As for Chris, she stood numbly gazing after him till only the panels of the door met her look. And then, her strength leaving her, without sound she sank downwards and lay crumpled, inanimate, broken, upon the floor.
PART IV
CHAPTER I
THE REFUGEE
Autumn on a Yorkshire moor.
Hilda Davenant leaned back and looked from her sketch to the moor with slight dissatisfaction in her calm eyes.
"What's the matter with it?" said Lord Percy.
He was lying in the faded heather beside her, sucking grass-stems with bovine enjoyment. He surveyed the faint pucker on his wife's forehead with lazy amusement.
She looked down at him. "It isn't nearly good enough."
He laughed comfortably. "Put it away! It'll do for my birthday. I shan't look at it from an artist's point of view."
She smiled a little. "Oh, any daub would do for you. You simply don't know what art is."
"Exactly," he rejoined tranquilly. "Any daub will do, provided your hand lays on the colours. But nothing less than that would satisfy me. Come! Isn't that a pretty speech? And you didn't angle for it either!" He caught her hand and rubbed it against his cheek. "You are civilizing me wonderfully," he declared. "I never knew how to make pretty speeches before I met you."
"Surely I never taught you that!" she protested. "I am never guilty of empty compliments myself."
"Nor I," smiled her husband. "I say what I think to you always. Now what do you say to coming for a stretch? There's an hour left before I need buzz down to the station and meet Jack. You will admit I have been very good and patient all this time. Pack up your painting things, and I'll trek back to the house with them."
"No. We will go together," Hilda said. "Why not?"
"I thought you would prefer to sit and admire the landscape," he said.
She smiled and made no response.
"A case in point!" laughed Lord Percy. "But here the compliment would not have been empty since you obviously prefer my company to the solitude of a Yorkshire moor."
She looked at him with the smile still in her eyes, but she did not put the compliment into words. Only, as she rose to leave the scene of her labours, she slipped her hand within his arm.
"I have been thinking a great deal of Chris lately," she said. "I wish she would write to me again."
"I thought your mother was there," said Lord Percy.
"She has been. I believe she left them yesterday. But then, she does not give me any detailed news of Chris. I have a feeling that I can't get rid of that the child is unhappy."
"She has no right to be," rejoined her husband. "She's married about the best fellow going."
"Who understands her about as thoroughly as you understand art."
"Oh, come!" he remonstrated. "Mordaunt is not quite such a fool as that! The little monkey ought to be happy enough—unless she tries to play fast and loose with him. Then, I grant you, there would be the devil to pay."
Hilda smiled. "I can't help feeling anxious about her. It has always been my fear that, when the glamour of first love is past, Trevor might misjudge her. She is so gay and bright that many people think her empty. I know my mother does for one."
"Your mother might," he conceded. "Trevor wouldn't—being a man of considerable insight. Tell you what, though, if you want to satisfy yourself on the score of Chris's happiness, we will get them to put us up for a night when we leave here for town three weeks hence. How will that suit you?"
"I should love it, of course," she said. "But wouldn't it be rather far out of our way?"
"I daresay the car won't mind," said Lord Percy.
They walked back to the house that a friend had lent for their three-months' honeymoon. It nestled in a hollow amongst trees, the long line of moors stretching above it. They were well out of the beaten track. Few tourists penetrated to their paradise. Near the house was a glade with a miniature waterfall that filled the place with music.
"That waterfall makes for laziness," Lord Percy was wont to declare, and many were the happy hours they had spent beside it.
They passed it by without lingering to-day, however, for both were feeling energetic. Briskly they crossed the little lawn before the house, and entered by a French window.
"Better secure some refreshments before we go on the tramp," suggested
Lord Percy. "I've got a thirst already. Hullo! What on earth—"
He broke off in amazement. A slight figure had risen up suddenly from a settee in a dark corner; and a woman's face, wild-eyed and tragic, confronted them.
"Great Scott! Who is it?" said Lord Percy Davenant.
And "Chris!" exclaimed Hilda, at the same moment.
As for Chris, she stood a second, staring at them; then: "Trevor has turned me out, so I've come to you," she said her white lips moving stiffly. "I've nowhere else to go."
With the words she stumbled forward, feeling vaguely out before her as though she saw not. Hilda started towards her on the instant, caught her, folded warm arms about her, held her fast.
"My darling!" she said, and again, "My darling!"
But Chris heard not, nor saw, nor felt. She had reached the end of her strength, and black darkness had closed down upon her agony, blotting out all things. She sank senseless in her cousin's embrace….
It was long before they brought her back, so long that Hilda became frightened and dispatched her husband in the motor for a doctor, wholly forgetting her brother's expected visit in her anxiety.
Lord Percy ultimately returned with the local practitioner, whom he had dragged almost by force from the bedside of a patient ten miles away. He, too, had forgotten Jack, but remembered him as he set down the doctor, and whirled away again in a cloud of dust, leaving him to announce himself.
Chris had by that time recovered consciousness, in response to Hilda's strenuous efforts, but she had scarcely spoken a word. She lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, cold from head to foot, and shivering spasmodically at intervals. She drank the wine that Hilda brought her with shuddering docility; but it seemed to have no effect upon her. It was as if the blood had frozen at her very heart.
"Get her to bed," were the doctor's orders, and he himself carried Chris up to Hilda's room.
She was perfectly passive in their hands, but quite incapable of the smallest effort, and so painfully apathetic that Hilda grew more and more uneasy. She had never imagined that her gay, light-hearted Chris could be thus. It wrung her heart to see her. She was like a dainty flower crushed into the dust of the highway.
"Nervous prostration consequent upon severe mental strain," was the doctor's verdict later. "You will have to take great care of her, and keep her absolutely quiet, or I can't be answerable for the consequences. She is in a very critical state, and"—he paused a moment—"I think her husband ought to be with her."
"Ah!" Hilda said, and no more.
He passed the matter over. "Don't let her talk at all if you can prevent it, and reassure her in every way possible. I will send a composing draught, or she will be in a high fever before the morning."
"You fear for the brain?" Hilda hazarded.
"I fear—many things," he answered uncompromisingly.
He took his departure just as Lord Percy and his guest arrived, and Hilda paused upon the step to greet her brother.
He sprang from the car before it came to a standstill, and she saw on the instant that he was in a towering fury. Jack Forest, the kindly, the easy-going, the careless, was actually white with anger.
He scarcely stopped to greet her. "Where is Chris?" he demanded.
"She is in bed," Hilda answered, seeing he had heard the whole story.
"No," as he turned inwards, "you can't see her. Indeed you mustn't, Jack.
The doctor says—"
"Damn the doctor!" said Jack. "I'm going to see her, in bed or not. Where is she?"
He was half-way upstairs with the words, and Hilda's protest fell upon empty air. She could only follow and look on.
Jack opened the first door he came to, and found himself in Chris's presence. He strode straight across the room, as one who had a perfect right, stooped over her as she lay, and gathered her up into his arms.
"My little sweetheart!" he said, and kissed her fiercely over and over again.
That woke her from her lethargy, as no more tender ministrations could have done. She wound her arms about his neck, and clung to him like a lost child.
"Oh, Jack!" she said. "Oh, Jack!" and burst into an agony of tears.
Hilda closed the door softly, and went away. Jack's treatment seemed the best, after all.
When she saw him again he was quite calm, but there was about him a grimness of purpose with which she was not familiar. He drew her aside.
"Look here! I can't sleep on this. I'm going to see Trevor—at once. If I don't bring him to reason, I shall probably shoot him; but I haven't told her that. All she wants is to be left in peace, and peace she shall have, whatever the cost."
"But, my dear boy, quarrelling with Trevor on her behalf won't make for peace," Hilda ventured to point out.
He acknowledged the truth of this with a brief nod. "All the same, I'm damned if I'll stand by and see him wreck her life. Let me know how she goes on. Send a wire to the club to-morrow. No, don't! I'll wire to you first, and let you know where I am. I'm going straight back to the station now. With any luck I ought to catch the afternoon express. Where's Percy?"
"You must have something to eat," urged Hilda. "You've had nothing whatever."
He frowned impatiently. "Oh, rats! I can feed on board. I shan't starve."
But she knew, with sure intuition, that the moment he was out of her presence all thought of refreshment would leave his mind.
She saw him go, and then returned to Chris.
She found her sitting up in bed, rocking herself to and fro, and crying, crying, crying, the tears of utter despair. But this distress, despite its violence, was better—Hilda knew it instinctively—than her former cold inertia. She gathered her to her breast, and held her close pressed till her anguish had somewhat spent itself.
By degrees and haltingly the story of Chris's tragedy was unfolded.
"I've told Jack everything," she said at last. "And now I've told you, but we won't ever talk about it any more. Jack is going to see Trevor, and—and try to make him understand. I didn't want him to, but he would do it. But he has promised me that Trevor shan't follow me here. Do you think he will be able to prevent him? Do you? Do you?"
She shuddered afresh uncontrollably at the bare thought, and Hilda had some difficulty in calming her.
"Dearest, I am sure he will never come to you against your will," she said, with conviction. "I am sure you needn't be afraid. But oh, Chris, my darling, he is your husband. Always remember that!"
"I know! I know!" Feverishly Chris made answer, and Hilda knew that she must not pursue this subject. "But I can never see him again, never—never—never! I think it would kill me. Besides—besides—" She broke off inarticulately, and Hilda did not press her to finish.
She found that she must not speak much of Bertrand either, though she did venture to ask why the Valpré escapade had ever been kept from Trevor in the first place.
"I really can't quite explain," Chris answered wearily. "When it dawned on me that vile things had been said and actually a duel fought because of it I felt as if I would rather die than let him know. Besides, at the back of my mind, I think I somehow always knew—though I did not realize—that—Bertie—came first with me, and I—I was terrified lest Trevor should suspect it. Of course it doesn't matter now," she ended. "He knows it all, and—as he says—we have done with each other." She uttered a long, quivering sigh, and turned her face into the pillow.
"My darling, so long as you both live, that can never be," Hilda said very earnestly. "Whatever mistakes you have made, you are still his and he is yours. Nothing can alter that."
"He doesn't think so," said Chris. "In fact, he—he told me to go to
Bertie, so that—so that"—she shivered again—"he could set me free."
"Oh, Chris, he did—that?"
"Yes, I think he meant it for my sake as much as for his own. But I couldn't do it. You see, I don't know where Bertie has gone for one thing. And then—I know Bertie would have thought it wrong. You see"—the tears were running down her face again—"we love each other so much, and—and love like ours is holy. He said so."
"I wonder how he learned that," Hilda said. "It is not a creed that most men hold."
"But Bertie is not like most men." Very softly came Chris's answer, and through her tears her eyes shone with the light that is kindled by nothing earthly. "Bertie has come through a great deal of suffering," she said. "It has taught him to know the good from the bad. And—he said I shouldn't be ruined for his sake. As if I cared for that!" she ended, smiling wanly.
"Thank God he did for you!" Hilda said.
"Oh, do you think it matters?" said Chris.
CHAPTER II
A MIDNIGHT VISITOR
It was a dark, wet night. The rain streamed from the gutters and pattered desolately on the pavement below. It had rained for hours.
Trevor Mordaunt sat alone, with a pipe between his teeth, his windows flung wide to the empty street, and listened to the downpour. He had arrived in town that afternoon to make a few necessary arrangements before leaving England. These arrangements completed, there was nothing left to do but to await the next morning for departure.
It was not easy, that waiting. He faced it with grim fortitude, realizing the futility of going to bed. It was possible that he might presently doze in his chair, but ordinary sleep was out of the question, and he would not trouble himself to court it. Tossing all night sleepless on his pillow was a refinement of torture that he did not feel called upon to bear.
He had spent the previous night tramping the country-side, but he could not tramp in London, and though he was not aware of fatigue, he knew the necessity for bodily rest existed, and he compelled himself to take it.
So he sat motionless, listening to the rain, while the hours crawled by.
The roar of London traffic rose from afar, for the night was still. Now and then a taxi whirred through the sloppy street, but there were few wayfarers. Once a boy passed whistling, and the man at the window above stiffened a little, as if in some fashion the careless melody stirred him, but as the whistler turned the corner he relaxed again with his head back, and resumed his attitude of waiting.
It was nearly midnight when a taxi hummed up to the flaring lamp-post before the house, and stopped to discharge its occupant. Mordaunt heard the vehicle, but his eyes were closed and he did not trouble to open them. He had laid aside his pipe, and actually seemed to be on the verge of dozing at last. The window-curtain screened him from the view of any in the street, and it did not occur to him that the new arrival could be in any way connected with himself.
It was, therefore, with a hint of surprise that he turned his head at the opening of the door.
"Mr. Wyndham to see you, sir," said Holmes. "Says it's very particular, sir."
"Who? Oh, all right. Show him in." A bored note sounded in Mordaunt's voice. "And you needn't sit up, Holmes. I'll let him out," he added.
"Very good, sir," said Holmes, without enthusiasm. He never liked to retire before his master.
Mordaunt rose with a faint touch of impatience. He expected to see Max, and wondered that the news of his arrival in town had reached him so quickly. But it was Rupert who entered, and turned to satisfy himself that the door was shut before he advanced to greet his brother-in-law.
Mordaunt stood by the window and watched the precaution with a certain grim curiosity. He fancied he could guess the reason of this midnight visitation, but as the boy came towards him and halted in the full light he saw that he was mistaken. There was no indignant questioning visible on Rupert's face. It looked only grey and haggard and desperate.
"Look here," he said, speaking jerkily, as if it were only by a series of tense efforts that he spoke at all. "I've come to tell you something. I don't know how you'll take it. And I may as well admit—that I'm horribly afraid. Do you mind if I have a drink—just to help me through?"
Mordaunt closed the window, and came quietly forward. Just for a moment he fancied that Rupert had already fortified himself in the manner indicated for the ordeal of meeting him, and then again he realized that he was mistaken. The eyes that looked into his were perfectly sane, but they held an almost childlike appeal that made his heart contract suddenly. He bit his lip savagely. Why on earth couldn't the fellow have left him alone for this one night at least?
He forced himself to be temperate, but there was no warmth in his tone as he said, "I've no objection to your having a drink if you want it. I suppose you've got into a scrape again, and want me to help you out?"
"No, it's not that—at least, not in the sense you mean."
Hurriedly Rupert made answer. He looked for a moment at the glasses on the table, but he did not attempt to help himself. Suddenly he shivered.
"Ye gods! What an infernal night! I had to walk ever so far before I found a taxi. I came up by the evening train—couldn't get off duty sooner. I thought you would be off to Dover before I got here. And I—and I—" He broke off blankly and became silent, as if he had forgotten what he had meant to say.
Mordaunt leaned over the table, and mixed a drink with the utmost steadiness. "Sit down," he said. "And now drink this, and pull yourself together. There's nothing to be in a funk about, so take your time."
He spoke with authority, but his manner had the aloofness of one not greatly interested in the matter in hand. He resented the boy's intrusion, that was all.
Rupert accepted his hospitality in silence. This obvious lack of interest increased his difficulties tenfold.
Mordaunt went back to his chair by the window, and relighted his pipe. He knew he was being cold-blooded, but he felt absolutely incapable of kindling any warmth. There seemed to be no warmth left in him.
Rupert gulped down his drink, and buried his face in his hands. He felt that the thing he had come to do was beyond his power to accomplish. He could not make his confession to a stone image. And yet he could not go, leaving it unmade.
In the long pause that followed it almost seemed as if Mordaunt had forgotten his presence in the room. The minutes ticked away, and he made no sign.
At last, desperately, Rupert lifted his head. "Trevor!"
Mordaunt looked at him. Then, struck possibly by the misery of the boy's attitude, he laid down his pipe and turned towards him.
"Well, what is it?"
Vehemently Rupert made answer. "For pity's sake, don't freeze me up like this, man! I—I—oh, can't you give me a lead?" he broke off desperately.
"You see, I don't know in the least what you have come to say," Mordaunt pointed out. "If it has anything to do with—recent events"—he spoke with great distinctness—"I can only advise you to leave it alone, since no remonstrance from you will make the smallest difference."
"But it hasn't," groaned Rupert. "At least, of course, it's in connection with that. But I've come to try and tell you the truth—something you don't know and never will know if I don't tell you. And—Heaven help me!—I'm such a cur—I don't know how to get through with it."
That reached Mordaunt, stirring him to activity almost against his will. He found himself unable to look on unmoved at his young brother-in-law's distress. He left his chair and moved back to the table.
"I don't know what you've got to be afraid of," he said, with a touch of kindliness in his tone that deprived it of its remoteness. "I'm not feeling particularly formidable. What have you been doing?"
Rupert groaned again and covered his face. "You'll be furious enough directly. But it's not that exactly that I mind. It's—it's the disgusting shabbiness of it. We Wyndhams are such a rotten lot, we don't see that part of the business till afterwards."
"Hadn't you better come to the point?" suggested Mordaunt. "We can talk about that later."
"No, we can't," said Rupert, with conviction. "You'll either throw me out of the window or kick me downstairs directly you know the truth."
"I'm not in the habit of doing these things," Mordaunt remarked, with the ghost of a smile.
"But this is an exceptional case." Rupert straightened himself abruptly, and turned in his chair, meeting the quiet eyes. "Damn it, I'll tell you!" he said, springing to his feet with sudden resolution. "Trevor, I—I'm an infernal blackguard! I forged that cheque!"
"You!" Sternly Mordaunt uttered the word. He moved a step forward and looked Rupert closely in the face. "Are you telling me the truth?" he said.
"I am." Rupert faced him squarely, though his eyelids quivered a little. "I'm not likely to lie to you in this matter. I've nothing to gain and all to lose. And I shouldn't have told you—anyway now—if Noel hadn't come over this morning with the news that you had kicked out your secretary for the offence I had committed. Even I couldn't stick that, so I've come to own up—and take the consequences."
He braced himself, almost as if he expected a blow. But Mordaunt remained motionless, studying him keenly, and for many seconds he did not utter a word.
At last, "Bertrand knew of this," he said, in a tone that held more of conviction than interrogation.
"No, he didn't. He knew nothing, or, if he did, it was sheer guess-work. I never suspected that he knew." Rupert's hands were clenched. He was face to face with the hardest task he had ever undertaken.
"He knew, for all that." Mordaunt's brows contracted; he seemed to be following out a difficult problem.
Finally, to Rupert's relief, he turned aside. "Go on," he said. "I'll hear the whole of it now. What did you do with the money?"
Rupert's teeth closed upon his lower lip. "That's the only question I can't answer."
"Why not?" The question was curt, and held no compromise.
"Private reasons," Rupert muttered.
"Family reasons would be more accurate," Mordaunt rejoined, in the same curt tone. "You gave it to—Chris."
The momentary hesitation before the name did not soften its utterance. It came with a precision almost brutal.
Rupert made a slight movement, and stood silent.
"You are not going to deny it?" Mordaunt observed, glancing at him.
He turned his face away. "What's the good?"
"Just so. You had better tell me the whole truth. It will save trouble."
"But I don't see that there is anything more to tell." Rupert spoke with an effort. "I stole the cheque in the first place—that Sunday afternoon—you remember? I was a bit top-heavy at the time. That's no excuse," he threw in. "I daresay I should have done it in any case. But—well, you know the state of mind I was in that day. You had just been beastly generous, too. And that reminds me; you left your keys behind, do you remember? I came in for another drink and saw them. The temptation came then, and I never stopped to think till the thing was done. Bertrand nearly caught me in the act. He didn't suspect anything at the time, but he may have remembered afterwards."
"Probably," said Mordaunt. "You weren't frank with me that day, then?
There were debts you didn't mention."
Rupert nodded. "You were a bit high-handed with me. That choked me off. Still, though in an evil moment I took the cheque out of your book, I loathed myself for it afterwards. I hadn't the strength of mind to destroy it, or the courage to send it back. But"—he turned back again and met Mordaunt's eyes—"I wasn't going to use it, though I was cur enough to keep it, and to like to feel it was there in case of emergency. I didn't mean to use it—on my oath, I didn't. I don't expect you to believe me, but it's true."
"I believe you," Mordaunt said quietly. "And—the emergency arose?"
Rupert nodded again. "Chris came to me—in great distress. Couldn't tell me what she wanted it for. You weren't to know, neither was Bertrand. She couldn't use her own without your finding out. And so—as it seemed urgent—in fact, desperate—and as it was for her—" He broke off. "No, I won't shelter myself in that way. I did it on my own. She didn't know. No one knew. If Bertrand suspected, he must have thought I took it for my own purposes. Heaven knows what she wanted it for, but she was most emphatic that it shouldn't get round to him."
"And you tell me she did not know how you obtained the money? Are you certain of that?" Mordaunt's tone was deliberate; he spoke as one who meant to have the truth.
"Why, man, of course I am! What do you take her for? Chris—my sister—your wife—"
"Stop!" The word was brief, and very final. "We need not go into that. She may not have known at the time, but she suspected afterwards. In fact, she knew."
"Is that what you quarrelled about?" Eagerly Rupert broke in. "Noel tried to get it out of her, but she wouldn't tell him. You'll find out where she's gone, and set it right? She can't be very far away."
"That," Mordaunt said, in a tone from which the faintest hint of feeling was excluded, "is beside the point. We will not discuss it."
"But—" Rupert began.
"We will not discuss it." Mordaunt repeated the words in the same utterly emotionless voice, and Rupert found it impossible to continue. "In fact, there seems to be nothing further to discuss of any sort. Can I put you up for the night?"
Rupert stared at him.
"Well?" Mordaunt's brows went up a little.
"Are you in earnest?" the boy burst out awkwardly. "I mean—I mean—don't you want to—to—give me a sound kicking?"
"Not in the least." A steely glint shone for a moment in the grey eyes. "I don't think that sort of treatment does much good, as a rule. And I have not the smallest desire to administer it. If you think you deserve it, I should imagine that is punishment enough."
Rupert swung round sharply on his heel. "All right. I'm going. If you want me, you know where to find me. I shan't run away. And I shan't try to back out. What I've said I shall stick to—if it means perdition."
"And what about the Regiment?" Quietly Mordaunt's voice arrested him before he reached the door. "Or doesn't the Regiment count?"
Rupert stopped dead, but he did not turn. "The Regiment"—he said—"the Regiment"—he choked suddenly—"they'll be damned well rid of me," he ended, somewhat incoherently.
"Come back!" Mordaunt said.
He made an irresolute movement, but did not comply.
"Rupert!" There was authority in the quiet voice.
Unwillingly Rupert turned. He came back unsteadily, with features that had begun to twitch.
Mordaunt moved to meet him. The coldness had gone out of his eyes. He took Rupert's arm, and brought him back to the table.
"I think you had better let me put you up," he said. "You can sleep in my room; I'm not wanting it for to-night. There, sit down. You mustn't be a fool, you know. You are played out, and want a rest."
"I—I'm all right," Rupert said.
He made as if he would withdraw his arm, but changed his intention, and stood tense, battling with himself.
"Oh, man!" he burst out at last, hoarsely, "you—you don't know what a—what a—cur I feel! I—I—I—" Words failed him abruptly; he flung round and sank down again at the table with his head on his arms, too humbled to remember his manhood any longer.
"My dear fellow, don't!" Mordaunt said. He put his hand on the boy's heaving shoulders and kept it there. "There's no sense in letting yourself go. The thing is done, and there is no more to be said, since neither you nor I can undo it. Come, boy! Pull yourself together. I am going to forget it, and you can do the same. I think you had better go to bed now. We shall have time for a talk in the morning. What?" He stooped to catch a half-audible sentence.
"You'll never forget it," gasped Rupert.
"Yes, I shall—if you will let me. It rests with you. I never wish to speak or think of it again. I have plenty of other things to think about, and so have you. That's settled, then. I am going to see if I can find you something to eat."
He stood up. His face had softened to kindness. He patted Rupert's shoulder before he turned away.
"Buck up, old chap!" he said gently, and went with quiet tread from the room.
CHAPTER III
A FRUITLESS ERRAND
"Hullo, Jack!" Noel sprang to meet his cousin with the bound of a young panther. "Where on earth have you come from? My good chap, you're positively drenched! You've never walked up from the station!"
"And missed the way twice," said Jack grimly. He shook Noel off without ceremony. "Where is Trevor? I have come to see him."
"Oh, he's cleared out; went to town this afternoon, says he's going to Paris to-morrow. There's been no end of a shine, you know. Chris bolted last night. Heaven only knows where she's gone. I think she might have told me first."
"I can tell you," said Jack. "She is with Hilda at Graysdale. I have just come from there. Trevor is in town, you say?"
Noel nodded. "Bertrand's gone too, you know. That was the beginning of it. Trevor kicked him out for robbing him. Beastly little thief! I told Trevor he would long ago. I say, you are not going again!"
Jack, still standing on the mat, was consulting his watch. "If there is another up train to-night I must catch it. There's a motor here, isn't there? Send round word that it is wanted."
"But there isn't a train!" Noel protested. "I know the last one goes at nine-fifty, and it's past ten now. Have you all gone raving mad? I always thought you, anyhow, had a little sense."
Jack uttered a grim laugh. "Well, find a time-table. I must go by the first train in the morning, whatever the hour. I've got to see Trevor before he leaves England."
"You won't get any sense out of him," Noel remarked. "I told him he was a beastly cad myself before he went, and he didn't even punch my head. Oh, I say, Jack, this place is pretty ghastly with no one in it. I can't stick it much longer."
"Just get me a drink," Jack said, "and we will discuss your affairs at length."
Noel departed with his customary expedition. He returned with drinks for two, which he proceeded to mix with a lavish hand.
"I'm not going to let you have that," Jack observed. "You have dined, and I haven't. Get me some food like a good chap, and then we will have a talk."
Noel submitted meekly. He was fond of Jack. Returning with sufficient to satisfy his cousin's immediate needs, he seated himself on the table while he ate, and embarked upon a more detailed account of the happenings of the past two days.
"I only saw Chris for a few minutes," he said in conclusion. "She looked pretty desperate, and seemed horribly scared. But she wouldn't tell me why. I knew there was something up, of course. Trevor had told me she was upset about Bertrand. But I had no idea she was going to cut and run. I don't know if Trevor had, but I couldn't get anything out of him. It's my belief the silly ass was jealous."
Jack grunted.
"I didn't know what to do," Noel ended. "So I thought I'd stick on here till someone turned up."
"You ought to be going back to school," Jack remarked.
Noel leaned carelessly down upon his elbow and looked him straight in the eyes. "I'm not going," he said.
"Why not?"
"I've other things to think about. I'm going to Graysdale. Can you lend me a couple of quid for the journey? I'll pay you back when I come of age."
Jack surveyed him with one brow uplifted. "Suppose I can't?"
"I shall tramp, that's all." Noel made unconcerned response. He was accustomed to fend for himself, and the prospect of such an adventure was rather alluring than otherwise.
Jack smiled a little. He liked the boy's independence. "What do you want to go to Graysdale for?" he asked.
"To look after Chris, of course."
"Hilda can do that."
"Not in the same way. You needn't try to put me off. I'm going." Noel got off the table with his hands in his pockets and broke into a whistle.
Jack went on with his meal in silence.
Finally Noel came round and stood beside him. "That's understood, is it?" he said. "One of us ought to be with her, and as you and Rupert are chasing after Trevor, and Max is in town, it looks like my job. Anyhow, I'm going to take it on."
"All right," Jack said. "Go and prosper. I'm not sure that you will be wanted. But that's a detail. I daresay Chris may like to have you."
Noel grinned boyishly. "You're a white man, Jack! I'm jolly glad you turned up. Between ourselves, I don't mind telling you that I've been in a fairly stiff paste all day. It's a beastly feeling, isn't it? I'd have looked after her better if I'd known."
"You're a white man too," said Jack kindly. "Mind you behave like one."
They parted for the night soon after, to meet again very early in the morning, and finally separate upon their various errands.
Noel departed upon his in obviously high spirits; but he maintained his air of responsibility notwithstanding, and Jack took leave of him with a smile of approval.
He himself telegraphed to Hilda as soon as he arrived in town, and acquainted her with the fact of the boy's advent. He directed her to send her answering message to him at Mordaunt's rooms, and then proceeded thither with the firm determination to see the owner thereof without further delay.
Holmes admitted him, and imparted the information that his master was at breakfast with the eldest Mr. Wyndham, who had arrived overnight.
Jack's jaw hardened at the news. He had not expected to find Rupert accepting his brother-in-law's hospitality. He shrugged his shoulders over the volatility of the Wyndhams, and announced curtly that he desired to see Mr. Mordaunt in private.
"Will you come into the smoking-room, sir?" asked Holmes.
"Certainly. But tell him I can't wait," said Jack.
He marched into the smoking-room therewith, and Holmes softly closed the door upon him. The window by which Mordaunt had sat all night long was open, and the sounds of the street below came cheerily in. Jack crossed over and quietly shut it.
Turning from this, his eyes fell upon a photograph on the mantelpiece. He went up to it and took it between his hands. Gaily the pictured face laughed up at him—Chris in her happiest, wildest mood, with Cinders clasped in her arms; Chris, the child of the sunny eyes that no shadow had ever darkened!
Something rose suddenly in Jack's throat. He gulped hard, and put the portrait back. Was it indeed Chris—the broken-hearted woman he had held in his arms but yesterday? Then was the Chris of the old days gone for ever.
Someone entered the room behind him and he wheeled round.
"Good morning," said Mordaunt.
He offered his hand, but Jack ignored it and his greeting alike.
He stood for a couple of seconds in silence, looking at him, while Mordaunt waited with absolute composure. Then, "I daresay you are wondering what I have come for," he said. "Or perhaps you can guess."
"Why should I?" Mordaunt said.
Jack frowned abruptly. He had met this impenetrable mood before. But he would not be baffled by it. It was no moment for subtleties. He went straight to the point.
"I have come to tell you that Chris is at Graysdale with Hilda," he said.
Mordaunt's brows went up. He said nothing.
But Jack was insistent. "Did you know that?"
"I did not." Very deliberately came Mordaunt's answer; it held no emotion of any sort. The subject might have been one of utter indifference to him.
"Then where did you think she was?"
There was an undernote of ferocity in Jack's question, almost a hint of menace; but Mordaunt seemed unaware of it.
"Forgive me for saying so, Jack," he said. "But that is more my affair than yours. I have nothing whatever to discuss with you, nor do I hold myself answerable to you in any way for my actions."
"But I do," Jack said curtly. "I have always held myself responsible for
Chris's welfare. And I do so still."
Mordaunt listened unmoved. "You can hardly expect me to acknowledge your authority," he said, "since my responsibility in that respect is greater than yours."
"I have no desire to dictate to you," Jack answered quickly. "But I do claim the right to speak my mind on this matter. Remember, it was I who first brought you into her life."
Mordaunt shrugged his shoulders slightly. "As to that, I am fatalist enough to believe that we should have met in any case. But isn't that beside the point? I have declined to discuss the matter with anyone, and I am not going to make an exception of you."
"You must," Jack said. He threw back his shoulders as if bracing himself for a physical conflict. He was plainly in earnest.
Mordaunt turned to the table and sat down. "You are wasting your time," he said. "Argument is quite useless. I have already decided upon my plan of action, and quarrelling with you is no part of it."
"What is your plan of action?" Jack demanded.
Mordaunt took out his cigarette-case. "I shall start for Paris in a couple of hours. Meantime"—he glanced up—"I suppose you won't smoke? Have you had any breakfast?"
"Then you mean to desert her?" Jack said.
Mordaunt's face remained immovable. He began to smoke in dead silence.
Jack's teeth clenched. "I am going to have an answer," he said.
"Very well." Coldly the words fell; there was something merciless in their very utterance. "Then I will answer you; but it is my last word upon the subject. My wife followed her own choice in leaving me, and it is my intention to abide by her decision. If you call that desertion—"
"I do," Jack broke in passionately. "It is desertion, nothing less. She left you—oh, I know all about it—she left you because you literally scared her away. You terrified her into going; there was nothing else for her to do. She had done nothing wrong. But you—you dared to suspect her of Heaven knows what. You dared to think that Chris—my Chris—was capable of playing you false, you who were the only man on earth I thought good enough for her. And do you know what you have done? You have broken her heart!" He took the portrait from the mantelpiece and thrust it in front of the man at the table. "That," he said, and suddenly his voice was quivering, "that was the child you married. I gave her into your care willingly, though, God knows, I worshipped her. No, you didn't cut me out. I was never in the running. I never so much as made love to her. I always knew she was not for me. When she accepted you, I thought it was the best thing that could possibly happen. I felt she would be safe with you. You were the one fellow I would have chosen to guard her. And she needed guarding. She was as innocent and as inexperienced as a baby. She didn't know the world and its beastly ways. I thought you were to be trusted to keep her out of the mud; I could have sworn you were. But you withdrew your protection just when she needed it most. You practically turned her out, cut her adrift. She might have gone straight to the bad for all you cared. And now, like the damned blackguard that you are, you are going to clear out and leave her to break her heart!"
Fiercely the words rushed out. Jack, the placid, the kindly, the careless, was for the moment electrified by a tornado of feeling that swept him far beyond the bounds of his customary easy bonhomie. He towered over the man in the chair as if at the first movement he would fell him to the ground.
But Mordaunt remained quite motionless. He had removed his cigarette, and sat looking straight up at him with steely eyes that never changed. When Jack ceased to speak, there fell a silence that was in a sense more fraught with conflict than any war of words.
Through it at length came Mordaunt's voice, measured and distinct and cold. "It is not particularly wise of you to take that tone, but that is your affair. I have already warned you that you are wasting your time. Your championship is quite superfluous, and will do no good to anyone. I think you will see this for yourself when you have taken time to think it over. Wouldn't it be as well to do so before you go any further—for your own sake, not for mine?"
"I am not thinking of myself at the present moment," Jack responded sternly, "or of you. I'm thinking of Chris—and Chris only. Man, do you want to kill her? For you're going the right way to do it."
The cigarette between Mordaunt's fingers slowly doubled and crumpled into shapelessness, but the steely eyes never altered. They barred the way inflexibly to the man's inmost soul. He uttered neither question nor answer.
But Jack was not to be silenced. "I tell you, she is ill," he said. "I saw her myself yesterday. She was simply broken down. I never saw such a change in anyone. I couldn't have credited it. Hilda is horribly anxious about her. She is going to wire to me here as to her condition."
"Why here?" Very calmly came the question.
Jack explained. Almost in spite of himself his own heat had died down, cooled by that icy deliberation. "I went to Kellerton yesterday in search of you, found only Noel there, but had to spend the night as it was late. I came on by the first train, and wired to Hilda to send her message here in case you may be wanted. It ought to come through in about an hour."
"And you propose to wait for it?"
"Yes, I do." Jack paused an instant; then, "You must wait too," he said doggedly. "She isn't very likely to want you, and I've sworn you shan't frighten her any more; but you shan't abandon her either while there is the faintest chance that she may want you."
"There is not the faintest." Mordaunt glanced down at the thing that had once been a cigarette which he still held between his fingers, contemplated it for a moment, then rose and went to the mantelpiece for an ash-tray. "You have taken a good deal upon yourself, Jack," he said. "But I have borne with you because I know that your position is a difficult one. You say you know everything. That may be so, and again it may not. In either case, our points of view do not coincide. I will wait until that telegram comes; but it is not my intention to go to my wife—whatever it may contain."
Jack bit his lip savagely. "In short, you don't care what happens to her!" he said. "You want to be rid of her—one way or another. And you don't care how!"
He spoke recklessly, uttering the thought that had come uppermost in his mind without an instant's consideration. Perhaps instinctively he sought to rouse the devil that till then had been held in such rigid control. But the effect of his words was such as he had scarcely looked for.
Mordaunt turned with the movement of a goaded creature and gripped him by the shoulder. "You believe that?" he said.
They stood face to face. Mordaunt was as white as death. His eyes in that moment were terrible. But it seemed to Jack that they expressed more of anguish than of anger, and he felt as if he had seen a soul in torment. He averted his own instinctively. It was a sight upon which he could not look.
"Do you believe it?" Mordaunt said, his voice very low.
"No!" Impulsively Jack made answer. That instant's revelation had quenched his own fire very effectually. "Forgive me!" he said. "I—didn't understand."
The hand on his shoulder relaxed slowly. There fell a silence. Then, "All right, Jack," Mordaunt said very quietly.
And Jack knew that he had dropped the veil again that shrouded his soul's agony.
"You will wait here for that telegram?" Mordaunt asked, after a moment.
"Yes, please."
"Will you come into the other room? Rupert is with me."
"No. I'll wait here, thanks."
"Very well. I shall see you again." Mordaunt crossed to the door, then paused, and after a moment came slowly back to the table.
He stood before it in silence, looking down upon the portrait that Jack had laid there as one looks upon the face of the dead.
His face showed no sign of softening, yet Jack made a last effort to move him. "You're not going to let her fret her heart out for you? You'll go back to her if she is wanting you? Damn it, Trevor! You can't know what she is suffering! And after all—she is your wife!"
Mordaunt's mouth hardened. He made no response.
"Surely you don't—you can't—think evil of her?" Jack said.
Mordaunt raised his eyes slowly. "You have said enough," he said, with quiet emphasis. "As for this portrait, take it if you value it. I never cared for it myself."
"Never cared for it!" Jack ejaculated.
"No. It never conveyed very much to me. I did not regard her in that light."
"Then you never knew her," Jack said with conviction.
"Possibly not." Mordaunt turned away once more. "Most of us are blind," he said, "until our eyes are opened. I am going to send you in some breakfast if you are sure you prefer to stay here."
He went out quietly, leaving Jack marvelling at his own docility. The last thing he would have expected of himself was that at the end of the interview he also would be accepting the hospitality of the man he had come almost prepared to shoot. The turn of events forced him into a species of unwilling admiration. There was no denying the fact that, mismanage his own private affairs as he might, this was a born leader of men.
Mordaunt himself brought him his sister's telegram some time later.
He remained in the room while Jack opened it, but he betrayed no impatience to hear its contents. As for Jack, he stood for several seconds with the message in his hand before he looked up.
"I suppose you will have to see it," he said then reluctantly.
"That is as you like."
But though the words were emotionless, Mordaunt's eyes searched his face, and in answer to them Jack held out the paper.
"I am sorry," he said.
"In no danger. Keep Trevor away," was the message it contained.
"As I thought," Mordaunt observed, and handed it back without further comment.
"She will be wanting you presently," Jack said uneasily, "You know how women change."
And Mordaunt smiled, a grim, set smile. "Yes, I know," he answered.
CHAPTER IV
THE DESIRE OF HIS HEART
The night was very hot, even hotter than the day had been. Only the whirring electric fan kept the air moving. It might have been midsummer instead of the end of September.
Bertrand de Montville, seated in an easy-chair and propped by cushions, raised his head from time to time and gasped for breath. He held a newspaper in his hand, for sleep was out of the question. He had been suffering severely during the day, but the pain had passed and only weariness remained. His face was yet drawn with the memory of it, and his eyes were heavily shadowed. But the inherent pluck of the man was still apparent. His pride of bearing had not waned.
He was reading with close attention a report upon the chief event of the hour—the trial of Guillaume Rodolphe at Valpré. It had been in progress for four days, and was likely to last for several more. The report he read was from the pen of Trevor Mordaunt, an account clear and direct as the man himself. So far the evidence had seemed to turn in Bertrand's favour, and, his protestations notwithstanding, it was impossible not to feel a quickening of the pulses as he realized this fact. Would they ever send for him? He asked himself. Would they ever desire to do justice to the man they had degraded?
It was evident that the writer of the account before him thought so. However Mordaunt's opinion of the man himself had altered, his conviction on the subject of his innocence of that primary crime had plainly remained unshaken. He had not allowed himself to be biased by subsequent events.
"And that is strange—that!" the Frenchman murmured, with his eyes upon the article. "Perhaps la petite Christine has convinced him. But no—that is not probable."
He broke off as the door opened, and a quick smile of welcome flashed across his face. He stretched out both hands to the new-comer.
"All right. Sit still," said Max.
He sauntered across the room, his coat hanging open and displaying evening dress, and gave his hand into Bertrand's eager clasp. It was a very cool hand, and strong with a vitality that seemed capable of imparting itself.
He looked down at Bertrand with a queer glint of tenderness in his eyes. "I shouldn't have come up at this hour," he said, "but I guessed you would be awake. How goes it, old chap? Pretty bad, eh?"
"No, I am better," Bertrand said. "I am glad that you came up."
Max drew up a chair, and sat down beside his protégé. For nearly three weeks now Bertrand had been with him. A post-card written from a squalid back-street lodging had been his first intimation that the Frenchman was in London, and within two hours of receiving it Max had removed him to the private nursing-home in which he himself was at that time domiciled. For, notwithstanding his youth, Max Wyndham was a privileged person, and owned as his greatest friend one of the most distinguished physicians in London.
His natural brilliance had brought him in the first place to the great man's notice; and though he was but a medical student, his foot was already firmly planted upon the ladder of success. There was little doubt that one day—and that probably not many years distant—Max Wyndham would be a great man too. Even as it was, his grip upon all things that concerned the profession he had chosen was so prodigious that his patron would upon occasion consult with him as an equal, detecting in him that flare of genius which in itself is of more value than years of accumulated knowledge. He had the gift of magnetism to an extraordinary degree, and he coupled with it an unerring instinct upon which he was not afraid to rely. Equipped thus, he was bound to come to the front, though whether the Wyndham blood in him would suffer him to stay there was a proposition that time alone could solve.
His effect upon Bertrand was little short of magical. Sitting there beside him with the wasted wrist between his fingers, and his green eyes gazing at nothing in particular, there was little about him to indicate a remarkable personality. Yet the drawn look passed wholly away from the sick man's face, and he leaned back among his pillows with a restfulness that he had been very far from feeling a few seconds earlier.
"So you are reading all about the Rodolphe affaire," Max said presently.
"It is Mr. Mordaunt's own report," Bertrand explained. "It interests me—that. I feel as if I heard him speak."
Max grunted. He had asked no question as to the circumstances that had led to Bertrand's departure, and Bertrand had volunteered no information. It had been a closed subject between them by mutual consent. But to-night for some reason Max approached it, warily, as one not sure of his ground.
"When do you hope to see him again?"
A slight flush rose in Bertrand's face. "Never—it is probable," he said sadly.
"Ah! Then you had a disagreement?"
Bertrand looked at him questioningly.
Max smiled a little. "No, it isn't vulgar curiosity. Fact is, I came across my cousin Jack Forest to-day. You remember Jack Forest? I've been dining with him at his club. We hadn't met for ages, and naturally we had a good deal to say to one another."
He paused, gently relinquishing his hold upon Bertrand's wrist, and got up to pour something out of a bottle on the mantelpiece into a medicine-glass.
"Drink this, old chap," he said, "or I shall tire you out before I've done."
"You have something to say to me?" Bertrand said quickly.
Max nodded. "I have. Drink first, and then I will tell you. That's the way. You needn't be in a hurry. You were going to tell me about that disagreement, weren't you? At least, I think you were. You have been rash enough to trust me before."
"But naturally," Bertrand said. He handed the glass back with a courteous gesture of thanks. "And I have not had cause to regret it. I will tell you why I disagreed with Mr. Mordaunt if you desire to know. It was because he found that he had been robbed, and that I"—he spread out his hands—"was the robber."
Max stared. "Found that you had robbed him! You!"
Bertrand nodded several times, but said no more.
"I don't believe it," Max said with conviction.
Bertrand smiled rather ruefully. "No? But yet the evidence was against me. And me, I did not contradict the evidence."
"I see. You were shielding someone. Who was it? Rupert?"
At Bertrand's quick start Max also smiled with grim humour. "You see, I know my own people rather well. I'm glad it wasn't Chris, anyway. Then she had nothing at all to do with your quarrel with Trevor?"
"Nothing," Bertrand said—"nothing." He paused a moment, then added, with something of an effort, "But I had decided that I would go before that. Mr. Mordaunt did not know why."
"Because of Chris?" There was a touch of sharpness in Max's voice.
Bertrand bent his head. "You were right that night. A man cannot hope to hide his heart for ever from the woman whom he loves."
"You told her, then?"
"It arrived without telling," Bertrand answered with simplicity.
"That means she cares for you?" Max said shrewdly.
Bertrand looked up. "Mais c'est passé," he said, his voice very low.
"You have guessed the truth, but you only know it. Her husband—"
"My dear fellow, that's just the mischief. He knows it too," Max said.
"He!" Bertrand started upright.
Instantly Max's hand was upon him, checking him. "Keep still, Bertrand! You can't afford to waste your strength. Yes, Trevor knows. He knew on the very day you left. He found out that that blackguard Rodolphe had been blackmailing her. He had a scene with Chris, and she left him."
"Rodolphe! Le canaille! Est-ce possible? Alors, she is not—not with him—at Valpré—as I thought?" gasped Bertrand.
"No. She has not been near him since. I knew nothing of this till to-day. She hardly ever writes. I thought—as you did—that she had gone to France with Trevor. Instead of that, Jack tells me, she has been with his sister in Yorkshire all this time. She has been ill, is so still, I believe. They are coming to town to-morrow, to Percy Davenant's flat. Jack is very worried about it. He saw Trevor before he left England, but couldn't get him to listen to reason. He seems to have made up his mind to have no more to do with her, while she is fretting herself to a skeleton over it, but daren't make the first move towards a reconciliation. It probably wouldn't do any good if she did. He is as hard as iron. And if his mind is once made up—" Max left the sentence unfinished, and continued: "I think I shall go to Valpré and see what I can do. This has gone on long enough, and we can't have Chris making herself ill. I should think even he would see the force of that. This trial business will be over in a few days, and if I don't catch him he may go wandering, Heaven knows where. But it won't do. He must come back to her. I shall tell him so."
But at that Bertrand laid a nervous hand upon his arm. "My friend," he said, "you will not persuade him."
Max looked at him, and was confronted by eyes of gleaming resolution. "I believe I shall," he said. "I can persuade most people."
"You will not persuade him," Bertrand repeated. "That scélérat has poisoned his mind. Moreover, you do not even know what passed between us."
"I don't need to know," Max said curtly.
Bertrand began to smile. "And you think you can plead your sister's cause without knowing, hein? No, no! the affair is too much advanced. There is only one man who can help the little Christine now. He would not listen to you, mon cher, if you went. But—to me, he will listen, even though he believes me to be a thief; for he is very just. I know that I can make him understand. And for that I shall go to him to-morrow. As you say, we cannot let la petite fret."
He spoke quite quietly, but his eyes were shining with a fire that had not lit them for many a day.
"My dear chap, you can't go. You're not fit for it." Max spoke with quick decision. "I won't let you go, so there's an end of it."
But Bertrand laughed. "So? But I am more fit than you think, mon ami. Also it is my affair, this, and none but I can accomplish it. See, I start in the morning, and by this hour to-morrow I shall be with him."
"Folly! Madness!" Max said.
But indomitable resolution still shone in the Frenchman's eyes. "Listen to me, Max," he said. "If I spend my last breath thus, why not? I have not the least desire to cling to life. And is that madness? I love la petite more than all. And is that folly? Why should I not give the strength that is still in me to accomplish the desire of my heart? Is mortal life so precious to those who have nothing for which to live?"
"Rot!" Max said fiercely. "You have plenty to live for. When this scoundrel Rodolphe is disposed of they will be reinstating you. You've got to live to have your honour vindicated. Does that mean nothing to you?"
Bertrand shrugged his shoulders. "It would interest me exactly as the procession under the windows interests those who watch. The procession passes, and the street is empty again. What is that to me?" He snapped his fingers carelessly. But the animation of his face had transformed it completely, giving him a look of youth with which Max was wholly unfamiliar. "See!" he said. "Le bon Dieu has given me this thing to do, and He will give me the strength to do it. That is His way, mon ami. He does not command us to make bricks without straw."
Max grunted. "Whatever you do, you will have to pay for," he observed dryly. "And how are you going to get to Valpré without being arrested?"
"But I will disguise myself. That should be easy." Bertrand laughed again, and suddenly stretched out his arms and rose. "I am well," he declared. "I have been given the strength, and I will use it. Have no fear, Max. It will not fail me."
"I shall go too, then," Max said abruptly. "Sit down, man, and be rational. You don't suppose I shall let you tear all over France in your present condition by yourself, do you? If you excite yourself in this fashion, you will be having that infernal pain again. Sit down, I tell you!"
Bertrand sat down, but as if he moved on wires. "No," he said with confidence, "I shall not suffer any more to-night. You say that you will go with me? But indeed it is not necessary. And you have your work to do. I would not have you leave it on my account."
"I am coming," Max said, with finality, "And look here, Bertrand, I shall be in command of this expedition, and we are not going to travel at break-neck speed. You will not reach Valpré till the day after to-morrow. That is understood, is it?"
Bertrand hesitated and looked dubious.
"Come, man, it's for your own good. You don't want to die before you get there." Max's tone was severely practical.
"Ah no! Not that! I must not fail, Max. I must not fail." Bertrand spoke with great earnestness. He laid an impressive hand on his companion's arm. For a moment his face betrayed emotion. "I cannot—I will not—die before her happiness is assured. It is that for which I now live, for which I am ready to give my life. Max—mon ami—you will not let me die before—my work—is done!"
He spoke pantingly, as though speech had become an effort. The strain was beginning to tell upon him. But his eyes pleaded for him with a dumb intensity hard to meet.
Max took his wrist once more into his steady grasp. "If you will do as I tell you," he said, "I will see that you don't. Is that a bargain?"
A faint smile shone in the dark eyes at the peremptoriness of his speech.
"But how you are despotic—you English!" protested the soft voice.
"Do you agree to that?" insisted Max.
"Mais oui. I submit myself—always—to you English. How can one—do other?"
"Then don't talk any more," said Max, with authority. "There's no time for drivel, so save your breath. You will want it when you get to Valpré."
"Ah, Valpré!" whispered Bertrand very softly as one utters a beloved name; and again more softly, "Valpré!"