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.