CHAPTER V
THE STRANGER
A long wave broke with a splash and spread up the sand in a broad band of silver foam. The tide was at its lowest, and the black rocks of Valpré stood up stark and grotesque in the evening light. The Gothic archway of the Magic Cave yawned mysteriously in the face of the cliff, and over it, with shrill wailings, flew countless seagulls, flashing their wings in the sunset.
The man who walked alone along the shore was too deeply engrossed in thought to take much note of his surroundings, although more than once he turned his eyes towards the darkness of the cave. A belt of rocks stretched between, covered with slimy, green seaweed. It was evident that he had no intention of crossing this to explore the mysteries beyond. Just out of reach of the sea he moved, his hands behind him and his head bent.
All through the day he had been pent in a stuffy courtroom, closely following the evidence that, like a net of strong weaving, was gradually closing around the prisoner Guillaume Rodolphe. All France was seething over the trial. All Europe watched with vivid interest.
Another man's name had begun to be uttered on all sides, in court and out of it, coupled continuously with the name of the man who was standing his trial. Bertrand de Montville, where was he? All France would soon be waiting to do him justice, to pay him high honour, to compensate him for the indignities he had wrongfully suffered. He would have to face another court-martial, it was true; but the outcome of that would be a foregone conclusion, and his acquittal would raise him to a pinnacle of popularity to which he had surely never aspired, even in the days when ambition had been the ruling passion of his life.
Undoubtedly he would be the hero of the hour, if he could be found. But where was he? Everyone was asking the question. None knew the answer. Some said he was in England, awaiting the turn of events, abiding his opportunity; others that he was already in France, lying hidden in Paris, or even risking arrest at Valpré itself. The police were uniformly reticent upon the subject, but it was generally believed that there would be small difficulty in finding him when the moment arrived. Some went so far as to assert that he had actually been arrested, and was being kept a close prisoner by the authorities, who were plainly in fear of serious rioting. Whatever the truth of the matter, the fact remained that the tide of public opinion had set very strongly in his favour, and was likely to wax to a tumultuous enthusiasm exceedingly difficult to cope with when the object thereof should present himself.
With all of this Trevor Mordaunt was well acquainted; but he, on his part, was firmly convinced that Bertrand would keep away until he himself had left France. To come to Valpré now would be to court a meeting with him, and this, he was convinced, Bertrand would do his utmost to avoid. The break between them had been quite final. Moreover, he probably believed that Chris was at Valpré also, and he had apparently determined not to see her again. But here an evil thought forced its way. Might they not, quite possibly, be in communication with one another? It had presented itself many times before, that thought, and he had sought to put it from him. But to-night it would not be denied. It conquered and possessed him. Was it at all likely that the parting between them had been final?
Only that afternoon evidence had been given of the episode that had led to the duel on the Valpré sands more than four years before. He had listened with a set face to the account of the insult and the subsequent challenge, and though no name had been mentioned, he had known and faced the fact that the woman in the case had been his wife. Even then, Bertrand had regarded her as his peculiar charge, as under his exclusive protection. And she—had she not told him with burning unrestraint that she had always loved this man, would love him till she died?
With the gesture of one who relinquishes his hold upon something he has discovered to be valueless, Trevor Mordaunt turned in his tracks and began to walk back over the long stretch of sand. He looked no longer in the direction of the Magic Cave, but rather quickened his steps as though he desired to leave it far behind. But there was no escaping that all-mastering suspicion. It went with him, closely locked with his own spirit, and he could not shake it off.
Back to his hotel he walked, with no glance at sea or shining sunset, and went straight to his own room. There was a private sitting-room adjoining, which he was wont to share with some of his fellow-journalists. They used it as a club writing-room when the proceedings of the court-martial were over for the day. He had his notes in his pocket; his report was not yet written. He remembered that he must catch the midnight mail, and decided that he would not stop to dress. That day's sitting had been longer than usual, and his walk along the shore had made him late.
He passed straight through his bedroom, therefore, and into the sitting-room that overlooked the sea. A small, round-backed man, with a shag of black hair upon his face, was sitting by the window. There were three other men in the room, all writing busily. All, save the man by the window, glanced up at Mordaunt's entrance and nodded to him. They were all English, with the exception of the stranger, who was obviously French.
Mordaunt looked at him questioningly, but no one volunteered an explanation. He had evidently been sitting there for some time. His gaze was fixed upon the darkening sea. It was plain that he had no desire to court attention.
Quietly Mordaunt crossed the room to him. He was crouched like a monkey, his chin on his hand, and made no movement at his approach.
Mordaunt reached him, and bent a little. "Est-ce que vous attendez quelqu'un, monsieur?"
Dark eyes flashed up at him, and sharply Mordaunt straightened himself.
"I await Mr. Mordaunt," a soft voice said.
There was an instant's pause before, "That is my name," Mordaunt said very quietly.
"Eh bien, monsieur! May I speak with you—in private?"
The stranger rose shufflingly. He had the look of an old man.
"Come this way," Mordaunt said.
He re-crossed the room, his visitor hobbling in his wake. No one spoke, but all surveyed the latter curiously, and as the door of Mordaunt's bedroom closed upon him there was an interchange of glances and a raising of brows.
But nothing passed behind the closed door that would have enlightened any of them. For Mordaunt scarcely waited to be alone with the man before he said, "I must ask you to wait some time longer if you wish to speak to me. I am not at liberty at present."
"If I may wait here—" the stranger suggested meekly.
"Yes. You can do that. Have you dined?"
"But no, monsieur."
Mordaunt rang the bell. His face was quite immovable. He stood and waited in silence for an answer to his summons.
Holmes came at length. He betrayed no surprise at sight of the stranger in the room, but stood stiffly at attention, as though prepared to remove him at his master's bidding.
"Holmes," Mordaunt said very distinctly, "this—gentleman has private business with me, and he will wait in this room until I am able to attend to him. Will you get him some dinner, and see that no one but yourself comes into the room while he is here?"
"Very good, sir," said Holmes.
He looked his charge over with something of the air of a sentry taking stock of a prisoner, and turned about.
"See that he has all that he wants," Mordaunt added.
"Very good, sir," Holmes said again, and withdrew.
Mordaunt turned at once towards the other door. "I may be a couple of hours," he said, and passed through gravely into his sitting-room.
The trio assembled there glanced up again at his entrance with professional curiosity, but Mordaunt's face was quite inscrutable. Without speaking, he went to the table, took out his notebook, and began to write. The evidence had that evening been completed, and the trial adjourned for two days. It was his intention to write a short résumé of the whole, and this he proceeded to do with characteristic clearness of outline. His pen moved rapidly, with unwavering decision, and for upwards of an hour he was immersed in his task, to the exclusion of all other considerations.
The three other men in the room completed their own reports, and went out one by one. The hotel was full of journalists from all parts, and the dinner-hour was always a crowded time. It was considered advisable by the English coterie to secure the meal as early as possible, but to-night Mordaunt neglected this precaution. He did not look up when the others left, or stir from his place until the article upon which he was engaged was finished.
He threw down his pen at last, and leaned back to run his eye over what he had written. It was a very brief inspection, and he made no corrections.
Finally he shook the loose sheets together, added two or three sketches from his notebook, thrust them into a directed envelope, and went to the door.
Holmes came to him at once along the passage.
"Get this sealed and dispatched without delay," Mordaunt said. "The gentleman is still waiting, I suppose?"
"Still waiting, sir," said Holmes.
"He has dined?"
"If you can call it dining, sir."
"Very well. You can go, Holmes."
But Holmes lingered a moment. "Won't you dine yourself, sir?"
"Later on. I am engaged just now. All right. Don't wait."
Holmes shook his head disapprovingly without further words, and turned to obey.
Mordaunt closed the door and turned the key, then walked slowly across the room to the window by which the Frenchman had sat that afternoon, and opened it wide. The night was very dark, and through it the sea moaned desolately. The wind was rising with the tide and blew in salt and cold, infinitely refreshing after the stuffy heat of the day. He leaned his head for a while against the window-frame. There was intense weariness in his attitude.
He uttered a great sigh at last and stood up, paused a moment, as though to pull himself together, then, with his customary precision of movement, he turned from the open window and walked across to the door that led into the next room. His face was somewhat paler than usual, but perfectly composed.
Without hesitation he opened the door and spoke. "Now, Bertrand!"
CHAPTER VI
MAN TO MAN
There was a quick movement in answer to the summons, and in a moment the visitor presented himself. He had taken the false hair from his face, and his gait was no longer halting. He looked up at Mordaunt with sharp anxiety as he came through.
"No one else has recognized me?" he asked.
"I believe not."
He drew a quick breath of relief. "Bien! It has been an affair très difficile. I have feared detection mille fois. Yet I did not expect you to recognize me so soon."
"You see, I happen to know you rather well," Mordaunt said.
The Frenchman spread out his hands protestingly. The excitement of the adventure had flushed his face and kindled his eyes. He looked younger and more ardent than Mordaunt had ever seen him. The weariness that had so grown upon him during his exile had fallen from him like a cloak. "But you do not know me at all!" he said.
Mordaunt passed over the remark as if he had not heard it. "What have you come for?" he asked.
"To see you, monsieur." The reply was as direct as the question. A momentary challenge shone in Bertrand's eyes as he made it.
But Mordaunt remained coldly unimpressed. "It was not a very wise move on your part," he remarked. "You will be arrested if you are discovered. The authorities are not ready for you yet. They are quite capable of suppressing you for good and all if it suits their purpose."
"I know it. But that is of no importance after to-night." Bertrand stood and faced him squarely. "After to-night," he said, "they may do what they will. I shall have accomplished that which I came to do."
"And that?" said Mordaunt. He looked back into the eager eyes with the aloofness of a stranger. His manner was too impersonal to express either enmity or contempt.
The keenness began to die out of Bertrand's face, and a certain dignity took its place. "That," he made answer, "is to tell you the truth in such a fashion that, although you think that I am a thief, you will believe it."
"I do not think that you are in a position to tell me anything that I do not know already," Mordaunt answered quietly. "By the way, it may interest you to hear that the affair of the cheque has been cleared up. I wronged you there, but I do not think that I was responsible for the wrong."
"I was responsible," Bertrand said, his voice very low. "I deceived you.
And for that you will not pardon me, no?"
But the level grey eyes looked through and beyond him. "That," Mordaunt said, "is a matter of small importance now. Deceptions of that kind are never excusable in my opinion; but as I do not expect you to share my point of view, it seems scarcely worth while to discuss it."
Bertrand bowed stiffly. "It is not of that that I desire to speak. Of myself you will think—what you will. I have merited—and I will endure—your displeasure. But of la petite"—he paused—"of Christine"—he faltered a little, and finally amended—"of madame votre femme, you will think only that which is good. For that is her nature, that. And for me," his voice throbbed with sudden passion, "I would rather bear any insult than that you should think otherwise of her. For she is pure and innocent as a child. Do you not see that I would sooner die than harm her? And it has always, always been so. You believe me, no?"
Mordaunt's face was as stone. "I shouldn't go on if I were you," he said. "You have nothing whatever to gain. As I have told you, I know already all that you can tell me upon this subject, and what I think of it is my affair alone. It is a pity that you took the trouble to come here. If you take my advice, you will leave me on the earliest opportunity."
"But you are mistaken. You do not know all." Impulsively Bertrand threw back the words. "You cannot refuse to listen to me," he said. "I appeal to your honour, to your sense of justice. If you knew all, as you say, you would not leave her thus. If you believed her to be blameless—as she is—you would not abandon her in her hour of trouble. I tell you, monsieur"—his breath quickened suddenly and he caught his hand to his side—"if you know the truth, you are committing a crime for which no penalty is enough severe."
He broke off, panting, and turned towards the open window.
Mordaunt said nothing whatever. His face was set like a mask. The only sign of feeling he gave was in the slow clenching of one hand.
After a few moments Bertrand wheeled round. "See!" he said. "I have followed you here to tell you the truth face to face, as I shall tell it—bientôt—to the good God. You shall bind me by any oath that you will, though it should be enough for you that I have nothing at all to gain, as you have said. I shall hide nothing from you. I shall extenuate nothing. I shall tell you only the truth, man to man, as my heart knows it. For her sake, you will listen, yes?"
His voice slipped into sudden pleading. He stretched out his hands persuasively to the impassive Englishman, who still seemed to be looking through him rather than at him. He waited for an answer, but none came.
"Eh bien!" he said, with a quick sigh of disappointment. "Then I shall speak in spite of you. I begin with our meeting four years ago among the rocks of Valpré. It was an accident by which we met. I was working to complete my invention, and for the greater privacy I had taken it to the old cave of the contrabandists upon the shore—a place haunted by the spirits of the dead—so that I was safe from interruption. Or so I thought, till one afternoon she came to me like a goddess from the sea. She had cut her foot among the stones, and I bound it for her and carried her back to Valpré. She was only a child then, with eyes clear as the sunshine. She trusted herself to me as if I had been her brother. That is easy to comprehend, is it not?"
Again he paused for an answer, but Mordaunt said no word; his lips were firmly closed.
With a characteristic lift of the shoulders Bertrand continued. "Après cela we met again and then again. La petite was lonely, and I, I played with her. I drew for her the pictures in the sand. We became—pals." He smiled with a touch of wistfulness over the word that his English friend had taught him. "We shared our secrets. Once—she was bathing"—his voice softened imperceptibly—"and I took her into my boat and rowed her back. It was then that I knew first that I loved her. Yet we remained comrades. I spoke to her no word of love. She was too young, and I had nothing to offer. I said to myself that I would win her when I had won my reputation, and in the meantime I would be patient. It was not very difficult, for she did not understand. And then one day we went to explore my cavern—she called it the Magic Cave, of which she was the princess and I her preux chevalier. We were as children in those days," he put in half-apologetically, "and it was her fête. Bien, we started. Le petit Cinders went with us, and almost before we had entered he ran away. We followed him, for Christine was very anxious. I had never been beyond the second cavern myself, and we had only one lantern. We came to a place where the passage divided, and here we agreed that she should wait while I went forward. I took the lantern. We could hear him yelp in the distance, and she feared that he was hurt. So I left her alone, and presently, hearing him, as I thought, in front of me, I ran, and stumbled and fell. The lantern was broken and I was stunned. It was long before I recovered, and then it was with great difficulty that I returned. I found her awaiting me still, and Cinders with her. It was dark and horrible, but she was too brave to run away. I heard her singing, and so I found her. But by that time the sea had reached the mouth of the cave, and there was no retreat. We had no choice. We were prisoners for the night. It might have happened to anyone, monsieur. It might have happened to you. You blame me—not yet?"
Again the note of pleading was in his voice, but Mordaunt maintained his silence. Only his eyes were no longer sphinx-like. They were fixed intently upon the Frenchman's face.
Bertrand went on as though he had been answered. "I kept watch all through the night, while she slept like an infant in my arms. You would have done the same. In the morning when the tide permitted, we laughed over the adventure and returned to Valpré. She went to her governess and I to the fortress. By then everybody in Valpré knew what had happened. They had believed that we were drowned, and when we reappeared all were astonished. Later they began to whisper, and that evening the villain Rodolphe, being intoxicated, proposed in my presence an infamous toast. I struck him in the mouth and knocked him down. He challenged me to a duel, and we fought early in the morning down on the sand. But that day the gods were not on my side. Christine and Cinders were gone to the sea to bathe, and, as they returned, they found us fighting. Le bon Cinders, he precipitate himself between us. La petite rush to stop him—too late. Rodolphe is startled; he plunge, and my sword pierce his arm. C'était là un moment très difficile. La petite try to explain, to apologize, and me—I lead her away. Après cela she go back to England, and I see her not again. But Rodolphe, he forgive me—never. That, monsieur—and only that—is the true story of that which happened at Valpré. The little Christine left—as she arrived—a pure and innocent child."
He stopped. Mordaunt's eyes were still studying him closely. He met them with absolute freedom.
"I will finish," he said, "and you shall then judge for yourself. As you know, I had scarcely attained my ambition when I was ruined. It was then that you first saw me. You believed me innocent, and later, when Destiny threw me in your path, you befriended me. I have no need to tell you what your friendship was to me. No words can express it or my desolation now that I have lost it. I fear that I was never worthy of your—so great—confidence." His voice shook a little, and he paused to steady it. "It was my intention—always—to be worthy. The fault lay in that I did not realize my weakness. I ought to have left you when I knew that la petite was become your fiancée."
For the first time Mordaunt broke his silence. "Why not have told me the truth?"
Bertrand raised his shoulders. "I did not feel myself at liberty to tell you. Afterwards, I found that her eyes had been opened, and she was afraid for you to know. It did not seem an affair of great importance, and I let it pass. We were pals again. She gave me her confidence, and I would sooner have died," he spoke passionately, "than have betrayed it. I thought that I could hide my heart from her, and that only myself would suffer. And this I can say with truth: by no word, no look, no action, of mine were her eyes opened. I was always le bon frère to her, neither less nor more, until the awakening came. I was always faithful to you, monsieur. I never forgot that she belonged to you—that she was—the wife of—my friend."
Something seemed to rise in his throat, and he stopped sharply. A moment later very slowly he sat down.
"You permit me?" he said. "I am—a little—tired. As you know, I began to see at last that I could not remain with you. I resolved to go. But the death of Cinders prevented me. She was in trouble, and she desired me to stay. I should have grieved her if I had refused. I was wrong, I admit it. I should have gone then. I should have left her to you. I do not defend myself. I only beg you to believe that I did not see the danger, that if I had seen it I would not have remained for a single moment more. Then came the day at Sandacre, the encounter with Rodolphe. I knew that evening that something had passed between them; what it was she would not tell me. I tried to persuade her then to let me tell you the whole truth. But she was terrified—la pauvre petite. She thought that you would be angry with her. She feared that you would ask questions that she could not answer. She had kept the secret so long that she dared not reveal it."
"In short," Mordaunt said, "she was afraid that I should suspect her of caring for you."
His words were too quiet to sound brutal, but they were wholly without mercy. Bertrand's hands gripped the arms of his chair, and he winced visibly.
Yet he answered with absolute candour. "Yes, monsieur. I believe she was. I believe that it was the beginning of all this trouble. But had I known that Rodolphe would use his knowledge to extort money from her, I would not have yielded—no, not one inch—to her importunity. I did not know it. Christine was afraid of me also. I had fought one duel for her; perhaps she dreaded another. And so the mischief was done."
"And who told you that she had been blackmailed?" Mordaunt demanded curtly.
Bertrand made answer without hesitation. "I heard that two days ago from
Max."
"Max?"
"Her brother, Max Wyndham."
"And who told him?"
Bertrand's black brows went up. "I believe it was his cousin Captain
Forest."
"Ah! So he sent you, did he? I might have known he would." For the first time Mordaunt spoke with bitterness.
"Monsieur, no one sent me." There was dignity in Bertrand's rejoinder, a dignity that compelled belief. "I came as soon as I knew what had happened. I came to redress a great wrong. I came to restore to you that which is your own property—of which, in truth, you have never been deprived. With your permission, I will finish. On the night of the fireworks, the night you were in London, I—betrayed myself. I cannot tell you how it happened. I know only that my love became suddenly a flame that I could not hide. She had been in danger, and me—I lost my self-control. The veil was withdrawn, I could hide my love no more. I showed her my heart just as it was, and—she showed me hers."
Bertrand rose with none of his customary impetuosity and stood in front of Mordaunt, meeting the steady eyes with equal steadiness.
"I tell you the truth," he said. "We understand each other, and we love each other. But you—you are even now more to her than I have ever been. She has need of you as she has never had of me. You are the reality in her life. I"—he spread out his hands—"I am the romance."
He paused as if to gather his strength, then went rapidly on. But his face was grey. He looked like a man who had travelled fast and far. "Monsieur," he said very earnestly, "believe me, I do not stand between you. I love her—I love you both—too much for that. My one desire, my one prayer, is for her happiness—and yours. Do not, I beseech you, make me an obstacle. You are her protector. Do not leave her unprotected!"
Again for an instant he paused, seeming to strive after self-control. Then suddenly he relinquished the attempt. He flung his dignity from him; he threw himself on his knees at the impassive Englishman's feet. "Mr. Mordaunt," he cried out brokenly, "I have told you the truth. As a dying man, I swear to you—by God—that I have hidden nothing. Monsieur—monsieur—go back to her—make her happy—before I die!"
His voice dropped. He sank forward, murmuring incoherently.
Mordaunt stooped sharply over him. "Bertrand, for Heaven's sake—" he began, and broke off short; for the face that still tried to look into his was so convulsed with agony that he knew him to be for the moment beyond the reach of words.
He lifted the huddled Frenchman to a chair with great gentleness; but the paroxysm did not pass. It was terrible to witness. It seemed to rack him from head to foot, and through it he still strove to plead, though his speech was no more than broken sound, inexpressibly painful to hear, impossible to understand.
Mordaunt bent over him at last, all his hardness merged into pity. "My dear fellow, don't!" he said. "Give yourself time. Haven't you anything with you that will relieve this pain?"
Bertrand could not answer him. He made a feeble gesture with his right hand; his left was clenched and rigid.
Mordaunt began to feel in his pockets; his touch was as gentle as a woman's. But his search was unavailing. He only found an empty bottle. Bertrand had evidently taken the remedy it had contained earlier in the evening.
He turned to get some brandy, but Bertrand clutched at his sleeve and detained him. "Max is here," he gasped. "Find Max! He—knows!"
His hand fell away, and Mordaunt went to the door. Holmes had returned to his post in the passage. He came forward as the door opened.
"Mr. Max Wyndham is somewhere here," Mordaunt said. "Go and find him, and bring him back with you—at once."
Holmes nodded comprehension and went.
Mordaunt turned back into the room. Bertrand had slipped to the floor again, and was lying face downwards. His breathing was anguished, but he made no other sound.
Mordaunt poured out some brandy and went to him. He knelt down by his side and tried to administer it. But Bertrand could not drink. He could only gasp. Yet after a moment his hand came out gropingly and touched the man beside him.
Mordaunt took it and held it.
"You—believe me?" Bertrand jerked out.
"I believe you," Mordaunt answered very gravely.
"You—you forgive?"
Painfully the question came. It went into silence. But the hand that had taken Bertrand's closed slowly and very firmly.
"Et la petite—la petite—" faltered Bertrand.
The silence endured for seconds. It seemed as if no answer would come. And through it the man's anguished breathing came and went with a dreadful pumping sound as of some broken machinery.
At last, slowly, as though he weighed each word before he uttered it,
Mordaunt spoke.
"You may trust her to me," he said.
And the hand in his stirred and gripped in gratitude, Bertrand de
Montville had not spent himself in vain.
CHAPTER VII
THE MESSENGER
"Roses!" said Chris. "How nice!"
She held the white blossoms that Jack had sent her against her face, and smiled.
It was a very pathetic smile, a wan ghost of gaiety, possessing more of bravery than mirth. She lay on a couch by the window, looking out under the sun-blinds at the dusty green of the park. Though October had begun, the summer was not yet over, and the heat was considerable. It seemed oppressive after the fresh air of the moors, and Hilda watched her cousin's languor with some anxiety. For her face had scarcely more colour than the flowers she held.
"Is the paper here?" asked Chris.
She also was closely following the progress of the Valpré trial. Though she never discussed it, Hilda was aware that it was the only thing in life in which she took any interest just then.
She gave her the paper containing the last account that Mordaunt had written, and for nearly an hour Chris was absorbed in it. At last, with a sigh, she laid it down, and drew the roses to her again.
"It's very dear of Jack to send them. Hilda, don't you want to go out?
You mustn't stay in always for me."
"I want you to come out too, dear," Hilda said.
"I? Oh, please, dear, I'd rather not." Chris spoke quickly, almost beseechingly. She laid a very thin hand upon Hilda's. "You don't mind?" she said persuasively.
Hilda took the little hand and stroked it. "Chris darling," she said, "do you know what is the matter with you?"
The quick blood rushed up over the pale face, spread to the temples, and then faded utterly away. "Yes," whispered Chris.
Hilda leaned down, and very tenderly kissed her. "I felt sure you did.
And that's why you will make an effort to get strong, isn't it, dear? It
isn't as if it were just for your own sake any more. You will try, my own
Chris?"
But Chris turned her face away with quivering lips. "I think—and I hope—that I shall die," she said.
"Chris, my darling—"
"Yes," Chris insisted. "If it shocks you I can't help it. I don't want to live, and I don't want my child to live, either. Life is too hard. If—if I had had any choice in the matter, I would never have been born. And so if I die before the baby comes, it is the best thing that could possibly happen for either of us. And I think—I think"—she hesitated momentarily before a name she had not uttered for weeks—"Trevor would say the same."
"My dear child, I am quite sure he wouldn't!" Hilda spoke with most unaccustomed vigour. "I am quite sure that if he knew of this, he would be with you to-day."
"Oh no, indeed!" Chris said. She spoke quite quietly, with absolute
conviction. "You don't know him, Hilda. You only judge him from outside.
If he knew—well, yes, he might possibly think it his duty to be near me.
But not because he cared. You see—he doesn't. His love is quite dead.
And"—she began to shiver—"I don't like dead things; they frighten me.
So you won't let anyone tell him; promise me!"
"But, my dear, he would love the child—his child," urged Hilda softly.
"Oh, that would be worse!" Chris turned sharply from her. "If he loved the child—and—and—hated the mother!"
"Chris! Chris! You are torturing yourself with morbid ideas! Such a thing would be impossible."
"Not with him," said Chris, shuddering. "He is not like Percy, you know. You think him gentle and kind, but he is quite different, really. He is as hard—and as cold—as iron. Ah, here is Noel!" She broke off with obvious relief. "Come in, dear old boy. I've been wondering where you were."
Noel came in. He usually haunted Chris's room during the day. The Davenants had done their utmost to persuade him to go to school, but Noel had taken the conduct of his affairs into his own hands, and firmly refused.
"I shan't go while Chris is ill," he declared flatly. "We'll see what she's like at the mid-term."
Jack's authority was invoked in vain, for Jack was on the youngster's side.
"I've squared him," said Noel, with satisfaction. "Of course, I'm sorry to be a burden to you, Hilda, but I'll pay up when I come of age."
Which promise invariably silenced Hilda's protests, and made Lord Percy chuckle.
Aunt Philippa was still absent upon her autumn round of visits, a circumstance for which Noel was openly and devoutly thankful. Not that her influence was by any means paramount with him, but her presence might of itself have been sufficient to drive him away. The only person who could really manage him was his brother-in-law, but as he had apparently forgotten Noel's very existence, it seemed unlikely that his authority would be brought to bear upon him. Meanwhile, Noel swaggered in and out of his sister's presence, penniless but content, and Chris plainly liked to have him.
On the present occasion he interrupted their conversation without apology, pushed Chris's feet to one side, and seated himself on the end of the sofa.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he said to Hilda.
"Yes, I do," said Hilda.
"All right, then. You'd better go." He pulled a clay pipe out of his pocket, and an envelope that contained tobacco. "I know Chris doesn't mind," he said, with a twinkling glance in her direction. "Also, my cousin, someone wants you in the next room."
"Who is it?" said Hilda.
"Don't ask me," said Noel.
She hesitated momentarily. "Well, I suppose I must go. But mind, Noel, you are not to smoke in here."
"Say please!" said Noel imperturbably.
"Please!" said Hilda obediently.
He rose and accompanied her to the door. "Madam, your wishes shall be respected."
He opened the door with a flourish, bowed her out, closed it, and softly turned the key.
Then he wheeled round to his sister with gleaming eyes. "That's done the trick, I bet. Trevor has just turned up with Jack. But you needn't be afraid. I shan't let him in."
"What!" said Chris.
She started up, uttering the word like a cry.
Noel left the door swiftly, and came to her. "It's all right, old girl. Don't you worry yourself. We'll hold the fort, never fear. He shan't come in here, unless you say the word."
Chris's hands clutched him with feverish strength. Her face was deathly.
"Oh, Noel!" she breathed. "Oh, Noel!"
He hugged her reassuringly. "It's all right, I tell you. Don't get in a blue funk for nothing. He's not coming in here to bully you."
But Chris only clung faster to him, not breathing. The sudden shock had sent all the blood to her heart. She felt choked and powerless.
"There! Lie down again," said Noel. "I'm here. I'll take care of you. I knew he would turn up again; it's what I've been waiting for. But I swear he shan't come near you against your will. That's enough, isn't it? You know you are safe with me."
She could not answer him, but she crouched back upon the sofa in response to his persuasion. She was shaking from head to foot.
Noel sat solidly down beside her. "Don't be frightened," he said. "We're going to have some fun."
"What—what can he have come for?" whispered Chris.
"Goodness knows! But he isn't going to get it, anyway. Good old Hilda!
She went like a bird, didn't she? I call this rather amusing."
Noel began to whistle under his breath, obviously enjoying the situation to the utmost.
But Chris restrained him. "I want to listen," she murmured piteously.
He became silent at once, and several seconds crawled away, accompanied by no sound save the interminable buzzing of a fly on the window-pane.
Noel arose at length and with a single swoop of the hand captured and killed it. Then he went back to Chris.
"I say, don't look so scared! No one is going to hurt you."
The words were hardly uttered before Hilda's light step sounded outside, and her hand tried the door.
Chris started violently, and cowered among her cushions. Noel chuckled softly.
"Chris dear, what is the matter? Let me in!" Anxiety and persuasion were mingled in Hilda's voice.
Noel's chuckle became audible. "She isn't going to. She doesn't want anyone but me. Do you, Chris?"
Chris made no reply. She was staring at the door with starting eyes.
Noel went leisurely across and set his back against it. His eyes still gleamed roguishly, but his mouth had ceased to smile.
"I say, Hilda," he said, over his shoulder, "if you want to do Chris a good turn, tell that beastly cad behind you to go. I shan't let him in, anyhow, not if he stays till doomsday. So he may as well clear out at once."
"My dear Noel, how can you be so absurd?" Hilda's placid tones held real annoyance for once.
But the cause of it was quite unimpressed.
"Your dear Noel is acting up to his lights," he returned, "and he has no intention of doing anything else, absurd or otherwise. Chris is nearly scared out of her wits, so you had better take my advice sharp."
This last information took instant effect upon Hilda. She turned her attention to Chris forthwith.
"My dear, do let me in! There is nothing whatever to frighten you. I promise you shall not be frightened. Chris, tell that absurd boy to open the door—please, dearest!"
"I—can't!" gasped Chris.
"She isn't going to," said Noel. "You run along, Hilda. And you can tell Trevor with my love that if he'll clear out now I'll meet him at any time and place he likes to mention and have a damned old row."
"Very good of you!" Another voice spoke on the other side of the door, and Noel jumped in spite of himself. "But at the present moment you don't count. Is Chris there? I want to speak to her."
The leisurely tones came, measured and distinct, through the closed door, and Chris covered her face and shivered. "Oh, you'll have to let him in!" she said. "Only—don't go away! Don't leave me alone with him!"
"Chris!" Mordaunt's voice, calm and unhurried, addressed her directly.
"Jack is here with me. Will you let us in?"
Chris lifted a haggard face. "Open the door, Noel!" she said.
"Why?" demanded Noel, with sudden ferocity. "We are not going to knock under to him. Why should we?"
"It's no use," she said. "We can't help it. Besides—besides—" She broke off with something like a sob, and rose from the sofa.
Noel looked at her under drawn brows. "You really mean it?"
"Yes." She pushed the hair from her forehead, and made a great effort to still her agitation. "I do mean it, Noel. I—wish it."
"All right." The boy whizzed round and turned the key.
He met Mordaunt face to face on the threshold with clenched hands, his face dark with passion. "If you hurt her—I'll kill you!" he said.
Had Mordaunt laughed at him, he would probably have attempted to carry out his threat then and there, for his mood was tempestuous. But the quiet eyes that met his blazing ones held no derision. They went beyond him instantly, seeking the girlish figure that leaned against the sofa-head for support; but a hand grasped his shoulder at the same moment and turned him back into the room.
"I shan't quarrel with you on that account," Mordaunt said. "You can stay if you like, and satisfy yourself."
Jack entered behind him, and went straight to Chris. He took her quivering hands into his, and held them fast.
"That boy deserves to be horsewhipped for startling you like this," he said.
She smiled at him wanly, but not as if she heard his words. "You will stay with me, Jack?" she said beseechingly.
"If you wish it, dear. But Trevor wants to say something rather private.
Really, you have nothing to be afraid of."
His kindly eyes looked down reassuringly into hers. They seemed to reason with her, to persuade and soothe at the same time.
But Chris's hands clung to his. "Don't—don't go!" she said. "I want you—I want you, Jack."
"Suppose we sit down," said Jack practically. "Trevor, I wish you'd kick that boy downstairs. It would do him good and me too. This isn't a family conclave."
"Noel can stay," Mordaunt answered quietly. He was still looking towards his wife, but he did not seem to be regarding her very intently. "You are mistaken in thinking that I have anything to say to Chris in private. I have only come to tell her what I have already told you, that Bertrand is at Valpré, ill and wanting her. I will take her to him—if she will come."
"Trevor!" She turned to him with eyes of sudden horror—horror so definite that it swamped all her personal shrinking. "How is he ill? You—you have hurt him!"
"I have done nothing to him," Mordaunt answered. "He is suffering from heart-disease, and cannot be moved. I must start from Charing Cross in an hour. Will you come with me?"
"To go to him?" Her eyes were still dilated, but they did not waver from his.
"To go to him." He repeated the words with precision, and waited for her answer.
But Chris sat in silence, her hands in Jack's.
"Look here," Noel broke in abruptly, "if Chris goes, I go."
"Very well," Mordaunt said. "If Chris desires it, you may."
Chris came out of her silence with a little shudder, and turned to the man beside her. "Jack, tell me what to do!"
"I think you had better go, dear," Jack said.
"But if—but if—oh, is he very ill?" She looked again at her husband.
"He is very ill indeed," Mordaunt said.
"You think I ought to go?" She asked the question with an obvious effort.
"I have come to fetch you," he said.
"Then—he is dying!" she said, with sudden conviction.
Mordaunt was silent.
Abruptly she left Jack and went up to him. "Trevor," she said, "would you want to take me to him if—if—"
"If—?" he repeated quietly.
"If you thought I was doing wrong to go?"
He made a slight movement, as if the question were unexpected. "I should have explained to you," he said, "that your brother Max is in charge of him, so that when I am not with you—and, as you know, I am attending the Rodolphe trial—you will not be alone."
"Oh, Max is there!" she said, with relief. "But what is he doing at
Valpré?"
"He went there with Bertrand."
"But I thought Bertrand could not go to France," she hazarded.
"He went in disguise."
"Why?" Her lips trembled upon the word.
"Because he had something to say to me." With the utmost calmness his answer came.
"Ah!" She started and turned so white that he put out a hand to steady her.
She laid her own within it, as it were instinctively, because she needed support.
"What was it?" she whispered.
He looked at her gravely. "Are you afraid to be alone with me?" he said.
"No."
"Then—quick march!" said Jack, with his hand through Noel's arm.
They went out together, Noel glancing back for the smallest sign from his sister to remain.
But she made none. She stood quite still, with her hand in her husband's, waiting.
As the door closed Mordaunt spoke. "Have you been ill?"
"No," she said faintly. "Not—not really ill."
She was aware of his close scrutiny for a moment, but she made not the slightest attempt to meet it.
"You want to know what Bertrand said to me," he said. "And you have a right to know. He told me the whole history of your friendship from the beginning to the end."
"He told you about—about Valpré?" Her eyelids quivered, as if she wished to raise them but dared not.
"Yes."
"Then you know—" Her hand fluttered in his.
"I know everything," he said.
Her white face quivered piteously. "And you—you are still angry?"
"No, I am not angry." He led her back to the sofa. "Sit down a minute," he said. "I don't think you are quite fit for this, and if you are going back with me to Valpré, you will need to reserve your strength."
He sat down beside her, both her hands firmly clasped in his, as if thereby he would impart to her the strength she lacked.
"You mean me to go, then?" murmured Chris.
"Don't you want to go?" he asked.
"If he really wants me—" she faltered. "And if you—you wish it, too."
"My dear," he said, "do my wishes make any real difference?"
She caught her breath sharply, and bent her head that he might not see her face. "Yes," she whispered, under her breath.
"Very well," he said, "I wish it, too."
She was silent, but suddenly her tears began to fall upon the strong hands that held hers. She would have given anything to have repressed them at that moment. With her whole soul she shrank from showing him her weakness, but it overpowered her. She bowed her head lower still, and wept.
He sat quite motionless for seconds, so that even in the depth of her distress she marvelled at his patience. But at last, very gently, he moved, let her hands go, and rose.
He stood awhile turned from her, his face to the window, though the sun-blind was all that could have met his view; finally, with grave kindness, he spoke.
"I think I had better leave you to prepare for the journey. There is not much time at your disposal, and you will probably need it all. It is settled that Noel is to go with us?"
"You won't mind?" she whispered.
"I think it a very good plan," he answered.
He turned round and came back to her. She had commanded herself to a certain extent, but still she could not raise her face. She waited tensely as he approached, possessed by a sudden, almost delirious longing to feel the touch of his lips.
Her desire surged into leaping hope as he stopped beside her. Would he—could he? But he did not stoop. He only laid his hand for a moment upon her head.
"Chris," he said, "try to think of me as a friend—and don't be afraid."
She thrilled at the low-spoken words. In another moment she would have conquered all hesitation and sprung up to feel his arms about her, to hide her face against him, to open to him all her quivering heart. But for that moment he did not wait.
With the utterance of the words his hand fell, and he moved away.
The opening and the closing of the door told her he had gone.
CHAPTER VIII
ARREST
"Ah, but what a night for dreams!"
The cool salt air came in from the sea like a benediction, blowing softly about the sick man by the window, sending a gleam of life into eyes grown weary with long suffering. He leaned back upon his pillows for the first time in many hours.
"It is as if the door of heaven had opened," he said.
"You're not going yet, old chap!" Max answered, a curious blending of grimness and tenderness in his voice.
"But no—not yet—not yet." Softly Bertrand made answer, but resolution throbbed in his words also. "I must not fail her—my little pal—my bird of Paradise. But the night is very long, Max, mon ami. And the darkness—the darkness—"
Max's hand came quietly down and closed upon his wrist. "I'll see you through," he said.
"Yes—yes. You will help me. You are one of those created to help. That is why you will be great. The great men are always—those who help."
The words came slowly, sometimes with difficulty, but the young medical student made no attempt to check them. He only sat with shrewd eyes upon the sick man's face and alert finger on his wrist, marking the waning strength while he listened. For he knew that the night was long.
Years afterwards it came to be said of him that his patients never died until his back was turned. It was not strictly true, but it conveyed something of the magnetism with which he wrought upon them. He knew the crucial moment by instinct, when to grapple and when to slacken his hold, and he never went by rule.
And so on that his second night of vigil by the side of a dying man, though he recognized speech as a danger, he made no effort to silence him. He knew that weariness of the spirit that finds no vent was a greater danger still.
"So you think I have a future before me?" he said.
"I am sure of it." Bertrand spoke with conviction. "It will not be an easy future, mon ami. Perhaps it will not be happy. Those who climb have no time to gather the flowers by the way. But—it will be great. You desire that, yes?"
"In a fashion," Max said. "I don't know that I consider greatness in itself as specially valuable. Do you?"
"I?" said Bertrand. "But I have passed all that. There was a time when ambition was to me as the breath of life. I thought of nothing else. And then"—his voice dropped a little—"there came a greater thing—the greatest of all. And I knew that I had climbed above ambition. I knew success and fame as a procession that passes—that passes—the mirage in the desert—the dream in the midst of our great Reality. I knew all this before my ruin came. It was as if a light had suddenly been held up, and I saw the work of my life as pictures in the sand. Then the great tide rushed up, and all was washed away. But yet"—his voice vibrated, he looked at Max and smiled—"the light remained. For a time, indeed, I was blind, but the light came back to me. And I know now that it was always there."
He paused, and turned his head sharply.
"What is it?" said Max.
"I heard a sound."
"There are plenty of sounds in this place," Max pointed out.
"Ah! but this was different. It sounded like—" He stopped with a gasp that made Max frown.
Undoubtedly there was a sound outside, the tread of feet, the jingle of a sword. Max got up, still frowning, and went to the door.
He had barely reached it before there came a loud knock upon the panels, and a voice cried: "Ouvrez!"
Max's knowledge of French was exceedingly limited, but that fact by no means dismayed him. He turned round to Bertrand for a moment.
"I'm going to have a talk with this johnny. Don't agitate yourself. You are not to move till I come back."
"Ouvrez!" cried the voice again.
"All right?" questioned Max.
Bertrand was leaning forward. His eyes were very bright, his breathing very short. "They have come—to take me," he said.
"I'll see them damned first," said Max. "You keep still, and leave it to me."
His hand was on the door with the words. A moment more he stood, thick-set and British, looking back. Then with a curt nod, he opened the door, and passed instantly out, pulling it after him.
Half a dozen soldiers filled the passage. The one who had knocked—an officer—stood face to face with him.
"Now what do you want?" asked Max.
He stood, holding the door-handle, his red brows drawn, a glint of battle in the green eyes beneath them. And so, during a brief silence, they measured each other.
Then quite courteously the Frenchman spoke. "Monsieur, my duty brings me here. Will you have the goodness to open that door?"
"It's a good thing you can speak English," Max remarked, with his one-sided smile. "What do you want to go in there for? The room is mine."
"And you are entertaining a friend there, monsieur." The Frenchman still spoke suavely; he even smiled an answering smile.
"That is so," Max said. "Do you know his name?"
"It is Bertrand de Montville." There was no hesitation in the reply. He looked as if he expected the Englishman to move aside, as he made it. But Max stood his ground.
"And what is your business with him?" he asked.
The officer's brows went up. "Monsieur?"
"You have come to arrest him?" Max questioned.
The Frenchman hesitated for a moment, then: "I must do my duty," he said.
The green eyes contemplated him thoughtfully for a space. Then, "I suppose you know he is dying?" Max said slowly.
"Dying, monsieur!" The tone was sharp, the speaker plainly incredulous.
Max explained without emotion. "He is suffering from an incurable disease of the heart, caused by hardship and starvation. If you go in and agitate him now, I won't give that for his chances of lasting through the night."
He snapped his fingers without taking his eyes from the other's face.
"Is it true?" the Frenchman said.
"It is absolutely true." Max spoke quietly, but there was force behind his words. "You can do what you like to safeguard him, though he is quite incapable of getting away. You can surround the house and post sentries at the door. But unless you want to kill him outright, you won't take him away from here. You can send one of your own doctors to certify what I say. You don't want to kill him, I presume?"
The Frenchman was listening attentively. It was evident that Max Wyndham was making an impression.
"My orders are to arrest him and to take him to the fortress," he said.
"Dead or alive?" asked Max.
"But certainly not dead, monsieur. All France will be calling for him to-morrow."
"That's the funny part of it," said Max. "France should have thought of that before. Well, sir, if you want him to live, all you can do is to wait. I will keep him going through the night, and you can send a doctor round in the morning."
"You are a doctor?" asked the Frenchman keenly.
"No. I am a medical student."
"And you are friends, hein?"
"Yes, we are friends. It was I who brought him here."
"But what a pity, monsieur!" There was a touch of kindly feeling in the words.
"Yes," Max acknowledged grimly. "It was a pity. But his reason for coming was urgent. And, after all, it made little difference. It has only hastened by a few weeks the end that was bound to come."
"You think that he will die?"
"Yes." Max spoke briefly. His tone was one of indifference.
The Frenchman looked at him curiously. "And what was his reason for coming?"
"It was a strictly private one," Max said. "This trial had nothing to do with it. It will certainly never be made public, so I am not at liberty to speak of it."
"And has he done—that which he left England to do?"
"Not yet, sir, but he may do it—if he lives long enough." Again Max's tone was devoid of all feeling. He still stood planted squarely against the closed door.
"And you think he will not do that?"
"On the contrary," said Max, "I think he will—if I am with him to keep him going."
He spoke with true British doggedness, and a gleam of humour crossed the
Frenchman's face. He made a brief bow.
"M. de Montville is fortunate to possess such a friend," he said.
The corner of Max's mouth went down. "As to that," he said dryly, "he might do a good deal better, and a very little worse. Now, sir, what are you going to do?"
The Frenchman looked quizzical. "It seems that I must take your advice, monsieur, or risk very serious consequences. I shall leave a guard here during the night, and I must ask you to give me the key of this door. Après cela"—he shrugged his shoulders—"nous verrons."
Max turned without protest, opened the door, and withdrew the key. He stood a moment listening before he turned back and laid it in the officer's hand. His face was grave.
"I think I must go to him," he said. "You will see to it that he is not disturbed?"
"No one will enter without your permission," the Frenchman answered. "And you, monsieur, will remain with him until I return."
"I see," said Max. Again, for an instant, the fighting gleam was in his eyes, then carelessly he laughed. "Well, I shan't try to run away. He and I are down in the same lot. You would find it harder to turn me out than to keep me here."
"I believe it, monsieur." There was no irony in the words or in the bow that accompanied them. "And I repeat, he is a happy man who possesses your friendship."
"Oh, rats!" said Max, and suddenly turned scarlet. "You are talking through your hat, sir. If you've quite done, I'll go."
It was the most boyish utterance he had permitted himself, and as he gave vent to it he was so obviously ill at ease that the Frenchman smiled.
"But you are younger than I thought," he said. "Will you shake hands?"
Max gave his customary hard grip. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, and separated with mutual respect.
Five seconds later Max had returned to his self-appointed task of helping a dying man to live through the night.