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.