"And yet you have not mentioned Captain Rodolphe to him?" said Aunt Philippa. Her eyes were fixed unsparingly upon the girl's face, and she saw the colour dying away as swiftly as it had risen. "That is strange," she remarked, with emphasis.
"It is not strange!" flashed back Chris. The laugh had gone from her lips, leaving them white, but she faced her adversary unflinchingly. It was open war now—a fierce and bitter struggle for the mastery, for which she knew herself to be ill-equipped, but in which she must fight to the last. She knew that Aunt Philippa had always regarded her with cold dislike, and it dawned upon her in that moment that now—now that her position was assured, now that she was rich and popular and the wife of a man who was universally honoured in that great world of society in which her aunt had always striven for a leading place—the dislike had turned to a cruel jealousy that demanded her downfall. And she was horribly at her mercy; deep in her heart she knew that also, but she would not own it, even to herself. Aunt Philippa had not yet unmasked the truth. Until she succeeded in doing so, all was not lost.
"It is not strange," she repeated, and this time she spoke quietly, summoning all her strength to the unequal contest. "Captain Rodolphe was not of sufficient importance to mention to Trevor. Besides—"
"Although you hate him so bitterly!" Aunt Philippa reminded her.
Chris pressed on, ignoring the thrust. "Besides, Trevor does not need, does not so much as wish to be told of every little incident that ever happened in my life. He prefers to trust me."
"And have you never abused his confidence?" asked Aunt Philippa.
It was inevitable. She flinched ever so slightly, but she covered it with instant defiance. "What do you mean, Aunt Philippa?"
Aunt Philippa made no direct reply. She knew the value of insinuation in such a battle as this. "Ask yourself that question," she said impressively.
It might have provided a way of escape, at least temporarily, but Chris was too far goaded to see it. "Tell me what you mean," she said.
Aunt Philippa's thin lips smiled ironically. "My dear, are you really so blind, or is deceit the very air you breathe? Can you look me in the face and assure me that nothing has ever passed between you and your husband's secretary of which you would not wish him to know?"
That went home, straight to her quivering heart. For a moment the pain of it held her dumb. Then, with a gasp, she turned from the pitiless eyes that watched her.
"Oh, how dare you, Aunt Philippa! How dare you!" she cried in impotence.
"I trust that I am not afraid to do my duty," said Aunt Philippa, very gravely.
But Chris had already turned, completely routed, and fled from the scene of her defeat; nor did she pause until she had reached her haven at the top of the house, where, like a wounded bird, she crouched down in solitude and so remained for a long, long time.
Not till the afternoon was far advanced did any measure of comfort come to her stricken soul, and then at last she remembered that, after all, she was comparatively safe. Her husband's trust was still hers, implicit and unwavering, and she knew that he would not so much as notice a single hint from Aunt Philippa, however adroitly offered. That was her one and only safeguard, and as she realized it the bitterness of her heart gave place to a sudden burst of anguished shame. What had she ever done to deserve the generous, unquestioning trust he thus reposed in her? Nothing—less than nothing!
CHAPTER II
FIREWORKS
When Chris emerged from her seclusion, she found that her aunt had decided to suspend hostilities, and to treat her with the majestic condescension of the conqueror. It was something of a relief, for Chris was not fashioned upon fighting lines, and long-sustained animosity was beyond her. She was thankful for Noel's plans for the evening's entertainment as a topic of conversation, even though Aunt Philippa openly disapproved of the enterprise. She had begun feverishly to count the hours to her aunt's departure. She would not feel really safe, reassure herself how she might, until she was finally gone.
It was not until after dinner that Noel emerged from his lair in the gun-room and announced everything to be in readiness. He called Chris out on to the terrace to assist him, and Aunt Philippa and Bertrand were left—an ill-assorted couple—to watch and admire the result of his efforts. Aunt Philippa invariably maintained a demeanour of haughty reserve if she found herself alone with her host's French secretary, an attitude in which he as invariably acquiesced with an impenetrable silence which she resented without knowing why. He was always courteous, but he never tried to be agreeable to her, and this also Aunt Philippa resented, though she would have mercilessly snubbed any efforts in that direction had he exerted himself to make them.
The night was dark and still, an ideal night for fireworks. Noel began with the failures which he had not the heart to waste. He was keeping the choicest of his collection till the last. Consequently there were a good many crackling explosions on the ground with nothing but a few sparks to compensate for the noise, and Aunt Philippa very speedily tired of the din.
"This is childish as well as dangerous," she said. "I shall go to the library. There will at least be peace and quietness there."
"Without doubt," said Bertrand.
He accompanied her thither with a polite regard for her comfort for which he received no gratitude, and then returned to smoke his cigarette in comfort by the open French window that overlooked the terrace.
A ruddy glare lit up the scene as he took up his stand. The failures were apparently exhausted, and Noel had begun upon the masterpieces. Chris's quick laugh came to him, as he stood there watching. Yet he frowned a little to himself as he heard it, missing the gay, spontaneous, childish ring that he had been wont to hear. What had come to her of late? Was it true that she had told him on the night of Cinders' death? Was she indeed grown-up? If so—he changed his position slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the fitful glare of one of Noel's Roman candles—had the time come for him to go? He had always faced the fact that she would not need him when her childhood was left behind. And certainly of late she had not seemed to need him. She had even—he fancied—avoided him at times. He wondered wherefore. Could it have been at her aunt's instigation? Surely not. She was too staunch for that.
There remained another possibility, and, after a little, reluctantly, with clenched teeth, he faced it. Had she by some means discovered that which he had so studiously hidden from her all this time? He cast his mind back. Had he ever inadvertently betrayed himself? He knew he had not. Never since her marriage had he given the faintest sign; no, not even on that fateful afternoon when she had clung to him in anguish of soul and he had held her fast pressed against his heart. He had been strictly honourable, resolutely loyal, all through. He had always held himself in check. He had never forgotten, never relaxed his vigilance, never once been other than faithful, even in thought, to the friend who trusted him. Yet—Max's words recurred to him, piercing him as with a stab of physical pain—without doubt women had a genius incroyable for discovering secrets. And if Chris were indeed a woman—was it not possible—
Again her laugh broke in upon his thoughts, and he turned swiftly in the direction whence it came. She was standing not more than a dozen yards from him, a red whirl of fire all about her, in her hand a whizzing, spitting-aureole of flame. The light flared upwards on her face and gleaming hair. She looked like some fire-goddess, exulting over the radiant element she had created. And, like a sword-thrust to his heart, there went through him the memory of her standing poised like a bird on the prow of a boat. Just so had she stood then; just so, goddess-like, had she exulted in the morning sunshine and the sparkling water; just so had her bare arms shone on the day that first he had consciously worshipped her, on the day that she had told him of her desire to find out all the secrets that there were. Ah! how much had she found out since then—his bird of Paradise with the restless, ever-fluttering wings? How much? How much?
A sudden cry banished his speculations—a cry uttered by her voice, sharp with dismay. "Oh, Noel! My sleeve!"
Before the words were past her lips Bertrand had leaped forth to the rescue. He traversed the distance between them as a meteor hurling through space. But even so, ere he reached her, the filmy lace that hung down from her elbow had blazed into flame. She had dropped the firework, and it lay hissing on the ground like a glittering snake. He sprang over it and caught her in his arms.
She cried out again as he crushed her to him, cried out, and tried to push him from her; but he held her fast, gripping the flaming material with his naked hands, rending it, and gripping afresh. Something white which neither noticed fluttered upon the ground between them. It must have actually passed through that frantic grip. It lay unheeded, while Bertrand beat out the last spark and ripped the last charred rag away from the soft arm.
"You are hurt, no?" he queried rather breathlessly.
"You, Bertie! What of you?" she cried hysterically, clinging to him.
"Your hands—let me see them!"
"By Jove, that was a near thing!" ejaculated Noel, who had followed close upon Bertrand's heels. "I thought you were done for that time, Chris. How on earth did you manage it? You must have been jolly careless."
Chris did not attempt to answer. Now that the emergency had passed, she was hanging upon Bertrand almost in a state of collapse.
"Let us go in," the latter said gently.
"Yes, run along," said Noel, who had a wholesome dread of hysterics. "Don't be silly, Chris; there's no harm done. But if it hadn't been for this chap here you'd have been in flames in another second. I congratulate you, Bertrand, on your presence of mind. Not hurt yourself, I suppose?"
"I am not hurt," the Frenchman answered; but his words sounded as if speech were an effort to him, almost as if he spoke them through clenched teeth.
Chris straightened herself swiftly. "Yes, let us go in," she said.
She leaned upon Bertrand no longer, but she still held his arm. As they entered the drawing-room alone together, she turned and looked at him.
"Ah! I knew you were hurt," she said quickly. "Sit down, Bertie. Here is a chair."
He sank down blindly, his face like death; he had begun to gasp for breath. His hand groped desperately towards an inner pocket, but fell powerless before reaching it.
"Let me!" whispered Chris.
She bent over him, and slipped her own trembling hand inside his coat.
Her fingers touched something hard, and she drew out a small bottle.
"Is it this?" she said.
His lips moved in the affirmative. She removed the stopper and shook out some capsules.
"Deux!" whispered Bertrand.
She put them into his mouth and waited. Great drops had started on his forehead, and now began to roll slowly down his drawn face. She took his handkerchief after a little to wipe them away, but almost immediately he reached up with a quivering smile and took it from her.
"I am better," he said, and though his voice was husky he had it under control. "You will pardon me for giving you this trouble. It was only—a passing weakness."
He mopped his forehead, and leaned slowly forward, moving with caution.
"But you are ill! You are in pain!" Chris exclaimed.
"No," he said. "No, I have no pain. I am better. I am quite well."
Again he looked up at her, smiling. "But how I have alarmed you!" he said regretfully. "And your arm, petite? It is not burnt—not at all?"
He took her hand gently, and put back the tattered sleeve to satisfy himself on this point.
Chris said nothing. Her lips had begun to tremble. But she winced a little when he touched a place inside her arm where the flame had scorched her.
He glanced up sharply. "Ah! that hurts you, that?"
"No," she said, "no. It is nothing." And then, with sudden passion: "Bertie, what does a little scorch like that matter when you—when you—" She broke off, fighting with herself, and pointed a shaking finger at his wrist.
It had been blistered by the flame, and his shirt-cuff was charred; but the injury was slight, remarkably so in consideration of the utter recklessness he had displayed.
He snapped his fingers with easy indifference. "Ah, bah! It is a bagatelle, that. In one week it will be gone. And now—why, chérie—"
He stopped abruptly. She had dropped upon her knees beside him, her hands upon his shoulders, her face, tragic in its pain, upturned to his.
"Bertie, why do you try to hide things from me? Do you think I am quite blind? You are ill. I know you are ill. What is it, dear? Won't you tell me?"
He made a quick gesture as if he would check either her words or her touch, and then suddenly he stiffened. For in that instant there ran between them once again, vital, electric, unquenchable, that Flame that had kindled long ago on a morning of perfect summer, that Flame which once kindled burns on for ever.
It happened all in a moment, so swiftly that they were caught unawares in the spell of it, so overwhelmingly that neither for the space of several throbbing seconds possessed the volition to draw back. And in the deep silence the man's eyes held the woman's irresistibly, yet by no conscious effort, while each entered the other's soul and gazed upon the one supreme secret which each had mutely sheltered there.
It was to the man that full realization first came—a realization more overwhelming than anything that had gone before, striking him with a stunning force that shattered every other emotion like a bursting shell spreading destruction.
He came out of that trance-like stillness with a gesture of horror, as if freeing himself from some evil thing that had wound itself about him unawares.
Her hands fell away from his shoulders instantly. She was white to the lips. She even for one incredible moment—the only moment in her life—shrank from him. But that impulse vanished as swiftly as it came, vanished in a rush of passionate understanding. For with a groan Bertrand sank forward and bowed his head in his hands.
"Mon Dieu!" he said. "What have I done?"
She responded as it were instinctively, not pausing to choose her words, speaking in a quick, vehement whisper, because his distress was more than she could bear.
"It is none of your doing, Bertie. You are not to say it—not to think it even. It happened long, long ago. You know it did. It happened—it happened—that day at Valpré—the day you—took me into your boat."
He groaned again, his head dropping lower. She knew that also! Then was she woman indeed!
There followed a silence during which Chris remained kneeling beside him, but she was no longer agitated. She was strangely calm. A new strength seemed to have been given her to cope with this pressing need. When at last she moved, it was to lay a hand that was quite steady upon his knee.
"Bertie," she said, "listen! You have done nothing wrong. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. It wasn't your fault that I took so long to grow up." A piteous little smile touched her lips, and was gone. "You have been very good to me," she said. "I won't have you blame yourself. No woman ever had a truer friend."
He laid his hand upon hers, but he kept his eyes covered. She could only see the painful twitching of his mouth under the slight moustache.
"Ah, Christine," he said at last, with an effort, "I have tried—I have tried—to be faithful."
"And you have never been anything else," she said very earnestly. "You were my preux chevalier from the very beginning, and you have done more for me than you will ever know. Bertie, Bertie"—her voice thrilled suddenly—"though it's all so hopeless, do you think it isn't easier for me now that I know? Do you think I would have it otherwise if I could?"
His hand closed tightly upon hers with a quick, restraining pressure. He could not answer her.
For some seconds he did not speak at all. At length, "Then—you trust me still, Christine?" he said, his voice very low.
Her reply was instant and unfaltering. "I shall trust you as long as I live."
He was silent again for a space. Then suddenly he uncovered his face and looked at her. Again their eyes met, with the perfect intimacy of a perfect understanding.
"Eh bien," Bertrand said, speaking slowly and heavily, as one labouring under an immense burden, "I will be worthy of your confidence. You are right, little comrade. We have travelled too far together—you and I—to fear to strike upon the rocks now."
He paused a moment, then quietly rose, drawing her to her feet. So for a while he stood, her hands clasped in his, seeming still upon the verge of speech, but finding no words. His eyes smiled sadly upon her, as the eyes of a friend saying good-bye. At last he stooped, and reverently as though he sealed an oath thereby, he pressed his lips upon the hands he held.
An instant later he straightened himself, and in unbroken silence turned and left her.
It was one of the simplest tragedies ever played on the world's stage. They had found each other—too late, and there was nothing more to be said.
CHAPTER III
THE TURN OF THE TIDE
It was evening when Mordaunt returned on the following day. He was met at the station by Noel. Holmes was in charge of the motor, and greeted his master with obvious relief. The care of the youngest Wyndham was plainly a responsibility he did not care to shoulder for long.
"All well?" Mordaunt asked, as he emerged from the station with his young brother-in-law hooked effusively on his arm.
"All well, sir," said Holmes, with the air of a sentry relaxing after long and arduous duty.
"Flourishing," said Noel, "though it's the greatest wonder you haven't come back to find Chris a heap of ashes. She would have been if Bertrand hadn't—at great personal risk—put her out."
"What has happened?" demanded Mordaunt sharply.
"All's well, sir," said Holmes reassuringly.
"Fireworks!" explained Noel. "My word, I made some beauties! I wish you could have seen 'em. I got singed a bit myself. But, then, that's only what one would expect playing with fire, eh, Trevor?" He rubbed his cheek ingratiatingly against Mordaunt's shoulder. "You needn't be anxious. Chris was really none the worse. But the Frenchman had a bad attack of blue funk when the danger was over, and nearly fainted. He's feeling ashamed of himself apparently, for I haven't seen him since. By the way, Aunt Phil and Chris had a mill yesterday, and the old lady is suffering from a very stiff neck in consequence. I asked Chris what she did to it, but she wouldn't tell me. Thank the gods, she goes to-morrow! You'll let me drive her to the station, won't you? I should like to go to heaven in Aunt Phil's company. She would be sure to get into the smartest set at once."
He rattled on in the same cheery strain without intermission throughout the return journey, having imparted enough to make Mordaunt thoroughly uneasy, notwithstanding Holmes's assurance.
The first person he met upon entering the house was Aunt Philippa. She accorded him a glacial reception, and explained that Chris had retired to bed with a severe headache.
"It's come on very suddenly," remarked Noel, with frank incredulity.
"Where's Bertrand? Has he got a headache too?"
Aunt Philippa had no information to offer with regard to the French secretary! She merely observed that she had given orders for dinner to be served in a quarter of an hour, and therewith swept away to the drawing-room.
Mordaunt shook off his young brother-in-law without ceremony, and went straight up to his wife's room.
His low knock elicited no reply, and he opened the door softly and entered.
The room was in semi-darkness, but Chris's voice accosted him instantly.
"Is that you, Trevor? I'm here, lying down. I had rather a headache, or I would have come to meet you."
Her words were rapid and sounded feverish, as though she were braced for some ordeal. She was lying with her back to the curtained windows and her face in shadow.
Mordaunt went forward with light tread to the bed. "Poor child!" he said gently.
He stooped and kissed her, and found that she was trembling. Quietly he took her hand into his, and began to feel her pulse.
She made a nervous movement to frustrate him, but he gently insisted and she became passive.
"There is nothing serious the matter," she said uneasily. "I—I didn't sleep very well last night, that's all. I thought you wouldn't mind if I didn't come to meet you."
Mordaunt, with the tell-tale, fluttering pulse under his fingers, made gentle reply. "Of course not, dear. I think you are quite right to take care of yourself. Is your head very bad?"
"No, not now. I think I'm just tired. I shall be all right after a night's rest."
Again she tried to slip her hand out of his grasp, and after a moment he let it go.
"Please don't worry about me," she said. "You won't, will you?"
"Not if there is really no reason for it," he said.
She stirred restlessly. "There isn't—indeed. Aunt Philippa will tell you that. I was letting off fireworks with Noel only last night."
"And set fire to yourself," said Mordaunt.
She started a little. "Who told you that?"
"Noel."
"Oh! Well, nothing happened, thanks to—to Bertie. He put it out for me."
"I think there had better not be any more fireworks unless I am there," Mordaunt said. "I don't like to think of my wife running risks of that sort."
"Very well, Trevor," she said meekly.
"Where did the fireworks come from?" he pursued.
"We made them—Noel and I. We used some of your cartridges for gunpowder. He got saltpetre and one or two other things from the chemist. They were quite a success," said Chris, with a touch of her old light gaiety.
"And you are paying for it to-day," he said. "It will be a good thing when Noel goes back to school."
"Oh no," she answered quickly. "It wasn't the fireworks. I often have wakeful nights."
It was the first time she had ever alluded to the fact. He wondered if she would summon the courage to tell him something further. He earnestly hoped she would; but he hoped in vain. Chris said no more.
He paused for a full minute to give her time, but, save that she became tensely still, she made no sign. Very quietly he let the matter pass. He would not force her confidence, but he realized at that moment more clearly than ever before that she had only really belonged to him during the brief fortnight that they had been alone together. The two months of their married life had but served to teach him this somewhat bitter lesson, and he determined then and there to win her back as he had won her at the outset, to make her his once more and to keep her so for ever.
"I am going to take you away, Chris," he said. "You are wanting a change.
Noel's holidays will be over next week. We will start then."
"Where shall we go?" said Chris, and he detected the relief with which she hailed the change of subject.
"We will go to Valpré," he said, with quiet decision.
"Valpré!" The word leaped out as if of its own volition. Chris suddenly sprang upright from her pillows, and gazed at him wide-eyed. In the dim light he could not see her face distinctly, but there was something almost suggestive of fear in her attitude. "Why Valpré?" she said, in a queer, breathless undertone as if she could not control her voice.
He looked down at her in surprise. "You would like to go to Valpré again, wouldn't you?"
She gasped. "I—I really don't know. But what made you choose it? You have never been there."
"No," he said. "You will be able to introduce me to all your old haunts."
She gasped again. "You chose it because of that?"
He put a steadying hand upon her shoulder. "Chris, what makes you so nervous, child? No, I didn't choose it because of that. As a matter of fact, I didn't choose it at all. I am due there on business in three weeks' time, but I thought we might put in a fortnight together there beforehand. Wouldn't you like that?"
She shivered under his hand, and made no reply. She only said, "What business?"
He hesitated a moment, then deliberately sat down upon the bed and drew her close to him. "You remember that blackguard Frenchman Rodolphe who was staying with the Pounceforts two or three weeks ago?"
"Yes," whispered Chris.
"He is to be court-martialled at Valpré, and I have accepted an offer to go as correspondent to the Morning Despatch and report upon his trial. As you know, I represented them at Bertrand's affaire, and this is a sequel to that. In fact, Bertrand himself is very nearly concerned in it. Certain transactions have recently come to light tending to show that the crime of which he was accused was not only committed by this same Rodolphe, but that he also deliberately manufactured evidence to shield himself at the expense of Bertrand, the author of the betrayed invention, against whom it seems he had a personal grudge. By the way, he managed skilfully to keep in the background at Bertrand's trial. I fancy he was away on some special mission at the time, and he did not appear. I never saw him before that day at Sandacre Court, and I did not so much as know then that he and Bertrand were acquainted. Did you know that?"
She started at the question, but answered it more naturally than she had before spoken. "Yes. I knew that Bertie had belonged to the same regiment. They did not speak to each other that afternoon. You see, I was there."
"Ah! And you never met him in the old Valpré days?"
Again she answered without apparent agitation; but her hands were fast gripped together in the gloom. "I may have seen him. I never spoke to him. Bertie was the only one I ever knew."
"Ah!" Mordaunt said again. He was plainly thinking of Bertrand's affairs. "Well, he is to stand his trial now, and I couldn't resist the chance of being present at it. He was recalled to Paris a week ago, and summarily arrested; but as popular feeling is running very high, the trial is to be held at Valpré, which is a fairly important military station. That means that the court-martial will take place probably in the fortress in which the crime was committed—a pleasing consummation of justice."
"And—Bertie will be vindicated?" breathed Chris.
"If Rodolphe is convicted," Mordaunt answered, "Bertrand will be in a position to return to France and demand a second trial, the outcome of which would be practically a foregone conclusion, and at which I hope I shall be present."
Chris drew a sharp breath. "Then—then he will go to Valpré too?"
"Not yet. He would be arrested and imprisoned if he did, and might possibly ruin his cause as well. No, he will have to play a waiting game for the present. I think myself it is the turn of the tide, but things may yet go against him. There is no knowing. He is better off where he is till we can see which way the matter will go. He doesn't want to spend the rest of his life in a fortress."
Chris shuddered uncontrollably at the bare thought. "Oh no—no! Trevor, you won't let him run any risk of that?"
"I shall certainly counsel prudence," Mordaunt answered. "If he runs any risks, it will be with his eyes open."
He paused a moment, then turned her face tenderly up to his own, and kissed it. "And you don't like the Valpré plan?" he said, with great gentleness.
She hesitated.
"We can go elsewhere if you prefer it," he said. "The court-martial will probably only take a few days. We can stay somewhere near while it is in progress. But I must have you with me wherever it is."
He spoke the last words with his arms closely enfolding her. She turned with sudden impulse and clasped him round the neck.
"Oh, Trevor," she murmured brokenly, "you are good to me—you are good!"
"My darling," he whispered back, "your happiness is mine—always."
She made a choked sound of dissent. "I'm horribly selfish," she said, with a sob.
"No, dear, no. I understand. I ought to have thought of it before."
She knew that he was thinking of Cinders, and that a return to the old haunts could but serve to reopen a wound that was scarcely closed. She was thankful that he interpreted her reluctance thus, even while she marvelled to herself as she realized how far she had travelled since the bitter day on which she had parted with her favourite. Looking back, she saw now clearly what that tragedy had meant to her. It had been indeed the commencement of a new stage in her life's journey. It was on that day that she had finally stepped forth from the summer fields of her childhood, and she knew that she would wander in them no more for ever.
The thought went through her with a dart of pain. They had been very green, those fields, and the great thoroughfare which now she trod seemed cruelly hard to her unaccustomed feet.
A sharp sigh escaped her as she gently withdrew herself from her husband's arms. "Shall we talk about it to-morrow?" she said.
CHAPTER IV
"MINE OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND"
Sitting in his writing-room with Bertrand that night Mordaunt imparted the news that concerned him so nearly.
The young Frenchman listened in almost unbroken silence, betraying neither surprise nor even a very great measure of interest. He sat and smoked, with eyes downcast, sometimes fidgeting a little with the fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair, but otherwise displaying no sign of agitation.
Only at the end of the narration did he glance up, and that was but momentarily, when Mordaunt said, "It transpires that this Rodolphe had an old score to pay off. You were enemies?"
Bertrand removed his cigarette to reply, "That is true."
"You once fought a duel with him?" Mordaunt proceeded.
Bertrand's eyelids quivered, but he did not raise them. He merely answered, "Yes."
"That fact will probably figure in the evidence," Mordaunt said. "The cause of the duel is at present unknown."
"It is—immaterial," Bertrand said, in a very low voice. He paused a moment, then said, "And you, you will be at the trial to report?"
"Yes. I am going. Chris will go with me."
"Ah!" The exclamation seemed involuntary. Bertrand's hand suddenly clenched hard upon the chair-arm. "You will take her—to Valpré?" he questioned.
"Probably not to the place itself," Mordaunt made answer. "I think she is not very anxious to go there. It has associations that she would rather not renew. We shall stay somewhere within easy reach of Valpré. Perhaps you can tell me of a suitable resting-place not too far away. You know that part of the world."
"I know it well," Bertrand said, and fell silent, as though pondering the matter. At the end of a lengthy pause he spoke, abruptly, with just a tinge of nervousness. "But why do you take her if she does not desire to go?"
Mordaunt raised his brows a little.
"You will pardon me," Bertrand added quickly, "but it occurs to me that possibly she may prefer to remain at home. And if that were the case you would not, I hope, consider my presence here as an obstacle, for"—again he flashed a swift look across—"it is not my intention to remain."
"What are your intentions?" Mordaunt asked.
Bertrand shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know yet. Circumstances will decide. But it is certain that I can trespass no more upon your kindness. I have already accepted too much from you—more than I can ever hope to repay. Moreover"—he paused—"I do not wish to inconvenience you, and since I cannot accompany you to France—" he paused again, and finally decided to say no more.
"Chris will go with me in any case," said Mordaunt quietly. "We have already arranged that. You would cause no inconvenience to anyone by staying here. In fact, it would be to my advantage."
"To your advantage!" Bertrand echoed the words sharply, as if in some fashion they hurt him; and then, "But no," he said with decision. "It has never been to your advantage to employ me. You have done it from the kindness of your heart, but it would have been better for you if you had entrusted your affairs to a man more capable. And for that reason I am going to ask you to find another secretary as soon as possible, one who will perform his duties faithfully and merit his pay."
"Is that the only reason?" Mordaunt asked unexpectedly.
There fell a sudden silence. Bertrand, with bent head, appeared to be closely examining the leather on which his fingers still drummed an uneasy tattoo. At last, "It is the only reason which I have to give you," he said, his voice very low.
"It is not a very sound one," Mordaunt remarked.
Again that quick shrug of the shoulders, and silence. Several moments passed. Then with an abrupt movement Bertrand rose, laid aside his cigarette, which had gone out, and seated himself at the writing-table.
A pile of letters lay upon it that had arrived by the evening post. He began to turn them over, and presently took up a paper-cutter and deftly slit them open one by one.
Mordaunt sat and smoked as one lost in thought. Finally, after a long silence, he looked up and spoke.
"Why this sudden hurry to dissolve partnership, Bertrand?" he asked, with his kindly smile. "Is it this Rodolphe affair that has unsettled you? Because surely it would be wiser to wait and see what is going to happen before you take any decided step of this sort."
"Ah! It is not that!" Bertrand spoke with a vehemence that sounded almost passionate. "It is nothing to me—this affair. It interests me—not that!" He snapped his fingers contemptuously. "No, no! The time for that is past. What is honour, or dishonour, to me now—me who have been down to the lowest abyss and who have learned the true value of what the world calls great? Once—I admit it—I was young; I suffered. Now I am old, and—I laugh!"
Yet there was a note that was more suggestive of heartbreak than of mirth in his voice. He applied himself feverishly to extracting a letter from an envelope, while Mordaunt sat and gravely watched him.
Suddenly, but very quietly, Mordaunt rose, strolled across, and took the fluttering paper out of his hands. "Bertrand!" he said.
The Frenchman looked up sharply, almost as if he would resent the action, but something in the steady eyes that met his own altered the course of his emotions. He leaned back in his chair with the gesture of a man confronting the inevitable.
Mordaunt sat down on the edge of the writing-table, face to face with him. "Tell me why you want to leave me," he said.
There was determination in his attitude, determination in the very coolness of his speech. It was quite obvious that he meant to have an answer.
Bertrand contemplated him with a faint, rueful smile. "But what shall I say?" he protested. "You English are so persistent. You will not be content with the simple truth. You demand always—something more."
"There you are mistaken," Mordaunt made grave reply. "It is the simple truth that I want—nothing more."
"Ciel!" Bertrand jumped in his chair as if he had been stabbed in the back. "You insult me!"
Mordaunt's hand came out to him instantly and reassuringly. "My dear fellow, I never insult anyone. It is not my way."
"But you do not believe me!" Bertrand protested. "And that is an insult—that."
"I believe you absolutely." Very quietly Mordaunt made answer. The hand he would not take was laid with great kindness on his shoulder. "I happen to know you too well to do otherwise. Why, man," he began to smile a little, "if all the world turned false, I should still believe in you."
"Tiens!" The word was almost a cry. Bertrand shook the friendly hand from his shoulder as if it had been some evil thing, and almost with the same movement pushed his chair back sharply out of reach. "You should not say these things to me!" he stammered forth incoherently. "I do not deserve them. I am not—I am not what you imagine. You do not know me. I do not know myself. I—I—" He broke off in agitation and sprang impetuously to his feet.
With a gesture half-hopeless, half-appealing, he turned and walked to the window, as if he could no longer bear to meet the level, grey eyes that watched him with so kindly a confidence.
There fell a silence in the room while Mordaunt, still sitting on the writing-table, deliberately finished his cigarette. That done, he spoke.
"Don't you think you had better tell me what is the matter?"
Bertrand jerked his shoulders convulsively; it was the only response he made.
Mordaunt waited a few moments more. Then, "Very well," he said, without change of tone or countenance. "We will dismiss the subject. If you really mean to leave me, I will accept your resignation in the morning, but not to-night. If—as I hope—you have thought better of it by then and decide to remain, nothing further need be said. Will that satisfy you?"
Bertrand wheeled abruptly, and stood facing him, the length of the room intervening. His mouth worked as if he were trying to speak, but he said nothing whatever.
Mordaunt turned without further words to the letter in his hand, and studied it in silence. After a pause Bertrand came slowly back to the writing-table. He had mastered his agitation, but he looked unutterably tired.
Mordaunt moved to one side at his approach. "Sit down!" he said, without raising his eyes.
Bertrand sat down, and began to turn his attention to sorting the letters he had opened. Mordaunt stood motionless, reading with bent brows.
Suddenly he spoke. "There is something here I can't understand."
Bertrand glanced up. "Can I assist?"
"I don't know. Read that!" Mordaunt laid the letter before him. "I can't account for it. I think it must be a mistake."
Bertrand took the letter and read it. It was an intimation from the bank that in consequence of the bearer cheque for five hundred pounds presented and cashed the week before, Mordaunt's account was overdrawn.
"What cheque can it be?" Mordaunt said. "Have you any idea?"
Bertrand shook his head. "But no! It is perhaps some charity—a gift that you have forgotten?"
"My good fellow, I may be careless, but I'm not so damned careless as that." Mordaunt pulled out a bunch of keys with the words. "Let me have a look at my cheque-book. You know where it is."
Yes, Bertrand knew. He was as cognizant of the whereabouts of Mordaunt's possessions as if they had been his own, and he had as free an access to them. Such was the confidence reposed in him.
He took the keys, selected the right one, stooped to fit it into the lock. And then suddenly something happened. A violent tremor went through him. He clutched at the table-edge, and the keys clattered to the ground.
"Hullo!" Mordaunt said.
Bertrand was staring downwards with eyes that saw not. At the sound of Mordaunt's voice he started, and began to grope on the floor for the keys as if stricken blind.
"There they are, man, by your feet." Mordaunt stooped and recovered them himself. "What's the matter? Aren't you well?"
Bertrand lifted a ghastly face. "I am quite well," he said. "But—but surely the bank would not cash a cheque so large without reference to you!"
Mordaunt looked at him a moment. "I have been in the habit of drawing large sums," he said. "But I usually write a note to the bank to accompany a cheque of this sort."
He turned to the drawer and unlocked it. His cheque-book lay in its accustomed place within. He took it out and commenced a careful examination of the counterfoils of cheques already drawn.
Bertrand sat quite motionless, with bowed head. He seemed to be numbly waiting for something.
Mordaunt was very deliberate in his search. He came to the end of the counterfoils only, but went quietly on through the sheaf of blank cheques that remained, gravely scrutinizing each.
Minutes passed. Bertrand was sunk in his chair as one bent beneath some overpowering weight, the pile of letters untouched before him.
Suddenly Mordaunt paused, became tense for an instant, then slowly relaxed. His eyes travelled from the open cheque-book to the man in the chair. He contemplated him silently.
After the lapse of several seconds, he laid the open book upon the table before him. "A cheque has been abstracted here," he said.
His voice was perfectly quiet. He made the statement as if there were nothing extraordinary in it, as if he felt assured that there must be some perfectly simple explanation to account for it, as if, in fact, he scarcely recognized the existence of any mystery.
But Bertrand uttered not a word. He was as one turned to stone. His eyes became fixed upon the cheque in front of him, but his stare was wide and vacant. He seemed to be thinking of something else.
There fell a dead silence in the room, a stillness in which the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece became maddeningly obtrusive. For seconds that dragged out interminably neither of the two men stirred. It was as if they were mutely listening to that eternal ticking, as one listens to the tramp of a watchman in the dead of night.
Then, at last, with a movement curiously impulsive, Trevor Mordaunt freed himself from the spell. He laid his hand once more upon his secretary's shoulder.
"Bertrand!" he said, and in his voice interrogation, incredulity, even entreaty, were oddly mingled. "You!"
The Frenchman shivered, and came out of his lethargy. He threw a single glance upwards, then suddenly bowed his head on his hands. But still he spoke no word.
Mordaunt's hand fell from him. He stood a moment, then turned and walked away. "So that was the reason!" he said.
He came to a stand a few feet away from the bent figure at the writing-table, took out his cigarette-case, and deliberately lighted a cigarette. His face as he did it was grimly composed, but there were lines in it that very few had ever seen there. His eyes were keen and cold as steel. They held neither anger nor contempt, only a tinge of humour inexpressibly bitter.
Finally, through a cloud of smoke, he spoke again. "Have you nothing to say?"
Bertrand stirred, but he did not lift his head. "Nothing," he muttered, almost inarticulately.
"Then"—very evenly came the words—"that ends the case. I have nothing to say, either. You can go as soon as you wish."
He spoke with the utmost distinctness. His head was tilted back, and his eyes, still with that icy glint of amusement in them, watched the smoke ascending from his cigarette.
There was a brief pause. Then Bertrand stumbled stiffly to his feet. He seemed to move with difficulty. He turned heavily towards the Englishman.
"Monsieur," he said with ceremony, "you have—I believe—the right to prosecute me."
Mordaunt did not even look at him. "I believe I have," he said.
"Alors—" the Frenchman paused.
"I shall not exercise it," Mordaunt said curtly.
"You are too generous," Bertrand answered.
He spoke without emotion, yet there was something in his tone—something remotely suggestive of irony—that brought Mordaunt's eyes down to him. He looked at him hard and straight.
But Bertrand did not meet the look. With a mournful gesture he turned away. "I shall never cease to regret," he said, "the unhappy fate that sent me into your life. I blame myself bitterly—bitterly. I should have drawn back at the commencement, but I had not the strength. Only monsieur, believe this"—his voice suddenly trembled—"it was never my intention to rob you. Moreover, that which I have taken—I will restore."
He spoke very earnestly, with a baffling touch of dignity that seemed in some fashion to place him out of reach of contempt.
Mordaunt heard him without impatience, and replied without scorn. "What you have taken can never be restored. The utmost you can do is to let me forget, as soon as possible, that I ever imagined you to be—what you are not."
The simplicity of the words effected in an instant that which neither taunt nor sneer could ever have accomplished. It pierced straight to Bertrand's heart. He turned back impulsively, with outstretched hands.
"But, my friend—my friend—" he cried brokenly.
Mordaunt checked him on the instant with a single imperious gesture of dismissal, so final that it could not be ignored.
The words died on Bertrand's lips. He wheeled sharply, as if at a word of command, and went to the door.
But as he opened it, Mordaunt spoke. "I will see you again in the morning."
"Is it necessary?" Bertrand said.
"I desire it." Mordaunt spoke with authority.
Bertrand turned and made him a brief, punctilious bow. "That is enough," he said, and left the room martially, his head in the air.
CHAPTER V
A DESPERATE REMEDY
The clock on the mantelpiece struck two, and Mordaunt rose from his chair to close the window. The night was very still and dark. He stood for a few moments breathing the moist air. From somewhere away in the distance there came the weird cry of an owl—the only sound in a waste of silence. He leaned his head against the window-sash with a sensation of physical sickness. His heart was heavy as lead.
"Trevor!"
It was no more than a whisper, but he heard it. He turned. "Chris!"
She stood before him, her white draperies caught together with one hand, her hair flowing in wide ripples all about her, her eyes anxiously raised to his.
"Trevor," she said, "what is the matter?"
There was a species of desperate courage in the low question. The fingers that grasped her wrapper were tightly clenched.
He closed the window. "Have you been lying awake for me?" he said. "I am sorry."
"Something is the matter," she said with conviction. "Won't you tell me what it is? I—I would rather know."
"I will tell you in the morning, dear," he said gently. "You must go back to bed. I am coming myself now."
But Chris stood still. "I want to know now, please, Trevor," she said. "I shall not sleep at all unless I know."
He put his arm about her, looking down at her with great tenderness.
"Must I tell you now?" he said, a hint of weariness in his voice.
She did not resist his touch, but neither did she yield herself to him. She stood within the encircling arm, looking straight up at him with wide, resolute eyes.
"It is something to do with Bertie," she said, in the same tone of unquestioning conviction.
He raised his eyebrows. "What makes you think so?"
She frowned a little. "It doesn't matter, does it? Won't you tell me what has happened?"
He hesitated momentarily; then; "Yes, I will tell you," he said.
"Bertrand is leaving to-morrow—for good."
He felt her stiffen against his arm, and for the first time he noticed her pallor and the unusual steadfastness of her eyes. He realized that she was putting strong restraint upon herself, and the fact made her strangely unfamiliar to him. He was accustomed to vivid speech and impetuous action. He scarcely knew her in this mood, although he recognized that he had seen it at least once before.
"Why?" Her lips scarcely moved as they asked the question. Her eyes never left his face.
He drew her to the writing-table on which his cheque-book still lay open at the place whence a cheque had been abstracted with its counterfoil.
"Sit down," he said, "and I will tell you."
She sat down in silence.
He knelt beside her as he had knelt on their wedding-night, and took her cold hands into his own.
"I think you know," he said quietly, "that I have always trusted Bertrand implicitly."
"You trust everyone," she said, with a small, aloof smile, as if she were trying to appear courteous while her thoughts were elsewhere.
"Yes, to my undoing," he told her grimly. "I trusted him to the utmost, and—and he has betrayed my trust."
She started at that, but instantly controlled herself. "In what way?" she asked him, her voice scarcely above a whisper.
He drew the cheque-book to him. "If you look at this cheque and the next," he said, "you will see that there is one missing. There has been a cheque taken out."
"Yes?" said Chris.
Her eyes rested for a moment upon the cheque-book, and returned to his face. They held a curious expression as of relief and doubt mingled.
"That is how he betrayed my trust," he told her quietly. "He used that cheque to forge my signature and withdraw a sum of money from my account which under ordinary circumstances I should probably never have missed. As he is aware, I keep a large account, and I am in the habit of drawing large cheques. As it chanced, the account was not quite so large as usual, and it did not quite cover the amount withdrawn. Consequently my attention was called to it, and I looked into the matter and discovered—this."
"Yes?" said Chris. "Yes?"
She was breathing very fast. It was evident that her agitation was getting beyond her control.
He clasped her hands closer, with a warm and comforting pressure. He knew—or he thought he knew—what this revelation would mean to her. Had not Bertrand been even more her friend, her trusted counsellor, than his own?
"That is all the story, dear," he said gently. "We have got to face it as bravely as we can. He will leave in the morning, so you need not see him again."
She made a quick, involuntary movement, and her hands slipped from his.
"Not see him again!" she repeated, staring at him with wide eyes. "Not see him again!"
"I think it would be wiser not," he said, very kindly. "It would only cause you unnecessary pain."
She uttered a sudden breathless little laugh. "Trevor—am I dreaming?
Or—are you mad? You don't—actually—believe he did this thing?"
His face hardened a little. "He had the sense not to attempt to deny it. There was no question as to his guilt. He was the only person besides myself who had access to my cheque-book."
"But—" Chris said, and paused, as if to collect her thoughts. "How much was taken?" she asked after a moment.
"That," Mordaunt observed, "is the least important part of the whole miserable business."
"Still, tell me," she persisted.
"He took five hundred pounds."
"Trevor!" She gasped for breath, and turned so white that he thought for a moment she would faint.
He put his arm round her quickly. "Chris, we won't discuss it any further to-night. You must go back to bed. You will catch cold if you stay here any longer."
But for the first time in her life she resisted him. She drew away from him. She almost pushed him from her.
"Five hundred pounds!" she said, speaking through white lips. She was shivering violently from head to foot. "But—but—what should Bertie want with five hundred pounds?"
"I didn't inquire what he did with it." Mordaunt's answer came with implacable sternness. "I haven't the least curiosity on that point. It is enough for me that he took it."
"Oh, Trevor, how hard you are!" The words rushed out like the cry of a hurt creature, and suddenly Chris's hands were on his shoulders, and her face, pinched and desperate, looked closely into his. "You have so much—so much!" she wailed. "You don't know what temptation is!"
He rose to his feet instantly and lifted her to hers. She was sobbing terribly, but without tears. He held her to him, supporting her.
"Chris, Chris!" he said. "Don't, child, don't! I know what this means to you. It means a good deal to me too, more than you realize. But for Heaven's sake let us stand together over it. Let us be reasonable."
There was strong appeal in his voice; for in that moment, though he held her to his heart, he knew that the gulf between them had suddenly begun to widen. He saw the danger in a flash of intuition, but he was powerless to avert it. They viewed the matter from opposite standpoints. Did they not view all matters moral thus? She could condone what he could only condemn, and because of this she deemed him hard and feared him.
He bent his face to hers as he held her. His lips moved against her forehead. "Chris," he said softly, "don't cry, dear! Listen to me. I'm not going to punish him. He will have to go of course. As a matter of fact, he meant to do so in any case. But it will go no further than that. There will be no prosecution."
She turned her face up quickly, and he saw that her eyes were dry, though her breathing was spasmodic. "You couldn't prosecute an innocent man," she said. "And he is innocent. I know he is innocent. You say he didn't deny it. It was because he wouldn't stoop to deny it. He knew you would never believe him if he did."
The words came fast and passionate. She drew back from him to utter them, and for the first time he read a challenge in her desperate eyes.
He let her go out of his arms. He had tried to bridge the gulf, but the distance was too great. His tenderness only gave her courage to defy him.
With a stifled sigh he abandoned the conflict. "As I said before, there is no question of his guilt," he said, with quiet emphasis. "Far from denying it, he even announced his intention of restoring what he had taken. That, of course, is also out of the question. He will probably never be in a position to do so. But in any case it is beside the point. It is useless to discuss it further."
She broke in upon him almost fiercely. "Trevor, won't you believe me when
I say that I know—I know—he is innocent?"
He looked at her. "How do you know it?"
She wrung her hands together. "Oh, I have no proof! Can't you believe me without proof?"
He was watching her intently. "I believe in your sincerity, of course," he said. "But I am afraid I don't share your conviction."
"But you must—you must!" she cried. "I know him better than you do. I know him to be incapable of the tiniest speck of dishonour. I swear that he is innocent! I swear it! I swear it!"
He put out a restraining hand. "Chris, don't say any more! You are only upsetting yourself to no purpose. Come, child, it is useless to go on—quite useless."
She flung out her arms with a gesture of utter despair. "You won't believe me?"
He turned to lock up his cheque-book. "I have answered that question already," he said, without impatience.
She drew near to him. Her blue eyes burned with a feverish light. Her face was haggard. "Trevor, what would you say if—if—I told you he were shielding someone—if I told you he were shielding—me?" Her voice sank upon the word.
He turned sharply round, so sharply that she shrank. But he made no movement towards her. He only looked full and piercingly into her face. At the end of ten seconds he spoke, so calmly that his voice sounded cold.
"I am afraid I shouldn't believe you."
His eyes fell away from her with the words. He dropped his keys into his pocket and switched off the light from his writing-table.
Chris was shivering again, shivering from head to foot. She could barely keep her teeth from chattering. He came to her and put his arm round her.
She glanced up at him nervously, but his quiet face told her nothing.
Almost involuntarily she suffered him to lead her from the room.