The Rocks of Valpre - Ethel May Dell (interesting novels to read .TXT) 📗

not come to you himself because he thought that you did not desire him. But that was not true, no?"
Again that hard shudder went through Chris. She was silent for a little, them "Oh, Bertie," she whispered, "I wish--I wish--it hadn't been he who--who--" she broke off--"you know what I mean. You--saw!"
Yes, he knew. It was what Mordaunt himself had suspected, and loyally he entered the breach on his friend's behalf.
"_Cherie_--pardon me--that is not a good wish--not worthy of you. That which he did was most merciful, most brave, and he did it himself because he would not trust another. I wish it had been my hand--not his. Then you would have understood."
"I almost wish it had been!" whispered Chris; and then, her words scarcely audible, "But--but do you think--he--knew?"
"_Le pauvre Cinders_?" Very softly Bertrand spoke the dog's name. "No, Christine. He did not know. His head was turned the other way. His eyes regarded only you. And Mr. Mordaunt was so quiet, so steady. He aim his revolver quite straight, and his hand tremble--no, not once. Oh, believe me, _petite_, it was better to end it so."
"Yes, I know, only--only"--convulsively her hands closed upon his--"Bertie--Bertie--dogs do go to heaven, don't they?"
"I believe it, Christine."
"You do really--not just because I want you to?"
He drew her gently to her feet. "_Cherie_, I believe it, because I know that all love is eternal, and death is only an incident in eternity. Where there is love there is no death. Nothing that loves can die. It is the Divine Spark that nothing can ever quench."
He spoke with absolute conviction, almost with exultation; and the words went straight to Chris's heart and stayed there.
"You do comfort me," she said.
"I only tell you the truth," he made answer, "as I see it. We do not yet know the power of Love. We only know that it is the greatest of all. It is _le bon Dieu_ in the world. And we meet Him everywhere--even in the heart of a dog."
"I shall remember that," she said.
Her hand still clung to his as they groped their way across the room. At the door for a moment she stayed him.
"I shall never forget your goodness to me, Bertie, never--never!" she said, very earnestly.
"Ah, bah!" he answered quickly. "But we are--pals!"
And with that he opened the door, almost as if impatient, and made her pass before him into the hall.
The lamplight dazzled Chris, and she stood for a moment uncertain. Then, as her eyes became accustomed to the change, she discovered her husband, standing a few yards away, looking at her.
He did not speak, merely held out his hand to her; and she went to him with a vagrant feeling of reluctance.
He put his arm about her, looking gravely into her wan face; but she turned from his scrutiny and leaned her head against his shoulder with a piteous little murmur of protest.
"Do you mind if I go to bed, Trevor?" she said, after a moment. "I--I'm very tired, and I don't want any dinner."
"You must have something, dear," he made answer, "but have it in bed by all means. I will bring it up to you in half an hour."
She made a slight movement which might have meant dissent, but which remained unexplained. For a little she stood passive, leaning against him as though she lacked the energy to go, but at length she made a move. Glancing round, she saw that Bertrand had departed.
"Where is Noel?" she asked.
"In his room."
She looked up sharply, detecting a hint of grimness in his voice. "Trevor"--she halted a little--"are you--vexed with anybody?"
His face softened at her tone. "Never mind now, dear," he said. "You are worn out. Get to bed."
She put her hand to her head with a weary gesture. "But why--why is Noel in his room?"
"Because I sent him there."
"You!" She stared at him, fully roused from her lethargy. "Trevor! Why?"
"I will tell you tomorrow," he said, frowning slightly. "I can't have you upset any more tonight."
"But, Trevor--"
"Chris, dear, go to bed," he said firmly. "If I don't find you there in half an hour, I shall put you there myself."
"Oh no!" she broke in. "Please don't come up. I shall get on better alone. And I have to say goodnight to Noel first."
"I am sorry, dear," he said, "but you can't. Noel is in disgrace, and I would rather you did not see him to-night."
"In disgrace! Trevor--why?"
He put his arm deliberately round her again, and led her to the stairs.
"Tell me why," she said.
"I will tell you tomorrow," he repeated.
But she would not be satisfied. She turned upon the first stair, confronting him. "Tell me now, please, Trevor."
He raised his brows at her insistence.
"Yes," she said in answer, "but I want to know. You don't--you can't--blame him for--for--" she faltered and bit her lip desperately--"you know what," she ended under her breath.
"I do blame him," he answered quietly. "I forbade him strictly to attempt to drive without someone of experience beside him."
"Oh!" A sharp note of misgiving sounded in Chris's voice. "You said that to me too!" she said.
He looked at her very gravely. "I did."
"Then--then"--she stretched a hand to the bannisters--"you are angry with me too?"
"No, I am not angry with you," he said, and she was conscious of a subtle softening in his tone. "I am never angry with you, Chris," he said emphatically.
"And yet you are angry with Noel," she said.
"That is different."
"How--different?"
He took her hand into his. "Do you know he nearly killed you?"
She started a little. "Me?"
He nodded grimly. "Yes. If it had been only himself, it wouldn't have mattered. But you--you!"
His arms went out to her suddenly; he caught her to him, held her passionately close for a moment, then lifted her and began to carry her upstairs.
She lay against his breast in quivering silence. It seemed that Cinders did not matter either so long as she was safe; and though she knew beyond all question that he was not angry with her, she was none the less afraid.


CHAPTER V
THE LOOKER-ON

"I think that it should be remembered that he is young," said Bertrand, "also that he has been punished enough severely already."
He leaned back in an easy-chair with a cigarette which he had suffered to go out between his fingers, and watched Mordaunt pacing up and down.
Mordaunt made no pretence of smoking. He walked to and fro with his hands behind him, his brows drawn in thought, his mouth very grim.
"My good fellow, he will have forgotten all that by to-morrow," he said, with a faint, hard smile. "I know these Wyndhams."
"I also," said Bertrand quietly.
Mordaunt glanced at him. "Well?"
The Frenchman hesitated momentarily. "I think," he said, "that you will find them more easy to lead than to drive."
Mordaunt's frown deepened. "They are all so hopelessly lawless, so utterly unprincipled. As for lying, this boy at least thinks nothing of it."
"Ah, that is detestable, that!" Bertrand said. "But he would not lie to you unless you made him afraid, _hein_?"
"He lies whenever it suits his purpose," Mordaunt said. "He would have lied about the speed of the motor if I would have listened to him. But it is his disobedience I am dealing with now. If I don't give that boy the sound thrashing he deserves for defying my orders, he will never obey me again."
Bertrand's eyes, very bright and vigilant, opened a little. "But Christine!" he said.
"Yes, I know." Mordaunt came to a sudden halt. "Chris also must learn that when I say a thing I mean it," he said.
"Without doubt," the Frenchman conceded gravely. "But that is not all that you want. And surely it would be better to be a little lenient to her brother than to alienate her confidence from yourself."
He spoke impressively, so impressively that Mordaunt turned and looked at him with close attention. Several seconds passed before, very quietly, he spoke.
"What makes you say this to me, Bertrand?"
"Because you are my friend," Bertrand answered.
"And you think my wife is afraid of me?"
Bertrand's eyes met his with the utmost directness. "I think that she might very easily become afraid."
Mordaunt looked at him for several seconds longer, then deliberately pulled up a chair, and sat facing him.
"In Heaven's name, Bertrand, why?" he said.
Bertrand made a quick gesture, almost as if he would have checked the question, but when it was uttered he sat in silence.
"You can't tell me?" Mordaunt said at last.
He shrugged his shoulders. "If you desire it, I will tell you what I think."
"Tell me, then."
A faint flush rose in Bertrand's face. He contemplated the end of his cigarette as if he were studying something of interest. "I think, monsieur," he said at last, "that if you asked more of her, you would obtain more. She is afraid of you because she does not know you. You regard her as a child. You are never on a level with her. You are not enough her friend. Therefore you do not understand her. Therefore she does not know you. Therefore she is--afraid."
His eyes darted up to Mordaunt's grave face for an instant, and returned to the cigarette.
There followed a silence of some duration. At last very quietly Mordaunt rose, went to the mantelpiece, helped himself to a cigarette, and began to search for matches.
Bertrand sprang up to proffer one of his own. They stood close together while the flame kindled between them. After a moment their eyes met through a cloud of smoke. Bertrand's held a tinge of anxiety.
"I have displeased you, no?" he asked abruptly.
Mordaunt leaned a friendly hand upon his shoulder. "On the contrary, I am grateful to you. I believe there is something in what you say. I never gave you credit for so much perception."
Bertrand's face cleared. He began to smile--the smile of the rider who has just cleared a difficult obstacle.
"You have a proverb in England," he said, "concerning those who watch the game, that they see more than those who play. Shall we say that it is thus with me? You and Christine are my very good friends, and I know you both better than you know each other."
"I believe you do," Mordaunt said, smiling faintly himself. "Well, I suppose I must let the youngster off his thrashing for her sake. I wonder if he has gone to bed." He glanced at the clock. "It's time you went, anyhow. You are looking fagged to death. Go and sleep as long as you can."
He gripped the Frenchman's hand, looking at him with a kindly scrutiny which Bertrand refused to meet. He never encouraged any reference to his health.
"I am all right," he said with emphasis, but he returned the hand-grip with a warmth that left no doubt as to the cordiality of his feelings. He was ever too polished a gentleman to be discourteous.
Left alone, Mordaunt sat down at his writing-table to clear off some work which he had taken out of his secretary's hands earlier in the day. It was midnight before he finished, and even then he sat on for a long time deep in thought.
It was probably true, what Bertrand had said. Tenderly as he loved his young wife, he had not succeeded in winning her confidence. There was no friendship between them in the most intimate sense of the word, and so she feared him. His love was to her a consuming flame from which she shrank. Bitterly he admitted the fact,