwards--directly I saw you by my side--I knew it was
true. Trevor"--the piteous note sounded again in her voice--"why are you
not afraid of death?"

"Because I don't believe in it," he said.

"But yet--but yet--" Her words faltered away into silence.

He laid his hand again upon her head. "My dear, death is purely physical.
You know it in your heart as well as I do. Death is the passing of the
spirit--no more than that."

She uttered a deep sigh. "Oh, Trevor, I wish I wasn't so wicked."

His hand began to caress her hair. "I don't think you know what
wickedness is, dear," he said.

"But I do--I do!" she protested. "I--I am almost terrified sometimes when
I realize it. And I feel as if--as if--Bertie wouldn't have been taken
away--if I hadn't loved him so." Her voice sank, she hid her face a
little lower.

"But you make a mistake," he said gently. "There is no sin in love--so
long as it is love and nothing else. A good many sins masquerade in the
form of love, but love itself--what you and I call love--is sinless. And
it is that--and that alone--that can never die." He paused a moment, and
his hand ceased to stroke her bright hair and became still. "It is bad
enough," he said, his voice sunk very low, "that I could ever
misunderstand you; but, my dear, don't make things harder by
misunderstanding yourself."

She moved at that as though it touched her very nearly, and suddenly she
slipped from his arms, and knelt beside him. "Trevor," she said, with
quivering lips, "don't be too kind to me! I can't bear it."

He looked down at her very sadly. "It would be a new experience for you,
my Chris, if I were," he said.

"No--no." She bent her face quickly, and laid it against his hand. "I've
deceived you a hundred times--yes, and lied to you. You bore with me over
and over again, even when you knew I wasn't being straight. You did your
very utmost to keep me true. You trusted me even when you knew I was
cheating. Oh, I don't wonder that I killed your love at last. The wonder
was that it lived so long."

She stopped, for his hand had clenched upon itself at her words. But he
said nothing. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue. She went on
quickly--

"I know you feel you must be kind to me now because"--she caught her
breath--"Bertie is gone, and he wished it so. But--but--I shan't
expect--a great deal. I--I shall be quite grateful--if I may have--a
little friendship. I don't want you to think that--that--"

"That you want my love?" he said.

"Oh, I didn't mean that!" She looked up at him in distress, but she could
not see his face with any distinctness.

His elbow was on the arm of his chair, and his hand shaded it.

"I know I forfeited all that," she said. "And I want you to feel that
I--understand, and shall never expect to have it again. That is what I
mean when I say, don't be too kind to me. You have been that, and much
more than that, already. But I won't trade on your generosity. I am not a
child any longer to need support and protection. I am old enough to stand
alone."

"And what of my promise to Bertrand?"

He asked the question quite quietly, as though it were of no special
moment to him, but she flinched before it, and turned her face aside.

"Oh, I don't think he would want you to be kind to me for his sake--if he
knew how much it hurt?"

Mordaunt was silent for a moment, then: "And you have no use for my
love?" he said.

She made a movement almost convulsive. "Trevor, don't--torture me!"

"My child," he said, "I only ask because I need to know."

She laid a trembling hand on his. "If I thought--you loved me--" She
stopped, battling desperately for self-control, and after a few seconds
began again. "If I thought--you wanted me--"

"I do want you, Chris," he said.

She cast a startled look into his face. "Oh, but you only say that
because--because--"

"Because it is the truth," he said.

"But is it the truth?" she asked, a little wildly. "Is it? Is it? Oh,
Trevor, if you knew--if you knew--" Her voice failed. She began to sob.
"I can't bear it," she whispered. "I can't! I can't!" And with that she
broke down utterly, bowing her head upon his knee in a passion of weeping
more violent than he had ever before witnessed.

"Chris! Chris!" he said.

He would have lifted her, but she sank lower, as one crushed to the earth
by a burden too heavy to be borne.

For a while her weeping was the only sound in the room, but at length he
spoke again over her bowed head.

"Chris--my darling--do you know--I can't bear it either if you cry like
this?"

His voice was low and not very steady. It appealed to her even in the
depth of her distress. She stretched up a trembling hand, and clasped
his.

Gradually her sobbing grew less violent, and at length it ceased; but she
remained crouched against his knee with her face hidden for many minutes.

Trevor said no more. Only at last he bent and laid his lips upon her
hair.

She moved then sharply, and for a single instant she saw his face. It was
enough, more than enough for her quick heart. In a moment the barrier
between them was down. She raised herself and threw her arms around his
neck.

"My dear! My dear!" she said.

"It's all right," he whispered back.

Her arms tightened. She clung to him passionately. "Trevor--darling, I
didn't know! I didn't understand!"

"It's all right," he said again.

She pressed her face to his. "Trevor, don't fret, dear! I'm not worth it.
And I--I'm coming back to you--if you will have me."

"I want you," he answered simply.

"Not just for his sake?" she pleaded. "Or even for mine?"

"For my own," he said.

She was silent for a little. Then impulsively, with something of her old,
quick charm of movement, she turned her lips to his. "Trevor, I believe I
should die without you."

"Poor child!" he said gently.

"No--no! Don't pity me! Love me--love me!"

He pressed her closer. "My Chris, no one ever loved you more."

"Yes," she whispered. "I know that now. And I shall never forget it.
Trevor, I love you, too. You believe that?"

"I know it, dear," he said.

"And because I love you," she said, "I'm not afraid of you any more.
Trevor, let us promise each other that nothing shall ever come between us
again."

"Nothing ever shall," he said steadily.

"Nothing ever shall," she repeated softly. "And--and--Trevor--" She
suddenly hid her face against his shoulder and became silent again.

"But you are not afraid of me?" he said.

"No, dear, no; not afraid." Her voice quivered notwithstanding. "Only
foolish, you know, and--and--a little doubtful lest--lest--when I've told
you--something--you shouldn't be quite--pleased."

"I am--quite pleased, dear," he said.

She raised her head. "Trevor! You know?"

He took her face between his hands. "My darling, yes."

She opened her eyes wide, searching his face. "But that--that wasn't your
reason for--wanting me back?"

He looked straight down into her eyes, still holding her. "I wonder if I
need answer that question," he said slowly.

She was silent for a moment, then stretched her hands to him with a
gesture of complete confidence. "No, dear, you needn't. Just forgive me
for asking--that's all."

He stooped at once without speaking, and the kiss that passed between
them was the seal of a perfect understanding.

Not till some time later did the request he was expecting her to make
find utterance. He had been giving her a few details of Bertrand's
illness and death.

"He simply went in his sleep," he said, "scarcely an hour after you left
him. Max and I were both with him, but he went so easily that we neither
of us knew when it was. There was no suffering or distress of any sort.
He just passed."

He spoke with great gentleness. He was keenly anxious to remove her fear
of death. But he knew by the way her arm tightened about his neck that
something of the awe of it was upon her even while he spoke.

"Trevor," she said, in a very low voice, "I almost think I would like to
see him."

"Yes, dear."

"But--I can't go alone," she said. "Will you come too?"

"Of course," he said.

She rose to her feet. "Let's go now."

He rose also with her hand in his. "There is some stuff here Max gave me
for you," he said. "Drink that first."

"Where is Max?" she asked.

"I sent him to bed, and Noel too."

"And you have been sitting up with me ever since?"

"It was only three hours," he said.

He gave her Max's draught with the words, as if to check all comment on
his action, and Chris submissively said no more. But she held his hand
very tightly as they went out together.

The dawn was just spreading golden over the sea when they entered the
room where Bertrand lay asleep. The light of it poured in at the open
window like a benediction. Outside, the two sentries still stood on
guard. But within was no earthly presence, only the scent and sound of
the sea, only the growing splendour of the day, only the quiet dead
waiting for the Resurrection....

Chris's hand trembled within her husband's as she drew near. But later,
when she looked upon the dear, familiar face, the awe went out of her
own.

For Bertrand's sleep was very easy, serenely natural. It seemed to Chris
that the man's vanished youth had come back to beautify his rest. For all
the weariness she had grown accustomed to see had passed away. She even
thought he smiled.

Back on a rush of memory came his words: "I know that all Love is
eternal, and Death is only an incident in eternity."

Till that moment they had never recurred to her. From that moment she
carried them perpetually in her heart.

She drew a little nearer. She bent above him. And it was to her as if the
dead lips spoke: "Though I shall not be with you, you will know that I am
loving you still. It will be as an Altar Flame that burns for ever.
Believe me, Christine, Death is a very small thing compared with Love."

"I know it, I know it," whispered Chris.

When she stood up again, though her eyes were shining through tears, she
was smiling also.

"Your friend and mine, Trevor," she murmured. "May I--may I kiss him just
once? I never have before."

"Of course you may," he said.

She bent again, bent till her lips just touched the dead man's brow.

"I won't disturb you, _preux chevalier_," she whispered. "Only
good-night, dear! Good-night!"

For a little while she stood looking down upon the dead man's rest; but
at length she turned away, drawing her husband with her, and went to the
open window.

Hand in hand they looked out upon a world in which "all things were made
new." They spoke no word. They thought the same thoughts together, and no
words were needed.

Only when they turned at length from the shimmering sunlight back into
the quiet room, their eyes met. And in the silence Trevor Mordaunt bent
with reverence and kissed the living, as she had kissed the dead.



CHAPTER XII

THE PROCESSION UNDER THE WINDOWS


Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! The procession was passing under the windows.

Bertrand de Montville, the vindicated hero, was being borne to his
soldier's grave on the hill by the fortress. Soldiers preceded him.
Soldiers followed him. A mixed crowd of journalists--men from all parts
of Europe--came after. And from the window above, his little pal looked
down.

Max Wyndham stood beside her, the corners of his mouth drawn down and a
very peculiar expression in his green eyes. He had amazed his French
friend by refusing to follow the _cortège_. Even Chris did not know why,
for he had clothed himself in an impenetrable cloak of reserve since
Bertrand's death, and he was not apparently minded to lift it even for
her benefit.

Yet she was glad to have him with her, for Noel had elected to go with
Mordaunt; and though she was quite willing to be left alone, she found
Max's presence a help. She had seen but little of him until the moment
that they stood together looking down upon the passing procession.

It was a grey day. Down on the shore the long waves rolled in to break in
wide lines of surf up the rock-strewn beach. The thunder of their
breaking mingled with the roll of muffled drums. The full honours of a
soldier's funeral were to be accorded to the man who had died before
France could make amends.

Slowly the procession wound along the _plage_, and back upon Chris's
memory flashed the day when she and Cinders had waited at the garden gate
to see the soldiers pass. She saw again the handsome face of the young
officer marching behind his men, the sudden animation leaping into it at
sight of her, the eagerness with which he turned to greet her, his
momentary hesitation at her request, his smiling surrender. What would
have happened, she asked herself, if he had managed to resist her that
day? Had that been the beginning of his downfall? Might he otherwise
have passed on unscathed?

A sudden sense of coldness assailed her. The street below was empty. She
stood alone. She leaned her head against the window-frame. How grey it
was!

"Sit down!" said Max practically.

She started. "Oh, Max!" she said weakly.

"Here you are," he said, and guided her down into a chair. "That's the
way. Now lean back and shut your eyes."

She obeyed him, without question, as she always did. A vague sense of
consolation began to steal through her. His hand, holding hers, dispelled
the loneliness.

After a while she opened her eyes and found him watching her. "Oh, Max,"
she said, "I'm so glad you are here."

"It seems as well," he rejoined, rather grimly. "Don't you think it's
time you began to behave rationally?"

"Have I been very silly?" she asked.

"Very, I should say." He sat down on the arm of her chair, and drew her
head to lean against him, a very rare demonstration with him.

She relaxed with a sigh. "I can't help it," she said wistfully. "I used
to think life was just splendid--it was good to be alive. And now--I
sometimes wish I'd never been born."

"Which is a mistake," said Max. "There's no time for that sort of thing.
Besides, it's futile. Now, don't cry! That's futile, too, when there is
anything else to be done. I don't suppose Trevor will be feeling
particularly jolly when he gets back from this show--though there's
something rather funny about it to my mind--and you'll have to cheer him
up. I suppose you won't be upset if I smoke?"

"What can you see funny in it?" questioned Chris.

He lighted his cigarette before replying. "My dear girl," he said then,
"I can't endow you with a sense of humour if you don't possess one. But
all this pomp and circumstance has got its funny side, I assure you.
Bertrand saw that; he was a philosopher. If he were here now, he would
snap his fingers and laugh."

"He might," Chris admitted. "At least, he called it a dream in the midst
of a great Reality."

"Which it is," said Max. "Get outside it all. Get above it if you can.
And you will see. Come, you mustn't grizzle. You don't seriously suppose
you've lost anything, do you?" He looked down at her suddenly, with a
smile in his shrewd eyes. "I say, you must get rid of that idea," he
said. "Even I know better than that. I believe in my own way I was almost
as fond of him as you were. But I knew he was going long ago, and that
nothing on earth could stop him. He knew it too. Between ourselves, I
don't think he much wanted to stop. But there was nothing unwholesome
about him. He wasn't a shirker. He played the game. And now you're going
to play it, eh? You're going to buck up. You're going to give Trevor a
sample of what the Wyndhams can do. I know we're a rotten tribe, but
we've got our points. In Heaven's name, let's make the most of 'em!"

He bent abruptly and kissed her.

"Life's all right," he said. "And so's the world. But you've got to get
used to the idea that it's not a place to stay in. It's no good sitting
down by the wayside to cry. You've got to look on ahead and keep moving.
It's the only possible way. If you don't, you get buried in every
sand-storm."

Chris reached up her arms and clasped him very tightly. "Max, tell me
Love doesn't die!"

"It doesn't," said Max stoutly.

"You are sure? You are sure?"

"Yes, I am sure."

"How do you know? Tell me--tell me!"

Chris's voice was piteous. Yet for a moment he was silent. Then, "I
know," he said, "by the way that chap faced death."

"Because he wasn't afraid?" she whispered. "Because he died so easily?"

"Because he didn't die," said Max.

       *       *       *       *       *

Late that night the clouds passed, and a new moon rose behind the
fortress and threw a golden shimmer over the sea. The waves were washing
over the rocks with a deep, mysterious murmuring. To Chris, kneeling at
her window, it was as if they were trying to tell her a secret. She had
knelt down to pray, but her thoughts had wandered, and somehow she could
not call them back. Almost in spite of herself, she went in spirit over
the rocks till she came to the Magic Cave. And here she would have
entered, but could not, for the tide was rising and barred her out.

"Not there, _mignonne_," said a soft voice at her side.

She turned her head. Surely he had spoken in the stillness! Surely it was
no dream!

But the action brought her back, back to the shadowy room, and the
moonlit sea, and the prayer that was still little more than a vague
longing in her heart.

She uttered a brief sigh, and rose. And in that moment she found herself
face to face with her husband.

"Trevor!" she said, startled.

He was standing close to her, and suddenly she knew that he had been
there for some time, waiting for her to rise.

Her first impulse was one of nervous irresolution, but it possessed her
for a moment only. With scarcely a pause she went straight into his arms.

"I'm so glad you've come," she whispered. "Isn't the sea lovely? Have
you--have you seen the new moon?"

He held her in silence, and she heard the beating of his heart, strong
and steady, where she had pillowed her head. She turned her face upwards
after a little.

"Trevor, do you remember, long ago, how we saw the new moon together--and
you wished? Have you wished this time?"

"It is always the same wish with me," he said.

"What! Hasn't it come true yet?" She leaned her head back to see his face
the better. "Trevor," she said, "are you sure it hasn't come true?"

She saw his faint smile in the moonlight. "I think I should know if it
had, dear."

"I'm not so sure," said Chris. "Men are very silly. They never see
anything that isn't absolutely in black and white, and not always then.
Tell me what it was you wished for."

But he shook his head. "That isn't fair, is it? If the gods hear, it will
be struck off the list at once."

"Never mind the gods," said Chris despotically. "I'll get it for you
somehow--even if they do. Now tell me! Whisper!" She drew down his head
and waited expectantly.

"What a ghastly predicament!" he said.

"Trevor! Don't laugh! I'm not laughing."

"I'm sorry," he said. "But really I can't afford to run any risks of that
sort."

"Then you still think you may get it?" questioned Chris.

"I think it possible--if the gods are kind."

"My dear," she said suddenly, "let's leave off joking. If it's something
you're wanting very badly, why don't you--pray for it?"

"I am praying for it, sweetheart," he said.

"Oh, Trevor, tell me! And I'll pray, too."

She wound her arms persuasively about his neck. Her face was very sweet
in the moonlight. The deep-sea eyes were very tender.

He looked into them and yielded. "Chris, I am praying for the love of the
woman I love."

"Oh, but, Trevor--Trevor--"

"Yes," he said, and his voice vibrated upon a deeper note--a note that
was passionate. "I want more than a little, my Chris. But I will be
patient. I will wait all my life long if I must. Only--O God, let me win
it at last!"

He stopped. She was looking at him strangely, and there was something
about her that he had never seen before--something that compelled.

"But, Trevor dearest," she said, "it was yours long--long ago. Oh, don't
you understand? How shall I make you understand?"

She clasped him closer. The moonlight was shining in her eyes--the eyes
of a woman who had come through suffering into peace.

"My darling," she said, "before God, I am telling you the truth. If you
hadn't come back to me, I should have broken my heart."

He took her head between his hands. He bent his face to hers, looking
deep into those shining, unswerving eyes.

"Won't you believe me?" she pleaded. "Dear, I couldn't lie to you if I
tried. Must I put it more plainly still? Then listen! You are more to me
now than Bertie ever was. I do not say more than he might have been. But
we can't put back the clock. I wouldn't if I could. No--no, not even to
live again those old happy days. Trevor, do you understand now, dear? For
if you don't, not even Aunt Philippa could be harder to convince. I am
yours. I am yours. The other was a dream that can only come true in
Paradise. But this is our Reality--yours and mine. And I can't live
without you. I want you so. I love you so. Trevor--my husband!"

Her lips quivered suddenly, but in that moment his found them and
possessed them. She gave herself to him in complete surrender, as she had
given herself on their wedding-night. Yet with a difference. For she
throbbed in his arms; she thrilled to his touch. She opened to him the
doors of her soul, and drew him within...

"And now you understand?" she whispered to him later.

"Yes--I understand," he said.

She laid her head again upon his breast. "To understand all is to forgive
all," she said.

To which he answered softly, "But there is nothing to forgive."


THE END


By Ethel M. Dell

The Way of an Eagle
The Hundredth Chance
The Knave of Diamonds
The Safety Curtain
The Rocks of Valpré
Greatheart
The Swindler
The Lamp in the Desert
The Keeper of the Door
The Tidal Wave
Bars of Iron
The Top of the World
Rosa Mundi
The Odds and Other Stories
The Obstacle Race
Charles Rex





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