The Rocks of Valpre by Ethel May Dell (best contemporary novels .txt) 📕

of tears, and at once his hand closed with a warm and comforting pressure upon hers. "Chris! Chris! When will you learn not to be afraid of me?" he said. "I am not vexed with you, child. I am only wondering."
"Wondering?" she said.
"Wondering if I had better go away for a spell," he answered.
"Go away!" she echoed blankly.
"And give you time to know your own mind," he said.
"Trevor!" She turned suddenly white, so white that he thought for an instant that she was in physical pain; and then, feeling her clinging to him, he understood. "Oh, no!" she said vehemently. "No, no! Trevor, you won't? Say you won't! I--I couldn't bear that. Please, Trevor!"
"My dear," he said, "I shall never go away while you want me. But the question is, do you want me?"
"I do!" she declared, almost passionately. "I do!"
"You are quite sure?" He looked suddenly deep into her eyes, so suddenly that she could not avoid the look.
She quivered under it, but he did not release her. He searched her upturned face closely, persistently, relentlessly, till, with a movement of entreaty, she stretched up one hand and tremblingly covered his eyes.
"I am--quite sure," she said in a whisper. "And I--I don't like you to look at me like that."
He stood still, suffering himself to be so blinded, till, gaining confidence, she took her hand away.
"You won't ask me again, please, Trevor?" she said.
He smiled at her very kindly, but his voice, as he made answer, was grave. "No, dear, I shall never ask you that again."
She took his arm once more with evident relief. "Let us go up to the house," she said. "I expect Max is there already, waiting for us."
So they went up the weed-grown drive, and presently came into full sight of the house. It was a large, rambling building of stone, some of it very ancient, most of it covered with immense stacks of ivy. Another pair of iron gates divided park from garden, and as they approached these a lounging figure sauntered into view and came through to meet them.
Chris uttered a squeak of delight, and sprang forward. "Max!"
"Hullo!" said the new-comer.
He was a thick-set youth, with heavy red brows and a somewhat offhand demeanour. His eyes were green and very shrewd. They surveyed Mordaunt with open criticism. He was smoking a very foul-smelling cigarette.
Chris was very rosy. "Max," she said, "this is Trevor!"
"Hullo!" said Max again.
He extended a careless hand and gave his future brother-in-law a hard grip. There was no particular friendliness in the action, it was evidently his custom to grip hard.
"Come to investigate your new abode?" he said. "Are you going to pull it down?"
"It is not my present intention," Mordaunt said.
"Of course he isn't!" said Chris. "Don't be absurd, Max. It is going to be made lovely inside and out, and we are all going to live here."
"Are we?" said Max, with a sudden grin. "Who says so?"
He glanced at Mordaunt with the words, and it was Mordaunt who answered him--
"I hope you and your brothers will continue to look upon it as your home until you have homes of your own."
"Very rash of you!" commented Max, swinging round again to the gate. "Well, come inside and see it."
They went within, went from room to room of the old place, Max with the air of a sardonic showman, Mordaunt gravely attentive to details, Chris light-footed, eager with many ideas for its reformation. The mildewed walls and partially dismantled rooms, with their moth-eaten furniture and threadbare carpets, had no damping effect upon her spirits. She had a boundless faith in her _fiance's_ power to transform her ancient home into a palace of delight.
"If you really mean to buy it as it stands, I should recommend you to make a bonfire of the contents," said Max presently, as they stood all together in the deep bay window of a room on the first floor that looked out upon the park, with a glimpse beyond of distant hills. "But the place itself is an absolute ruin. I can't imagine how you are going to patch it up."
"I think it can be done," Mordaunt said. He was staring out somewhat absently, and spoke as if his thoughts were wandering.
Both brother and sister glanced at him. Then, "When are you going to get married?" asked Max.
Mordaunt came out of his reverie. "That," he said deliberately, "has still to be decided."
"Who is going to decide? You or Chris?" Max lighted another cigarette and pitched the match, still burning, from the window.
"Oh, Max!" exclaimed Chris. "How dangerous! Look! There is Cinders sniffing along the terrace! He is sure to burn his nose!"
She was gone with the words, and Max, with a brief laugh, returned to the charge.
"I conclude the decision rests with her."
"Well?" said Mordaunt. He spoke curtly; perhaps he resented the boy's interference, or perhaps he had had enough of the subject for that day.
"Look here," said Max. "I know Chris. She will keep you dangling for the next ten years if you will put up with it. If you want to be married soon, you will have to assert yourself."
Mordaunt was silent.
Max waited. Below them Chris flashed suddenly into view, darting with a butterfly grace of movement to the rescue of her pet.
Abruptly Mordaunt spoke. "I sometimes wonder if she is too young to be married."
"What?" Max removed his cigarette and stared at him. "She is as old as I am!"
Mordaunt looked back, faintly smiling. "Yes, I know. But--well, that's no argument, is it?"
"I suppose not. All the same"--Max leaned back nonchalantly against the window-frame--"if you mean to wait till she grows up, you'll wait a precious long time, and she will probably run away with another fellow while you are thinking about it."
Mordaunt clapped a restraining hand on his shoulder. "My friend," he said, "I don't permit that sort of thing to be said of Chris."
Maxwell's green eyes twinkled. "You don't, eh? That's rather decent of you. But, you know, there is such a thing as being too trusting. And the family of Wyndham are not conspicuously famous for their honourable scruples. Now, Chris is as much a Wyndham as the rest of us, and--I'm going to say it whether you like it or not, it's the truth also--she is a deal more likely to keep out of mischief if she marries young. You are no fool by the look of you. You know there is reason in what I say."
"You have said enough," Mordaunt said, with a touch of sternness.
"All right. The subject is closed. But--just tell me this. Do you--or do you not--want to marry her before the summer is over?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I want to know."
"Well"--Mordaunt's eyes studied him for a few seconds--"it is an unnecessary question."
"Because I know the answer?" questioned Max.
"Exactly."
"Very well." He straightened himself with a smile. "I think I can manage that for you."
"Wait!" Mordaunt said. "You mean well, but--I would rather you didn't attempt it. I would rather that Chris were left to settle this matter for herself."
"So she will. I know what I'm about, bless your heart! Chris always asks my advice and generally takes it. She will marry you all right before the end of the season. You leave it to me."
He turned from the window with the words, still smiling. "Give me five minutes alone with her," he said.
And Mordaunt, though more than half against his will, yielded the point, and let him go.
They lunched in the old oak-beamed dining-room--a meal presided over by Max, who played the host with a half-mocking air, while Chris, still eager upon the renovations, poured out plans, practicable and otherwise, for her _fiance's_ consideration.
"What a pity we have to get back!" she said regretfully when the time for departure drew near. "I want to begin right away, Trevor. Why can't we spend the night here? Wire to Aunt Philippa, Max. Say we are busy."
Max grinned. "What says Trevor?"
"Quite impossible," said Mordaunt, with a smile at her ardent face. "There isn't a bed for you to sleep on."
"I could sleep on the sofa with Cinders," she said. "We can sleep anywhere."
"They've slept on a heap of stones before now," remarked Max.
"I'm sure we haven't!" She whisked round upon him with a suddenness that was almost a challenge. "We haven't, Max!" she repeated.
He stuck a cigarette into his mouth. "All right, my dear girl. My mistake, no doubt. I thought you had."
"Don't be absurd!" ordered Chris, colouring vividly "We never did anything so--so disreputable." She twined her arm impulsively in Mordaunt's. "Don't believe him, Trevor!"
"I don't," he said, with his quiet eyes upon her upturned face.
Max laughed aloud. "Why don't you tell him the joke, Chris?"
"Because there isn't any joke, and you're very horrid," she returned with spirit. "Trevor, let's go!"
"I am ready," he said.
"Very well, then." Chris turned round with relief in her face and hastily tied her veil. "Please find Cinders, Max," she said. "And bring Trevor's coat. It's in the billiard-room. I suppose we really must go back this time, but you will bring me again, won't you, Trevor?"
"As often as you care to come," he said.
"Ah, yes! Only I'm so full of engagements just now. It's such a nuisance. One can never get away."
"What! Tired of London?" he said.
"Oh no, not really. But I want to be here, too. I love this place. You won't do anything in it without me, will you?"
"Not without your approval, certainly," he promised.
She turned back to him with her quick smile. "Trevor, thank you! I--I've decided to marry you as soon as ever I can--as soon as Hilda comes back from her honeymoon."
He was smoking a cigarette. He took it from between his lips and dropped it into an ash-tray. For a moment his face was turned from her. He seemed to be watching the smouldering ash. Then, "Really, Chris?" he said, looking down at her again.
She was tugging at her gloves. She thrust her hand out to him. "Button it, please!" she said, rather breathlessly, as if the exertion had exhausted her somewhat.
He took it, bent over it, suddenly pressed his lips to the soft wrist.
"Oh, don't!" said Chris, and snatched it from him.
When Max came back she was standing by the window, still fumbling at her glove, with her back turned, while her _fiance_ leaned against the mantelpiece, finishing his cigarette.


CHAPTER VIII
THE COMPACT

Wearily Bertrand de Montville turned his head upon the sofa-cushion, and opened his heavy eyes. He seemed to be listening for something, but evidently he considered that he had listened in vain, for his eyelids began to droop again almost immediately. He seemed to drift into a state of semi-consciousness.
The evening sunlight was screened from his face by blinds, but even so its deep shadows were painfully distinct. He looked unutterably tired.
There came a slight sound at the door, and again his eyes were open. In a moment, with incredible briskness, he was off the couch and half-way across the room before, seized with sudden dizziness, he began to falter.
Trevor Mordaunt, entering, made a dive forward, and held him up.
"Now, my friend, lie down again," he said, "and stay down till further orders."
"Ah, pardon me!" the Frenchman murmured, clutching vaguely for support. "I am strong, more strong than you think. I--I--"
"Lie down," Trevor reiterated. "You don't give yourself a chance, man. You forget you have been a helpless invalid for the past ten days. There! How's