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

bear it! It will be no sacrifice to me to come with you. I don't mind hardship. I'm used to poverty, But here--but here--"
Her voice broke also, she could say no more. His arms went round her, straining her to him. His face was close to hers. But his eyes were the eyes of a man in torture.
"I know--I know all," he whispered. "Yet--my darling--you must stay--and I must go. When Love demands a sacrifice--"
"I will sacrifice anything--everything--all I have!" she cried out wildly.
"We must sacrifice each other," he said. "That is the test of our love, _cherie_. That is the sacrifice that Love demands."
He spoke quite quietly, with the calmness of one who knew and faced the worst. The torture in his eyes had turned to dumb endurance. "Only thus," he said--"only thus can we be true to our love. We sacrifice the little for the much. _Mignonne_, believe me, it is worth it. You are mine, and I am yours. So be it, then. Let us be--faithful."
He spoke with the utmost tenderness; yet was she awed. Her sudden rebellion died. It was as though a quiet hand had been laid upon her heart, stilling her pain. For one moment she looked with him across the long, dark furrows of mortal life into the great Beyond, and knew that he had spoken the truth. Their love was worth the sacrifice.
"Oh, Bertie," she said, in a whisper, "you are right, dear, you are right."
His eyes flashed swift understanding into hers; yet for a moment his arms tightened about her, as if her submission made it harder for him to let her go.
She waited till they relaxed, and then she laid her hands upon his shoulders. "Bertie," she said very earnestly, "forget I ever asked it of you!"
He shook his head instantly, with a sudden, transforming smile that revealed in him the young, quick spirit that had caught hers so long ago. "Oh no--no!" he said. "It will be to me the most precious memory of my life. By it I shall always remember--the so great generosity--of your love."
The smile went out of his face. He leaned nearer to her. She read irresolution in his eyes, and a quiver that was half of hope and half of apprehension went through her. Was he going to fail, after all, in the moment of victory? If so--if so--
But he restrained himself. She saw him fight down the impulse that urged him inch by inch until he had it in subjection. Under her watching eyes he conquered. He showed her the Omnipotence of Love.
Quietly, with no exaggeration of reverence, he knelt before her. He took her hands into his own, turned them upwards, pressed his lips to each palm, let them go.
The silence between them was like a sacrament. She never knew how long it lasted. It was a farewell more final than any words.
At last, "God keep you, my Christine!" he said. "God bless you!"
He rose to his feet, but he did not look at her again.
She could not speak in answer; there was no need of speech. He knew her heart as he knew his own.
And so in silence, with bent head, he left her. And the sun went out of her sky.


CHAPTER VII
THE WAY OF THE WYNDHAMS

When Mordaunt returned from his ride, it was close upon the luncheon-hour. He went straight upstairs to prepare for the meal.
Chris's room was empty. He wondered where she was, but Noel bounded in and enlightened him before he descended.
"She's doing the pretty to Aunt Philippa," he reported. "Only three more hours now! Hip, hip, hooray!"
His yell caused Mordaunt to fling the towel he was using at his head, a compliment which seemed to please him immensely. He draped it round his neck and proceeded to deliver himself of that which he had come to say.
"Look here, Trevor, you've been bullying Chris, haven't you? You needn't say you haven't, because I know you have."
"Did she tell you so?" Mordaunt sounded grim.
Noel turned to look at him. "No. She said you hadn't. But she always tells a cram when it suits her purpose. I knew you had all the same."
Mordaunt was silent.
"She's horribly down in the mouth," Noel proceeded. "She never used to be before she married you. It's a pretty beastly thing to have to say, but someone ought to say it, and if I don't no one else will."
"Go on," said Mordaunt. "Your sense of duty does you credit."
"Don't be a beast! It isn't duty at all. I'm simply pointing out the obvious. I should think you could see it for yourself, can't you?"
Mordaunt brushed his hair in silence.
"It's got to stop anyhow," Noel went on with determination. "She's not to be bullied. It's worse than shabby,--it--it's damned mean to--to treat her as if--as if--" He became suddenly agitated and lost the thread of his discourse.
Mordaunt had laid down his brushes to listen. His eyes were gravely attentive. They held no indignation. "Go on," he said again. "You are quite right to use strong language if you consider the occasion requires it."
But Noel's flow of language had failed him. He sprang suddenly at his brother-in-law, and caught him by the shoulders. "Oh, do stop it, old chap!" he urged, with husky vehemence. "We all of us rely on you. And if you fail us--can't you see we're done for?"
Mordaunt looked down at him with a faint smile. "Perhaps I had better tell you what has happened," he said. "The trouble at the present moment is that Bertrand has robbed me, and has left in consequence."
"Great Scotland!" ejaculated Noel. "How much did he take?"
"Five hundred pounds. That's a detail of small consequence." Mordaunt spoke with grim precision. "It has upset Chris--quite naturally. But even you can hardly hold me responsible for that."
"I should think not! I say, I'm sorry I spoke." Impetuously Noel hugged him to obliterate the effect of his words. "I'm a silly ass. You mustn't mind me. Do you know, I always thought he would somehow, though Chris was so keen on him."
"I was keen on him too," Mordaunt observed, without much humour.
"I'm awfully sorry, old chap. It's a bit of a facer for you. But, you know, you can't trust foreigners. It doesn't do. There was that chap at Valpre. He simply bewitched Chris. She never would hear a word against him, but I'm sure he was a bounder. I've often thought since that he probably manoeuvred that cave business. They're such a wily lot, these Frenchies."
"What cave business?" There was a hint of sharpness in Mordaunt's voice; his brows were drawn.
Noel looked surprised. "Why, the time they got hung up by the tide all night. Mean to say you never heard of it? Oh, my eye!" he broke off blankly. "Then I've let the cat out of the bag!"
"Don't distress yourself. It is of no importance." Mordaunt's tone was suddenly very deliberate. He turned away and began to put on his coat. "Are you ready for luncheon? I'm going down now."
Noel surveyed him doubtfully. "You won't let on I told you, will you?" he said uneasily. "Chris may have asked me to keep it dark."
"I don't suppose she did." Very quietly Mordaunt made reply. "She has more probably forgotten all about it. But I won't give you away in any case. You are ready? Then suppose we go!"
They descended together to find Aunt Philippa and Chris awaiting them in the hall. Chris scarcely looked at her husband. She was very pale.
He followed her to her end of the table to pour her out a glass of wine.
"Please don't!" she said nervously. "I don't like it. I can't drink it."
"I think you can," he answered. "Try!"
He went to his own place, and proceeded to engage Aunt Philippa in conversation. But Aunt Philippa was looking even more severe than usual, and responded so indifferently to his efforts that he presently suffered them to flag. There fell a dead silence. Then Noel struck in with furious zest, and Mordaunt turned to him with relief. But Chris scarcely opened her lips.
At the end of the meal he addressed her with quiet authority. "Chris, you must rest this afternoon. Your aunt will excuse you."
"Certainly," said Aunt Philippa stiffly.
Chris rose from the table in unbroken silence. She came slowly down the long room. Mordaunt got up to open the door, and followed her out.
"Don't worry about me, please!" Chris besought him as he closed the door behind them. "I shall be all right to-morrow."
He ignored the protest, and accompanied her upstairs. She glanced at him uneasily as they went. "I can't help being--unhappy just for to-day," she murmured. "You--you couldn't expect me--not to care?"
He did not speak till they reached her room. Then: "You saw Bertrand," he said, in a tone that was hardly a question.
"Yes." She began to tremble a little. "I am sorry," she said. "But--I had to." She stood before him, not meeting his eyes, waiting for him to speak. "I couldn't let him go--for good--without saying good-bye," she said, as he remained silent.
He took her gently by the shoulders. "Chris, look at me!"
She drew back, yet in a moment with a desperate effort she raised her eyes to his. He laid his hand upon her forehead, and looked at her long and searchingly.
She endured the look in quivering silence, but she turned so deathly pale under it that he thought she would faint. Quietly he let her go.
"You will lie down now?" he said.
"Yes," she answered, under her breath.
"Don't be in a hurry to get up," he said. "I will explain to your aunt that I do not wish you to be disturbed, and I shall see her off myself."
He went to the windows and drew the curtains. She watched him silently. As he turned back into the room, she spoke.
"Trevor, are you angry with me?"
He paused, as if the question were unexpected. "No," he said, after a moment.
Her eyes shone unnaturally bright in the twilight. "You understand that--that I couldn't obey your wishes about not seeing--Bertrand--before he left?"
"I did not forbid you to see him," he said.
"But--you are vexed because I did," she persisted.
He came quietly back to her. "I believe you did the only thing possible to you," he said, in a tone she could not fathom. "Therefore there is no more to be said. Won't you lie down?"
She complied without further words. He covered her with a rug, but she shivered under it as one with an ague. He brought a quilt, and laid that also over her.
She reached out then, and caught his hand. "Trevor, forgive me!"
He bent over her. "My dear, I am not angry with you."
"Ah, but--but--" She broke off helplessly; there was something about him that unnerved her. Suddenly and inexplicably the longing surged over her to be caught to his breast and held there safe from all the tumult, the misery, the vain regrets, that tortured her quivering soul. But she could not tell him so, could not bring herself to pour out all the truth. For the first time she saw how wide was the gulf that had opened between them--that gulf which he had tried in vain to span the night before--and her heart died within her. She knew that she was powerless, that now in the hour of her adversity, now when she felt her need of a protector and comforter as never before, she dared not confide in him, dared not throw herself upon his mercy, and trust to his generosity to understand