Mordaunt crossed the room to his writing-table, unlocked a drawer, took out a cheque-book.
"How much?"
"I say, you are a good chap!" Rupert protested. "Can you make it a hundred?"
"Will that settle everything?" Mordaunt asked.
"Oh, well—practically everything."
Mordaunt wrote the cheque in silence. He handed it over his shoulder finally to the boy behind him.
"It's for a hundred and fifty. I hope that will see you through. And look here, Rupert, do for Heaven's sake pull up and keep within bounds. I am quite willing to help you to a reasonable extent, but you must do your part, too. You are living at an insane rate. Do you keep an account of your expenditure?"
"Of course I don't!" Rupert seemed astonished at the question. "What on earth would be the good of that? It wouldn't reduce my expenses."
Mordaunt laid his cheque-book back in the drawer. "And you think you would make a good bailiff?" he said.
"Oh, that's different. Of course, you must have accounts for the management of an estate. You would have no cause to complain of me there. Are you going to think it over, I say?"
Mordaunt turned in his chair. "You really wish me to do so?"
"Rather!" Rupert spoke with enthusiasm. "If you knew how deadly sick I am of the life I live now!" he added, with strong disgust. "It's beastly hard work, too, in a sense, and nothing to show for it."
"I should work you hard myself," Mordaunt observed.
"I shouldn't mind that. I'd work like a horse here. It's what I've always wanted to do."
"And kick like a horse, too, if I ventured to find fault," said Mordaunt, smiling a little.
"No, I shouldn't. I'd take it like a lamb. Come, man, I've apologized."
There was a note of reproach in Rupert's voice. Mordaunt left his writing-table and faced him squarely.
"I'll make a bargain with you," he said. "If you can manage to keep straight between now and Christmas, and you are of the same mind then, I will take you on. Is it done?"
Rupert thrust out a hand with a beaming countenance. "Done, old fellow! And a thousand thanks! I'll do my part somehow if it kills me. Hullo, I say! There's Chris calling! Hadn't we better go?"
He was plainly desirous to end the interview, and Mordaunt did not seek to prolong it. "Come along, then!" he said. And they went out together arm-in-arm to join the group upon the lawn.
Two hours later, just before Rupert and his friends started upon their return journey, Bertrand happened to enter Mordaunt's writing-room, and was surprised to find the eldest Wyndham standing by the table with a glass of whisky-and-soda to his lips.
The surprise was mutual, and on Rupert's side so violent that he dropped the glass, which shivered upon the floor. He uttered a fierce exclamation as he recognized the intruder.
Bertrand was profuse in his apologies. "But I had no idea that there was anyone here! A thousand pardons, Mr. Wyndham! It was unfortunate—but very unfortunate. I am come only for Mr. Mordaunt's keys, which he left here by accident. I will ring for Holmes. He will remove this débris. And you will have another drink, yes?"
"I can't wait," Rupert said, almost inarticulately.
He remained standing at the table trying to compose himself, but he was white to the lips.
Bertrand regarded him with quick concern. "Ah, but how I have alarmed you!" he said. "My shoes are of canvas, and they make no sound. Will you, then, sit down for a moment, while I pour out another glass of whisky?"
He drew forward a chair with much solicitude, and took up a fresh glass.
But Rupert swung away, turning his back upon him.
Prom the front of the house came the hoot of the waiting motor. Plainly his comrades were waxing impatient.
"But you will drink before you go?" urged the courteous Frenchman. "I am desolated to have deprived you—"
Rupert turned his face for an instant over his shoulder. It was no longer white, but crimson and convulsed with anger. His hands were clenched.
"Oh, go to the devil!" he cried violently, and with the words stamped furiously from the room.
Bertrand was left staring after him, petrified with amazement—too astounded to be angry.
At the end of a lengthy pause he turned and pocketed Mordaunt's keys, and rang the bell for Holmes to clear up the mess on the floor.
"Mais ces anglais!" he murmured to himself, with a whimsical shrug of the shoulders. "Comme ils sont drôles!"
CHAPTER VII
THE ENEMY
Mrs. Pouncefort's garden-party was an annual affair of some importance to which everyone, from the County downwards, was bidden, and from which very few absented themselves.
The Pouncefort entertainments were generally upon a lavish scale, were also largely attended by the military element of Sandacre society, and were invariably described in the local journals as "very smart affairs."
Had Chris been in her normal spirits she would have hailed the occasion with delight. She knew a good many people in the neighbourhood, and she was sure to meet all her friends there. It was, moreover, for this that she had successfully angled for an invitation for Bertrand. But when the day came she would have given a good deal for a legitimate excuse for remaining at home. The weather was hot, and she felt weary and disinclined for gaiety.
She said no word of her reluctance, however, for Bertrand had accepted his inclusion in the invitation with docility, and since she had decided that a little social change would be good for him, she would not draw back herself lest he should be tempted to do likewise.
Bertrand was her chief thought just then. She knew that her husband was dissatisfied with regard to his health, and undoubtedly he looked far from well, though he himself invariably declared that it was only the heat, and persistently refused to see a doctor. Not even Chris could shake this resolution of his, and he was so distressed when Mordaunt would not let him work that to keep him quiet Mordaunt was obliged to let him do a little. He made it as little as he could, however, and Bertrand spent a good deal of his time in the garden with Chris in consequence.
It certainly cheered her to have him, and for that reason he was the less inclined to rebel against the edict that sent him there. They had begun to read French together, Chris having developed a sudden keenness for the language which he was delighted to encourage. That the original idea had been devised for his pleasure he shrewdly suspected, but the carrying out of it contributed undoubtedly to her own. It occupied her thoughts and energies, and that was what she needed just then.
He knew perfectly well that she was as disinclined for social amusements as he was himself, but the same motive that prompted her urged him also. Each went with reluctance, but without protest.
Noel, who had achieved the most saintlike behaviour during the past week, went also. He made an ingratiating attempt at the last moment to persuade Mordaunt to let him drive. But Mordaunt was as adamant upon that point. He had issued a decree that Noel should drive no more during the summer holidays, and he meant to keep to it.
The prohibition did not extend to Chris, but she had shuddered at the bare mention of the motor ever since the accident, and he knew that she had not the faintest desire left to enlarge her experience in driving.
She was the last to leave the house on that sultry August afternoon, and Mordaunt saw at once that the ordeal of entering the car was a severe one. She even turned so white at the sight of it that he feared a breakdown.
"Come and sit with me," he said kindly.
She looked at him with a quick shake of the head. "No, I'll sit behind with Bertie if I may. Noel can sit with you."
Noel, who was already in the back seat, climbed over like a monkey, and
Bertrand handed her in.
She sat very rigid until they were out of the avenue, and Bertrand was silent also. But as they turned into the road he began to talk, gently and persuasively, upon indifferent things, resolutely passing by her silence until with a wan little smile she managed to respond.
Long before they reached Sandacre she had quite recovered her self-command, and the flash of the sea upon the horizon brought from her a quick exclamation of pleasure.
"Ah, yes, it is beautiful, that!" he agreed with enthusiasm. "And there is the sand there, yes?"
She nodded. "I used to think we'd go and picnic there. But I don't think
I want to now."
"Next year," suggested Mordaunt, without turning his head.
"Perhaps," she said, a little dubiously.
Bertrand said nothing. He was looking out to the wide horizon with a far look in his eyes, almost as though he saw beyond that sparkling sky-line, even beyond the sea itself.
The strains of the military band from Sandacre reached them as they turned in at the wide-flung gates. Chris's eyes kindled almost in spite of her. She loved all things military.
As for Bertrand, he sat bolt upright, with his head back, like a horse scenting battle. Glancing at him, Chris wondered at his attitude, till suddenly she recognized the strains of the Marseillaise.
She squeezed his hand in sympathy as he helped her to alight, and he looked at her with his quick smile of understanding. He was ever swift to catch her meaning.
They crossed a lawn that was crowded with people to a great cedar-tree, beneath which their hostess was receiving her guests. A large woman with a lazy smile was Mrs. Pouncefort, and wonderful dark eyes that were seldom wholly revealed—a woman who took no pains to please and yet whose charm was undeniable. Her monarchy was absolute and her courtiers many, but other women looked at her askance, half-conscious of a veiled antagonism. They were a little afraid of her also, though not one could have said why, since no bitter word was ever heard to pass her lips.
She greeted Chris with a cold, limp hand. "So nice of you to come. I hope you won't be bored. Ah, Mr. Mordaunt, how is Kellerton Old Park by this time? I hardly recognized it the day I called. Rupert tells me you have worked wonders inside as well as out."
"May I introduce our friend Monsieur Bertrand?" said Chris.
Bertrand brought his heels together and bowed low over the limp hand transferred to his. Mrs. Pouncefort smiled.
"There is a fellow-countryman of yours here. Where has he gone? Ah, there you are! Captain Rodolphe, let me introduce you to Mrs. Mordaunt and her French friend Monsieur Bertrand."
She extended one finger to Noel while making the introduction, and at once turned her attention elsewhere.
Chris found herself face to face with a heavy-browed man with an overbearing demeanour and a mouth and chin that sneered perpetually behind a waxed moustache and imperial. She stared at him for an instant with a bewildered feeling of having seen him somewhere before. Then, as she returned his bow, a stab of recognition pierced her, and she remembered where.
It flashed into her mind like a picture thrown upon a screen—that scene upon the sands of Valpré long, long ago, two men fighting with swords that gleamed in the sunlight, a child drawing near with wondering eyes to behold the conflict, and an unruly black terrier scampering to end it!
"I am delighted to make your acquaintance," declared Captain Rodolphe, "and that of your friend—M. Bertrand?"
He uttered the name interrogatively. Bertrand bowed very slightly, very stiffly, and was instantly erect again. "That is my name," he said, as he looked the other straight in the eyes.
Captain Rodolphe was smiling. "I think we have not met before? It is always a pleasure to meet a fellow-countryman in a strange land. That is well understood, is it not, Mrs. Mordaunt?"
His smooth speech brought her back to a situation that was not without serious difficulties, difficulties which he for one was apparently determined to ignore. Had he recognized her, she wondered? It seemed probable that he had not. But then there was nothing in his manner to indicate that he had recognized Bertrand either; yet of that there could be no doubt.
She heard her husband speaking to an acquaintance behind her, and instinctively she began to move away from him. She did not feel equal to effecting an introduction. She murmured something conventional about the gardens, and Captain Rodolphe at once accompanied her.
Bertrand walked in silence on her other side till, with an obvious effort, Chris included him in the conversation, when he responded instantly, with that ready ease of manner which had first drawn her to rely upon him. But though he showed himself quite willing, as ever, to help her, he did not once on his own initiative address the man who had been introduced for his benefit; and Chris, aware of an atmosphere that was highly charged with electricity, notwithstanding its apparent calm, began to cast about for a means of escape therefrom.
To rid herself of Captain Rodolphe was her first idea, but this was easier of thought than accomplishment. He was chatting serenely, in perfect English, and seemed to have taken upon himself the congenial task of entertaining her for some time to come. He also did not directly address her companion, unless she brought them into contact, and her efforts in this direction very speedily flagged. She could not expect two men, however courteous, to forget all in a moment the bitter enmity of years merely to oblige her. They were quite ready to ignore it in her presence, but the consciousness of it was more than Chris could endure with equanimity. It disconcerted her at every turn. She felt as if she trod the edge of a volcano, and her nerves, which had been so severely strained for the past week, could not face this fresh ordeal.
She turned at last in desperation, almost appealingly, to Bertrand. She knew he would understand. Had he ever failed her in this respect or in any other?
"Do you mind going to see if I have dropped my handkerchief in the car?" she asked him, with a nervous smile.
His smile answered hers. Yes, he understood. "I shall go with pleasure," he said, and with a quick bow was gone.
Chris breathed a little sigh of relief, and moved on with her escort into the rose-garden.
He seemed scarcely aware of Bertrand's departure. He was plainly engrossed in the pleasant pastime of conversing with her. Chris began to give him more of her attention. No, she certainly did not like the man. His sneer and his self-assurance disturbed her. He made her uncomfortably conscious of her own youth and inexperience. She almost felt as if he were playing with her.
He talked at some length upon roses, a subject upon which he seemed to be well informed, listened tolerantly to any remarks she made, and finally conducted her to a long shrubbery that led back to the lawn.
As they entered this, he lightly wound up the thread of his discourse and broke it off. "I have been wondering for long," he said, "where it was that I had seen you before. Now I remember."
She turned a startled face towards him. He was smiling with extreme complacence, but there was to her something sinister, something even threatening, about the bushy brows that shadowed his gleaming eyes. He put her in mind of a carrion-crow searching for treasures on a heap of refuse.
The impulse to deny all knowledge of him seized her—a blind impulse, blindly followed. "I think you must be mistaken," she said.
"How?" he ejaculated. "You do not remember Valpré—and what happened there?"
She saw her mistake on the instant, and hastened to cover it. "Valpré!" she said, frowning a little. "Yes, I remember Valpré, though it is years since I was there. But you—did I meet you at Valpré, Captain Rodolphe?"
He bowed with a gallantry that seemed to her exaggerated. "Only once, madame, but that once was enough to stamp you ineffaceably upon my memory. It was, in fact, a memorable occasion. And I forget—never!" Again with empressement he bowed. "And still you do not remember me?" he said.
There was a mocking glint in his eyes. It was as though with a smile he weighed her resistance, displaying it to herself as a quantity wholly negligible.
"I think you begin to remember now," he suggested.
And quite suddenly Chris saw what he had with subtlety set about teaching her, that to attempt to fence with him was useless.
"Yes, I remember," she said, and there was a hint of most unwonted malice in her capitulation. "Didn't I see you wounded in a duel?"
He smiled, and she saw his teeth. "If my memory be correct it was to madame herself that I owed that wound."
She felt the quick blood rush to her face. He had spoken with double entendre, but she did not perceive it until too late. She only remembered suddenly and overwhelmingly that the duel had been fought on her account, because of some evil word which this man had spoken of her in Bertrand's hearing. She could well believe it of him—the sneering laugh, the light allusion, the hateful insinuation underlying it. She was beginning to look upon the evil of the world with comprehending eyes—she, Chris, the gay of heart, the happy bird of Bertrand's paradise whom no evil had ever touched. And though she shrank from it as one dreading pollution, she dared not turn her back.
He went on with more daring mockery, still with lips that smiled. "Ah! I see you remember. That duel was an affair of interest to you, hein? You were—the woman in the case."
He leered at her intolerably, twisting his moustache.
But that was more than Chris could endure. He had taken her by surprise indeed, but he should not see her routed thus easily. She lifted her dainty head and confronted him with pride.
"Whatever the cause of the duel," she said very distinctly, "it was no concern of mine, and it was by the merest accident that I witnessed it. But in any case it is not a matter of sufficient importance to discuss now. Shall we go on?"
She put the question abruptly, with a little inward tremor, for the path was narrow and he had come to a stand immediately in front of her. He made a slight movement as if deprecating the obligation to detain her. His eyes were suddenly very evil and so intent that she could not avoid them. Yet still he smiled as though the situation amused him.
"But you joke!" he protested, with a snap of the fingers. "I did not suggest that it could be a matter of importance. It was all a bagatelle, a fairy-tale, that should not have had so serious an end. And your husband—he has heard the fairy-tale also? Or was it not of sufficient importance to recount to him?"
She would have turned from him at that, even though it had meant ignominious flight, but his eyes held her, and she dared not. She could only stand motionless, feeling her very heart grow cold.
Softly, jeeringly, he went on, still toying with the moustache that did not hide his smiling lips. "You have not told him yet? Ah! but it would amuse him. That night you passed with the fairies, a siren among the sirens, has he never heard of that? But you should tell him that! Or was it perhaps only a joke à deux, and not à trois? I have heard that the English husband can be strict, and you have found it so to your cost, hein?"
Her eyes blazed at the insult. For the first time in her life Chris was so possessed by fury as to be actually sublime. She drew herself to her full height. She met his mockery fearlessly, and, with a royal disregard of consequences, she trod it underfoot.
"Captain Rodolphe, be good enough to let me pass!"
He stood aside instantly. He was even momentarily abashed. He had not expected his game to end thus. She had seemed such an easy prey, this English girl. Her discomfiture had been almost too obvious. He certainly had not deemed her capable of this display of spirit.
Yet in a moment, even as, erect and disdainful, she passed him by, he was smiling again, a secret, subtle smile which she felt rather than saw. Emerging into the hot sunshine that beat upon the crowded lawn, she knew herself to be cold from head to foot.
CHAPTER VIII
THE THIN END
"Good-bye!" said Mrs. Pouncefort. "So glad you came. I hope you haven't been bored."
"Bored to extinction," murmured Noel. "Hi, Trevor! Let me drive, like a good chap. Do!"
"Certainly not," said Mordaunt, with decision. "You are going to sit behind. We shall meet the wind now, and Chris must come in front; it is more sheltered."
Chris submitted to this arrangement in silence. She was looking very tired. Her husband regarded her keenly as he tucked her in, but he said nothing.
"What do you think of Mrs. Pouncefort's latest?" grinned Noel, as they spun along the high-road. "I never met such a facetious brute in my life. How did you like him, Bertrand?"
"Who?" said Bertrand somewhat curtly.
"What did they call him—Rodolphe, wasn't it? That French chap with the beastly little beard."
"I did not like him," said Bertrand, with precision.
"That's all right," said Noel approvingly. "But he's reigning favourite with Mrs. Pouncefort, anyone can see with half an eye. Rum, isn't it? And little Pouncefort puts up with it like a lamb. But they say he's just as bad. Daresay he is, though he's quite a decent little beggar to talk to. I can't stand Mrs. Pouncefort at any price, while as for that Frenchman"—he made a hideous grimace—"I'm glad you are not all alike, Bertrand!"
Bertrand responded to the compliment without elation. He seemed preoccupied, and Noel, finding him uninteresting, turned his cheerful attention elsewhere.
Letters awaited them upon their return. Chris took up hers with scarcely a glance, and went up to her room.
Her husband, following a little later, found her sitting on a couch by the window, perusing them. She glanced up at his entrance.
"I have a letter from Aunt Philippa. She thinks we must be quite settled by this time, and she wants to spend a day or two here next week, before she goes to Scotland."
"I suppose we can put up with her for a day or two," said Mordaunt.
Her smile was slightly strained as she returned to the letter. "I suppose we shall have to."
He came and stood beside her, looking down at her bent head. The burnished hair shone warmly golden in the evening sunlight. He laid a quiet hand upon it. She started at his touch, and then sat very still.
"I have heard from Hilda too," she said, after a moment. "They are staying at Graysdale. Percy fishes all day and she sketches, when they are not motoring. It was very sweet of her to write by return."
A tear fell suddenly upon the open page. She covered it hastily with her hand. Her husband's pressed her head very tenderly.
"Chris," he said gently, "I wonder if you would like to go away for a little?"
She glanced up quickly, eagerly, with wet lashes. "Oh, Trevor!" she breathed.
He sat down beside her on the couch. "We will go to-morrow if you like," he said.
She slipped her hand into his. "I should love it!"
"Would you?" he said. "I have been thinking of it for some days, but I wasn't sure you would care for the idea."
"But your work?" she said. "Those articles you wanted to finish? And that political book of yours? And the alterations in the north wing, will they be able to get on with those with you away?"
"The literary work must stand over for a week or two," he said. "I shall leave Bertrand in charge of the rest."
"Bertrand!" She opened her blue eyes wide. "But—but he would be away, wouldn't he?" Then quickly: "He would go with us, of course? You didn't mean to leave him behind?"
He raised his brows ever so slightly. "I meant just us two, dear," he said. "Wouldn't you care for that?"
"Oh!" said Chris blankly. "But, Trevor, we couldn't possibly leave him. He isn't well. I—I shouldn't be happy about him. Besides—besides—" Her words faltered under his straight look; she made a little appealing gesture towards him. "Please understand," she said.
He took both her hands into his. "My dear, I do understand," he said, with the utmost kindness. "But I think he can be trusted to take care of himself for a little while. If you have any doubts upon the subject, ask him."
She shook her head. "No, it wouldn't do. I—I'd really rather not go away if it means—that. Besides, there is Noel. And next week there will be Aunt Philippa. I think we had better give up the idea, Trevor; I do really, anyhow for the present." She leaned nearer to him; her eyes looked pleadingly into his. "Say you don't mind," she begged him, a little tremulously.
"I am only thinking of you, dear," he answered.
She smiled with lips that quivered. "Well, don't think of me—at least, not too much. I only want you just to be kind to me, that's all. I—I shall be myself presently. You're very good to be so patient."
Her lips were lifted to his. He bent and kissed her. But as he went gravely away she had a feeling that she had disappointed him, and her heart grew a little heavier in consequence.
The sound of the piano in the drawing-room brought her down earlier than usual for dinner, and she found Bertrand playing softly to himself in the twilight. He had a delicate touch, and she always loved to hear him.
She had with difficulty trained him not to spring up at her entrance, but to-day he turned sharply round.
"Christine, what did that scélérat say to you?"
The abruptness of his speech did not disconcert her. She was never ill at ease with Bertrand, however sudden his mood. She came to the piano, and stood facing him in the dusk.
"He recognized me," she said.
"Ah!" Bertrand's exclamation was deep in his throat, like the growl of an angry dog. "And he said—?"
Chris hesitated.
Instantly his manner changed. He stretched out a quick hand. "Pardon my impatience! You will tell me what he said?"
Yet still she hesitated. His impetuosity had warned her to go warily if she would not have him embroiling himself in another quarrel for her sake.
"It doesn't matter much, does it?" she said, rather wearily. "I wasn't with him very long—no longer than I could help. He was objectionable, of course, but that sort of man couldn't be anything else, could he?"
"Tell me what he said," insisted Bertrand inexorably.
But still she hedged, trying to temper his wrath. "He didn't tell me anything new. I have known—for some time now—why you fought that duel."
"Ah! You know that? But how?"
She smiled wanly. "You forget I'm growing up, Bertie."
He winced at that suddenly and sharply, but he made no verbal protest. Only in the silence that followed there was something passionate, something which she never remembered to have encountered before in her dealings with him.
At the end of a long pause he spoke, with obvious constraint. "And you will not tell me what he said?"
"Is it worth while?" said Chris. "I daresay we shall never see him again."
"He insulted you, no?" said Bertrand.
She yielded, half-involuntarily, to his persistence. "He made some—rather horrid—insinuations. He spoke of the duel and of what happened at Valpré. And he asked—he asked if—Trevor knew."
A fierce oath burst headlong from Bertrand, the first she had ever heard him utter. He apologized for it instantly, almost in the same breath, but she was startled by the violence of it none the less, so startled that she decided then and there that, if she would keep the peace between him and his enemy, she must confide in him no further.
"But that was really all," she hastened to assure him. "I left him then, and—and I think we had better forget it, Bertie. Promise me you will."
He took the persuasive hand she laid upon his arm, but for several seconds he did not speak. It seemed as if he could not trust himself to do so.
At last, "Christine," he said, "I think that your husband ought to know."
She started at the words, almost snatching her hand from him. "Bertie!
What do you mean? Know of what?"
He answered her with great steadiness; his eyes met hers unwaveringly.
"Of that which happened at Valpré," he said.
She gazed at him in growing consternation. "Bertie, how—are you mad?—how could I tell him that?"
"With your permission, I will tell him," he said resolutely.
But she cried out at that, almost as if he had hurt her: "Oh no, no, never! Why should he know now? Don't you see how impossible it is? If I had ever meant to tell him, it ought to have been long ago."
"Yes," said Bertrand.
The quietness of his tone only agitated her still further. His evident determination terrified her. In that moment all her fear of her husband rose to towering proportions, a monster she dared not even contemplate. She clasped Bertrand's arm between her hands in wild, unreasoning supplication.
"Oh, you must not—you shall not! Bertie, you won't, will you? Promise me you won't—promise me! He wouldn't understand. He would want to know why I had never told him before. He would—he would—"
"Ah! but I would explain," Bertrand protested gently.
"But you couldn't! He would ask questions—questions I couldn't possibly answer. If he didn't say them he would look them. And his eyes are so terribly keen. They frighten me. They see—everything."
"But, chérie," he reasoned, "they could not see what is not there. You have nothing to hide from him. You have no shame. Why, then, have you fear?"
"I don't know," gasped Chris. "Only I know that he would never understand. He would think—he would think—"
"He would think that we have been—pals—for as long as we have known each other," said Bertrand soothingly. "He knows it already. It is true, is it not?"
But Chris's eyes had been opened too suddenly and tragically. Her sense of proportion was still undeveloped. "Yes, but he would never see it. You could never explain to him so that he would understand. He would think I had been deceiving him. He would think—Bertie, he would think"—her eyes dilated, and she drew in her breath sharply—"that—that you and I ought not to be friends any longer. Oh, don't tell him—please don't tell him. Indeed I am right. He trusts you, and—and he trusts me. But he wouldn't trust either of us any longer if he knew."
"Christine! Christine!"
"It is true," she asserted feverishly. "You don't know him as I do. Oh no, he has never been hard to me. But he could be hard. And he wouldn't forgive me—if he thought I had been hiding anything. Bertie, Bertie, you won't do it? Say you won't do it!"
"I do nothing without your consent," Bertrand answered quietly. "But I think that it is a mistake. I think—"
"Oh, thank you!" she broke in earnestly. "I know I can rely upon you to keep your word. I can, can't I?"
He smiled at a question which he would have borne from no other. "Until death, Christine," he said.
Her hands fell away from his arm. She was shaking all over. "I know I'm foolish," she said. "I can't help it. I was made so. And when Trevor begins to ask questions—" She broke off nervously. "What is that?"
A leisurely footfall sounded in the hall, a quiet hand pressed the electric switch by the door, and the room was flooded with light.
"Oh, don't!" Chris cried out sharply. "Don't!"
She put her hands over her face as if dazzled, and so stood quivering.
"What is it?" Mordaunt asked. "Did I startle you?"
He came to her. He drew her hands gently down. But she almost cowered before him, and he let her go.
"I think that she is tired," Bertrand said, his voice very low.
"Is that all?" Mordaunt asked, looking at him.
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. But Chris turned at the question, turned and confronted her husband with wide, scared eyes.
"Yes, I am tired," she said, speaking jerkily, breathlessly. "But—but I was startled too. I—I thought I heard Cinders—barking."
It was the first time she had ever deliberately lied to him, and her eyes met his full as she did it in desperate self-defence.
He looked at her very steadily for the space of several seconds after she had spoken, and in the silence Bertrand's hands clenched hard.
Quietly at length Mordaunt turned round to him. "Don't let me interrupt you," he said. "You were playing, weren't you? Chris and I are good listeners."
He took his wife's cold hand, and drew her to the sofa; and Bertrand, seeing there was nothing else to be done, turned back to the piano and resumed his playing.
Not another word was spoken by any of them until Noel came upon the scene, and airily dispelled the silence before he was aware of it.
CHAPTER IX
THE ENEMY MOVES
"And you mean to say that this French secretary of Trevor's actually lives in the house?" said Aunt Philippa.
"But of course he does," said Chris, opening her eyes wide.
"And is Trevor never away?" demanded Aunt Philippa.
"He hasn't been, but he talks of spending a night in town next week."
"And you will go with him?"
"No, I don't think so. It's too hot."
"Then I presume M. Bertrand will?"
Chris flushed a little. "I don't suppose so. He is feeling the heat too."
She stretched up her hands above her head. "How I wish it would rain!"
Aunt Philippa continued her knitting severely in silence. They were sitting on the terrace awaiting the luncheon-hour. Across the garden came Noel's shrill whistle, and instinctively, before she remembered her aunt's presence, Chris answered it. The boy appeared at the farther end of the long lawn, and came racing towards them.
"Just seen the postman, Chris. Here's a letter for you—such a horrible fist, Sandacre post-mark, and sealed. Wonder who it's from?"
He leaned against her chair to recover his breath and regarded the envelope he held with frank interest.
Chris stretched up her hand for it. "I expect it's from Mrs. Pouncefort."
"Mrs. Pouncefort doesn't write like that!" protested Noel. "No woman could."
"May I have it?" said Chris.
He put it into her hand, but he still leaned against her chair. "Be quick and open it, I say! It looks important."
"I don't suppose it is," said Chris; but she opened it notwithstanding with some curiosity.
Aunt Philippa had arrived only the night before, but she was already very tired of her society, and any diversion was welcome.
"You don't mind?" she murmured to her aunt.
Her eyes were already upon the first page as she spoke. She frowned over the unfamiliar handwriting.
Noel studied it also over her shoulder. "What on earth—" he began.
She looked up suddenly, and crumpled the paper in her hand. "Noel, go away! How dare you!"
He stared at her in amazement. A sharp word from Chris was most unusual.
Aunt Philippa looked up also.
"My dear girl, it isn't private, is it?" said Noel.
Chris was scarlet. She seemed to breathe with difficulty. "Of course it's private! All my letters are private!"
"But it comes from the Pounceforts," objected Noel. "I saw 'Sandacre
Court' at the top of the page."
Chris sprang to her feet impetuously with blazing eyes. "And what if it does? You had no right to look over me. It was a hateful thing to do. What if it does come from Mrs. Pouncefort? Is it mine any the less for that?"
"Oh, don't get huffy!" remonstrated Noel. "Look at you! Anyone would think you had got the palsy. But you needn't pretend it's from Mrs. Pouncefort, because I know better."
"It—it is from Mrs. Pouncefort!" declared Chris.
"Which is a lie," rejoined Noel, with the utmost calmness. "I know you, my dear girl, I know you. You've told 'em before."
"Noel!" Aunt Philippa interposed her voice with extreme dignity. "You forget yourself. If you cannot speak with ordinary courtesy, be good enough to leave us."
Noel heeded the remonstrance no more than if it had been the buzzing of a fly. Chris's spark of temper had kindled his.
"Oh, you can swear it's the truth till all's blue," he declared, raising his voice recklessly. "But that doesn't make it so. In fact, it only makes the contrary all the more likely. Besides, you know you do lie, Chris, so you needn't deny it."
"Noel!"
It was not Aunt Philippa's voice this time, and it had in it so firm a note of authority that instinctively Noel turned.
Mordaunt, just returned from a ride, was standing in his shirt-sleeves at an open window above them. All the colour went out of Chris's face at sight of him, but he did not look at her.
"Come up here," he said to Noel. "I want to speak to you."
"Not coming," said Noel promptly.
"Come up here," Mordaunt repeated.
"What for?" Noel looked up at him, hands in pockets. "You'll be late for lunch if you don't buck up," he remarked, with a smile of cheery impudence.
His brother-in-law's face did not reflect his smile. It was grimly determined. "Come up here," he said again.
"Do go, Noel," Chris murmured uneasily.
"I won't," said Noel doggedly. "I'm not going to be pitched into for nothing. It was you who told the lie, not me."
"Oh, don't be absurd!" exclaimed Chris, in a fever of impatience. "Surely you're not afraid of him!"
"Anyone can see you are," retorted Noel. "I'll bet you daren't go yourself!"
She turned from him sharply without another word, and entered the house.
She met her husband on the threshold of his room, and pushed him impulsively back, her hands against his breast.
"Trevor, please don't be angry with him. He—we often go on like that.
There is nothing to be angry about—indeed."
He took her hands and held them. She was panting a little; he waited while she recovered herself. Then, "Chris," he said very gently, "don't you think it is time you left off being afraid of me?"
"But when you are angry—" murmured Chris.
"You have never seen me angry yet."
"You are not angry with Noel?" she asked quickly.
He smiled a little. "My dear child, Noel is no more capable of making me angry than that fly on the ceiling. But I am not going to have him behaving badly for all that."
"But he didn't," she urged, in distress. "It was all my fault. Trevor—Trevor, please don't say any more! He was quite right. I—I didn't tell the truth."
She made the confession in a broken whisper, with her face hidden against him. But a moment later she had sprung away in haste, for there came the clatter of careless feet upon the stairs, and Noel dashed suddenly upon the scene.
"Oh, I say, do stop jawing and come down," he said as he presented himself. "Poor Aunt Phil is ravenous for her lunch. What do you want me for, Trevor?"
But Mordaunt turned his back abruptly. "I don't want you now," he said.
"You can go."
"Dash it!" Noel said. "What a rotter you are!" He flung himself full
length upon the window-seat with elaborate nonchalance. "Run along,
Chris," he said. "We're going to talk politics. Shut the door after you.
That's right. Now, my good brother-in-law, what can I do for you?"
He sat up to slay a wasp on the window-pane, flicked the corpse in
Mordaunt's direction with airy adroitness, and lay down again.
"Are you in a wax over anything?" he inquired, with a yawn.
Mordaunt turned quietly round. "Get up!" he said.
Noel laughed up at him engagingly. "You can't kick me so easily lying down, can you? But what do you want to kick me for? I'm quite harmless."
"I am not going to kick you," Mordaunt said. "It is not my way."
"All right, then. Why didn't you say so before?" Noel sat up and regarded him with interest. "Well?" he said at the end of an expectant pause. "Let's have it, man, and have done!"
"I have nothing to give you," Mordaunt returned. "I told you you could go."
Something in the tone rather than the words caught Noel's attention. He bounced suddenly from his lounging attitude to Mordaunt's side, and thrust an affectionate arm about his shoulders.
"What's the matter, old chap? You look as if you had found sixpence and lost half a crown."
"Perhaps I have," Mordaunt returned grimly.
He did not repulse the friendly overture; that also was not his way. But neither did he respond to it. He stood passive, looking out over the park with unobservant eyes.
"Cheer up, I say," urged Noel. "You're such a rattling good chap, you know. I'm getting awfully fond of you."
"Much obliged," said Mordaunt; but he did not seem highly gratified. In fact, his thoughts were plainly elsewhere.
Noel, however, would not be satisfied with this. "What are you grizzling about?" he said. "Tell a fellow!"
Mordaunt's eyes came down to him. "I wish you Wyndhams had a little sense of honour," he said.
"Oh, is that it?" said Noel. "Well, we are not top-heavy in that respect, I own. But, after all, it's not worth worrying about. We get on very nicely without it. And we wouldn't any of us sell a friend."
"I'm glad to know you draw the line somewhere," Mordaunt observed.
"Oh, rather! I wouldn't chouse you for the world. Chris wouldn't either. But we're both shy of you, you know, because you're so beastly moral." He gave his brother-in-law a warm hug to soften the effect of his words. "You may as well tell me what you wanted to say to me just now," he remarked.
"I was going to request you to behave like a gentleman," Mordaunt returned. "But as you don't seem to know what that means—" He paused, looking straight into the Irish eyes that met his with such sublime assurance. "Do you know what it means, Noel?" he asked.
Noel grinned. "You can take me in hand and teach me if it isn't too much trouble. I suppose you didn't like me to tell Chris she was lying about that letter. But she was, you know. There's no getting away from that fact, even if she is your wife."
"I'm not trying to get away from facts," Mordaunt said. "But I do object—strongly—to discourtesy. You may be her brother, but that doesn't entitle you to insult her. Plainly, I won't have it from you or anyone."
"I didn't insult her," declared Noel. "I only said I knew she was telling a cram. She knew it too."
"I know what you said," Mordaunt returned with brevity. "And you are not to say it again. Also, I must ask you to bear in mind that when I say a thing I mean it—invariably. I've had more than enough disobedience from you lately."
"Oh, I say," said Noel, winking gaily, "you don't want much, do you?"
Mordaunt relaxed a little. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder for a moment. "You can be quite a good chap if you try," he said.
Noel responded like a dog to a caress. "The mischief is to keep it up," he said. "But we won't quarrel anyhow. I'll make every allowance for you, old boy, for you're in a beastly unhealthy position; and you'll have to do the same—savvy? But for all that, that letter was no more written by Mrs. Pouncefort than by the man in the moon."
"That letter," Mordaunt said very deliberately, "is neither your affair nor mine."
Could he have seen Chris at that moment he might have changed his mind upon that point, but her young brother's careless chatter kept him from seeking her; nor would he very readily have found her had he done so.
For Chris was securely locked in a little room at the top of the house that had been her childhood's bedroom, and here with blanched face and hands that shook she was reading and reading again the letter that had given rise to so much discussion.
The handwriting was cramped and erratic, wholly unfamiliar, barely decipherable; but she had mastered the contents with tragic dexterity. Her understanding had leaped to the words.
* * * * *
"MY DEAR MRS. MORDAUNT," so went the letter, "You have probably forgotten my existence by this time, and it is with the utmost humility that I venture to recall it to your memory. For myself, it will always be a lasting pleasure to have met you again, and the fact that I share with you a secret of other days cannot but prove a bond between us. That secret I am prepared to guard faithfully, since—apparently—it is of value, if you on your part are ready to purchase my discretion with that of which all have need, but of which I temporarily am unhappily deficient. Briefly, madame, for the sum of five hundred pounds I will undertake that the episode of Valpré shall be consigned to oblivion so far as I am concerned. Otherwise, the strict husband may hear more than you have considered it convenient to tell him.
"Yours, with many compliments,
GUILLAUME RODOLPHE."
CHAPTER X
A WARNING VOICE
Five hundred pounds! Five hundred pounds! It represented her year's income to Chris.
All night long she lay wide-eyed and still, facing her problem with a quaking heart. It was like a suffocating weight upon her, crushing her down. Five hundred pounds! And the need thereof so urgent that it must be dealt with at once! But how to obtain it? How? How?
All through the dark hours she lay revolving the matter, questioning this way and that, bound hand and foot, yet not daring to contemplate the only sane means at her disposal of obtaining freedom. To tell her husband the simple truth, to throw herself unreservedly upon his generosity, to beg his forgiveness and his help—these were the things she could not do. As a matter of fact the truth had been so magnified by her fevered fancy that it had begun to appear monstrous even in her own eyes. Those far-off happenings at Valpré had become a dream with a nightmare ending. Not even Aunt Philippa could have distorted them to a more exaggerated semblance of evil. And to go to her husband now with such a story was utterly beyond Chris's powers of accomplishment. She lacked the courage to speak with simplicity and candour, and she was painfully aware that to give a halting account of the matter would be infinitely more dangerous than to keep silence. Already her husband's faith in her veracity had been shaken. Was it likely that he would accept unquestioning her assurance that this matter, which she had rigorously suppressed for so long and which she only imparted to him now under compulsion, was in reality one of trivial importance? Would he believe her? Had she ever fostered his belief in her? Could he in reason do so even if he desired?
Moreover, there was another obstacle. There was Bertrand. Though he had offered to speak for her, though he had desired to explain all, and though she knew that Trevor's faith in him was absolute, yet the presence of Bertrand in itself made candour impossible. Why this should be she did not know. It was a problem which she had not attempted to solve. But the fact remained. She dreaded unspeakably the possibility of having to describe the intimacy that had existed between herself and Bertrand in the old, free, Valpré days. She dreaded the keen searching of the grey eyes that, if they sought long enough, were bound to find her soul, and not only to find, but to enter it, to penetrate to its most hidden corner, and to draw out into the full light of day one of her most sacred possessions. She felt that she could not bear this probing. The very thought of it was horrible to her, and in connection with it the steady scrutiny of her husband's eyes became almost a thing abhorrent. Vaguely she knew, without realizing, that she cherished deep in that inmost shrine something which he must never see, something that it would be agony to show him, something that even now gnawed secretly at her quivering heart. She always shrank from his direct look, though she would not have him know it. The calm, level gaze frightened her, she knew not why. Perhaps the secret of all her fear of him lay hidden in this problem that she dared not face.
No, she could not endure a full revelation of the truth. Bertrand had declared that Mordaunt could not discover what was non-existent, but it was not this that Chris feared. It was something infinitely more terrible, a floating suspicion that might harden into actual fact at any moment.
And so her whole being was concentrated upon avoiding the catastrophe that instinct warned her to be impending. Everything hung upon the keeping of that secret which once had seemed to her so small a thing. It had grown to mighty proportions of late. She did not ask herself wherefore; but once in the night she smiled a piteous little smile at the recollection of Manon, the maid-of-all-work, and her story of the spell that bound all who entered the Magic Cave. She remembered how she had laughed over it; but Bertrand had not laughed. He had been quite grave; she remembered that also. He had even spoken as if he believed in it. For a little her thoughts dwelt upon that night, on the quick confidences he had poured out, on her own consternation over the nature of his enterprise, on the words he had uttered then to comfort her. She had never given them much thought before. To-night, lying by her husband's side, they returned to her, and for the first time she pondered them seriously. He had dismissed ambition and success, even the strife of nations, at a breath. He had been able to do so even then, when he was nearing the summit of his aspirations. "What are they?" he had said. "Only a procession that marches under the windows, only a dream in the midst of a great Reality."
What had he meant by that? she asked herself, and searched her memory for more. It came with a curious vividness, a winged message, straight and sure as an arrow. "We look out above them," he had said, "you and I"—suddenly she heard the very thrill of his voice, and it pierced her through and through—"to the great heaven and the sun; and we know that that is life—the Spark Eternal that nothing can ever quench." Chris did not ask herself the meaning of that. She hid it away in her heart, quickly, quickly, lest seeing she should also understand.
It was very early in the morning when she slipped out of bed, and crept to the open window to watch the stars fade into the dawning. She would have liked to pray, but no prayer occurred to her. And so she knelt quite passive, gazing forth over the dim garden, too tired to think any longer, yet too miserable to sleep. She did not know that her husband's eyes gravely watched her throughout her vigil, and when presently she lay down again she still believed him to be sleeping.
In the morning inspiration came to Chris. She believed Rupert to be out of debt, thanks to Trevor's generosity. She would get him to raise the money for her. She knew he must have ways and means of so doing which were quite beyond her reach. At least, it seemed her only resource, and she would try it.
"Are you quite well, Chris?" her husband asked her when he rose at an early hour, as was his custom.
"Quite," said Chris. "Why?"
She looked at him nervously with heavy-lidded eyes.
He bent to kiss her before leaving the room. "Don't get up yet," he said kindly. "Stay in bed and have a sleep."
"But I—I have slept," she stammered.
He put the hair gently back from her forehead. "I know all about it," he said.
She started away from him in sheer panic. "About what?" she gasped, in a whisper; then, seeing his brows go up, "Oh, Trevor, I—I'm sorry. No, I haven't slept very well. But—"
"I thought not," he interposed quietly. "Well, sleep now, dear."
He turned to go, but impulsively she caught his hand, held it a moment, then suddenly put it to her lips. But she would not look at him, would not even raise her eyes again; and he, after the briefest pause, withdrew his hand, touched her cheek with it lightly, and so left her.
When they met again at the breakfast-table she was discussing with Aunt Philippa the best means of spending the day. Bertrand was not present. He usually took chocolate at that hour in Mordaunt's room, where he could continue his secretarial work uninterrupted. Noel was not yet down.
Chris turned at once to address her husband. "I have had a line from Max. He is coming down for a few days I think he hasn't been well—overworking, he says."
"I can scarcely believe," said Aunt Philippa, with her acid smile, "that a Wyndham could ever suffer from that complaint."
"They don't over-rest, anyhow," said Mordaunt, with a glance at his wife's tired face. "I shall be very pleased to see him, Chris. Write and tell him so."
"I don't think I need write," she said. "He will be here this afternoon. Shall I ask Rupert to come over and dine, so that we can all be together—that is, if Aunt Philippa doesn't mind?"
"Pray do not consider me," said Aunt Philippa.
"Do exactly as you like," said Mordaunt quietly. "Rupert is always welcome so far as I am concerned."
Chris rose from the table as he sat down. "I will send him a note at once if I may, or I shall miss the post."
"Have you had any breakfast?" he asked, detaining her as she passed his chair.
"None at all," said Aunt Philippa.
"Oh, Aunt Philippa, I have, indeed!" protested Chris, colouring vividly.
"Besides, I'm not hungry."
"Besides!" echoed Mordaunt, faintly smiling. "Drink a cup of hot milk before you go."
She made a wry face. "I can't. I hate it. Please don't keep me!"
"Then do as you are told," he said. "I thought I ordered you to stay in bed."
"Oh, don't be absurd!" said Chris; but she went back to her place and poured out the milk as he desired.
"Now drink it," he said, with his eyes upon her.
She obeyed him without further protest, finally setting the cup down with a sigh of relief.
Mordaunt rose to open the door. "You are not to do anything energetic to-day," he said.
She threw him a smile, half-shy, half-wistful, and departed without replying.
He turned back into the room and sat down. "I am not quite satisfied about Chris," he said.
"Neither am I," said Aunt Philippa, with unexpected severity.
He looked at her with awakened attention. "No?" he said courteously.
"No." Very decidedly came Aunt Philippa's reply. "I intended to speak to you upon the subject, my dear Trevor, and I am glad that an early opportunity for so doing has presented itself."
"You think she looks ill?" Mordaunt asked.
"Not at all," said Aunt Philippa. "The intense heat we have had lately is quite sufficient to account for her jaded looks. She has probably also been fretting unreasonably over the death of her dog. I believe that animal was the only thing in the world she ever really cared for."
Mordaunt rested his chin on his hand, and looked at her thoughtfully.
"Indeed!" he said.
Neither his voice nor his face expressed anything whatever beyond a decorous gravity. Aunt Philippa began to feel slightly exasperated.
"She will get over that," she said, with a confidence that held more of contempt than tolerance. "None of the Wyndhams are fundamentally capable of taking anything seriously for long. You must have discovered their instability for yourself by this time."
"Not with respect to Chris." Was there a hint of sternness underlying the placidity of the rejoinder? There might have been, but Aunt Philippa was too intent upon the matter she had taken in hand to notice it.
"Oh, well," she said, "you haven't been married six weeks yet, have you? You will see what I mean sooner or later. But you may take it from me that all of them—Chris included—are without an atom of solidity in their composition. I warn you, Trevor, very seriously; they are not to be depended upon."
Mordaunt heard her without changing his position. His eyes looked straight at her from under lids that never stirred. "Is that what you have to say to me?" he asked, after a moment.
"It leads to what I have to say," returned Aunt Philippa with dignity.
She was quite in her element now, and enjoying herself far too thoroughly to be lightly disconcerted.
"Pray finish!" he said.
That gave her momentary pause. "I am speaking solely for your welfare," she told him.
"I do not question it," he returned.
Yet even she was aware that his stillness was not all the outcome of courteous attention. There was about it a restraint which made itself felt, as it were, in spite of him, a dominance which she set down to his forceful personality.
"The subject upon which I chiefly desire to speak a word of warning," she said, "is the presence in the house—the constant presence—of your young French secretary."
"Yes?" said Mordaunt.
He betrayed no surprise, but the word fell curtly, as if he found himself face to face with an unpleasant task and desired to be through with it as quickly as possible.
Aunt Philippa proceeded with just a hint of caution. "My dear Trevor, surely you are aware of the danger!"
"What danger?"
A difficult question, which Aunt Philippa answered with diplomacy. "Chris was always something of a flirt."
"Indeed!" said Mordaunt again.
His manner was so non-committal that Aunt Philippa began to lose her patience. "I should have thought that fact was patent to everyone."
"Never to me," said Chris's husband very deliberately.
Aunt Philippa smiled. "Then you are remarkably blind, my dear Trevor. Flightiness has been her chief characteristic all her life. If you have not yet found that out, I fear she must be deceitful as well."
"I am not discussing my wife's character," Mordaunt made answer very steadily.
"You prefer to shut your eyes to the obvious," said Aunt Philippa, beginning to be aware of something formidable in her path but not quite grasping its magnitude.
"I prefer my own estimate of her to that of anyone else," he made quiet reply.
Aunt Philippa made a slight gesture of uneasiness. The steady gaze was becoming a hard thing to meet. Had the man been less phlegmatic, she could almost have imagined him to be in a white heat of anger. He was so unnaturally quiet, his whole being concentrated, as it were, in a composure that she could not but feel to be ominous.
It was with an effort that the woman who sat facing him resumed her self-appointed task. "That I can well understand," she said. "But even so, I think you should bear in mind that Chris is young—and frail. You are not justified in exposing her to temptation."
"As how?"
Aunt Philippa hesitated for the first time in actual perturbation.
Mordaunt waited immovably.
"I think," she said at length, "that you would be very ill-advised if you went to town and left her here—thrown entirely upon her own resources."
"May I ask if you are still referring to my secretary?" he said.
She bent her head. "I have never approved of her being upon such intimate terms with him. She treats him as if—as if—"
"As if he were her brother," said Mordaunt quietly. "I do the same. I have many friends, but he is the one man in the world who possesses my entire confidence. For that reason I foster their friendship, for I know it to be a good thing. For that reason, if I were dying, I would confidently leave her in his care."
"My dear Trevor, the man has bewitched you!" protested Aunt Philippa.
His eyes fell away from her at last, and she was conscious of distinct relief, mingled with a most unwonted tinge of humiliation.
"I am obliged to you," he said formally, "for taking the trouble to warn me. But you need never do so again. Believe me, I am not blind; and Chris is safe in my care."
He rose with the words, and went to the sideboard for his breakfast. Here he remained for some time with his back turned, but when he finally came back to the table there was no trace of even suppressed agitation about him.
He sat down and began to eat with a perfectly normal demeanour. The silence, however, remained unbroken until Noel burst tempestuously into the room. No silence ever outlasted his appearance.
He flung his arms round his brother-in-law and embraced him warmly, with a friendly, "Hullo, you greedy beggar! Hope you haven't gobbled up everything! I'm confoundedly hungry. Morning, Aunt Philippa! I suppose you fed long ago? It's a disgusting habit, isn't it? But one we can't dispense with at present. Where's Chris?"
"Chris," said Aunt Philippa icily, "has already breakfasted, and so have
I."
She moved towards the door as she spoke. Noel sprang with alacrity to open it, and bowed to the floor behind her retreating form.
"She looks like a dying duck in a thunderstorm," he observed, as he returned to the table. "What have you been doing to her? Has there been a thunderstorm?"
Mordaunt met his inquiring eyes without a smile. "Noel," he said, "if you can't be courteous to your aunt and your sister, I won't have you at the table at all—or in the house for that matter."