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

piteously.
"Have patience, mademoiselle! It will be better in a moment," came the quick reply. "I shall not hurt you more than is necessary. It is to arrest the bleeding, this. Mademoiselle will endure the pain like a brave child, yes?"
Chris swallowed a little shudder. The dizziness was passing. She was beginning to see more clearly, and her gaze travelled with dawning criticism over the neat white figure that ministered so confidently to her need.
"I knew he'd be French," she whispered half aloud.
"But I speak English, mademoiselle," he returned, without raising his black head,
"Yes," she said, with a sigh of relief. "I'm very glad of that. Must you pull it any tighter? I--I can bear it, of course, but I'd much rather you didn't if--if you don't mind."
She spoke gaspingly. Her eyes were full of tears, though she kept them resolutely from falling.
"Poor little one!" he said. "But you are very brave. Once more--so--and we will not do it again. The pain is not so bad now, no?"
He looked up at her with a smile so kindly that Chris nearly broke down altogether. She made a desperate grab after her self-control, and by dint of biting her lower lip very hard just saved herself from this calamity.
It was a very pleasing face that looked into her own, olive-hued, with brows as delicate as a woman's. A thin line of black moustache outlined a mouth that was something over-sensitive. He was certainly quite a captivating fairy prince.
Chris shook the thick hair back upon her shoulders and surveyed him with interest. "It's getting better," she said. "It was a horrid cut, wasn't it? You don't know how it hurt."
"But I can imagine it," he declared. "I saw immediately that it was serious. Mademoiselle cannot attempt to walk."
"Oh, but I must indeed!" protested Chris in dismay. "I shall be drowned if I stay here."
He shook his head. "Ah no, no! You shall not stay here. If you will accept my assistance, all will be well."
"But you can't--carry me!" gasped Chris.
He rose to his feet, still smiling. "And why not, little one? Because you think that I have not the strength?"
Chris looked up at him speculatively. She felt no shyness; he was not the sort of person with whom she could feel shy. He was too kindly, too protecting, too altogether charming, for that. But he was of slender build, and she could not help entertaining a very decided doubt as to his physical powers.
"I am much heavier--and much older--than you think," she remarked at length.
He laughed boyishly, as if she had made a joke. "_Mais c'est drole, cela_! Me, I have no thoughts upon the subject, mademoiselle. I believe what I see, and I assure you that I am well capable of carrying you across the rocks to Valpre. You lodge at Valpre?"
Chris nodded. "And you? No," hastily checking herself, "don't tell me! You live in the Magic Cave, of course. I knew you were there. It was why I came."
"You knew, mademoiselle?" His eyes interrogated her.
She nodded again in answer. "You have lived there for hundreds of years. You were under a spell, and I came and broke it. If I hadn't cut my foot, you would have been there still. Do you really think you can lift me? And what shall you do when you come to cross the rocks? They are much too slippery to walk on."
He stooped to raise her, still smiling. "Have no fear, mademoiselle! I know these rocks by heart."
She laughed with a child's pure merriment. "Oh, I am not afraid, _preux chevalier_. But if you find me too heavy--"
"If I cannot carry the queen of the fairies," he interrupted, "I am not worthy of the name."
He had her in his arms with the words, holding her lightly and easily, as if she had been an infant. His eyes smiled reassuringly into hers.
"So, mademoiselle! We depart for Valpre!"
"What fun!" said Chris.
It seemed she was to enjoy her adventure after all, adverse circumstances notwithstanding. Her foot throbbed and burned, but she put this fact resolutely away from her. She had found the knight, and, albeit he was French, she was very pleased with him. He was the prettiest toy that had ever yet come her way.
Possibly in this respect the knight's sentiments resembled hers. For she was very enchanting, this English girl, fresh as a rose and gay as a butterfly, with a face that none called beautiful but which most paused to admire. It was the vividness, the entrancing vitality of her, that caught the attention. People smiled almost unwittingly when little Chris Wyndham turned her laughing eyes their way; they were so clear, so blue, so confidingly merry. There was a rare sweetness about her, a spontaneous charm irresistibly winning. She loved everybody without effort, as naturally as she loved life, with an absence of self-consciousness so entire that perhaps it was not surprising that she was loved in return.
"You are much stronger than you look, _preux chevalier_," she remarked presently. "But wouldn't you like to set me down while you go and fetch my sandals? They are over there on the rocks. It would be a pity for them to get washed away, and I might manage to walk with them on."
He had brought her safely over the most difficult part of the way. He seated her at once upon a flat rock, and stooped to assure himself as to the success of his bandage.
"It gives you not so much of pain, no?" he asked.
"It scarcely hurts at all," she assured him. "You will be quick now, won't you, because I ought to be getting back. If you see Cinders, you might bring him too."
"Cinders?" he questioned, pausing.
"My dog," she explained. "But he doesn't talk French, so I don't suppose he will follow you."
He received the information with a smile. "But I speak English, mademoiselle," he protested for the second time.
"Ah yes, you do--after a fashion," admitted Chris. "But I don't suppose Cinders would understand it. It's not very English English."
He raised his shoulders in a gesture that was purely French. "_La belle dame sans merci_!" he murmured ruefully. "_Bien_! I will do my possible."
"Splendid!" laughed Chris. "No one could do more."
She watched him go with eyes that sparkled with merriment. The trim, slight figure was quite good to look upon. He went bounding over the rocks with the sure-footed grace of a chamois.
"I wonder who he really is," said Chris, "and where he comes from."


CHAPTER II
DESTINY

Over the rocks went the stranger with the careless speed of youth, humming to himself in a soft tenor, his brown face turned to the sun. The pleasant smile was still upon it. He had the look of one in whose eyes all things are good.
Ahead of him gleamed the towel with the sandals upon it, sandals that might have been fashioned for fairy feet. He quickened his pace at sight of them. But she was charming, this English child! He had never before seen anyone quite so dainty. And of a courage unique in one so young!
He was nearing the sandals now, but the sun was in his eyes, and he saw only the towel spread like a tablecloth over the rock. He sprang lightly down on to a heap of shingle, and reached for it, still humming the _chanson_ that the little English girl had somehow put into his head.
The next instant a deep growl arrested him, and sharply he drew back. There was something more than a pair of sandals on the towel above him, something that crouched in an attitude of tense hostility, daring him to approach. It was only a small creature that thus challenged him, only a weird black terrier of doubtful extraction, but he bristled from end to end with animosity. Quite plainly he regarded the sandals as his responsibility. With glaring eyes and gleaming teeth he crouched, prepared to defend them.
The young Frenchman's discomfiture was but momentary. In an instant he had taken in the situation and the humour of it.
"But it is the good Cinders!" he said aloud, and extended a fearless hand. "So, my friend, so! The little mistress waits."
Cinders' growl became a snarl. He sucked up his breath in furious protest, threatening murder. But the stranger's hand was not withdrawn. On the contrary it advanced upon him with the utmost deliberation till Cinders was compelled to jerk backwards to avoid it.
So jerking, he missed his footing as his mistress had before him, lost his balance, and rolled, cursing, clinging, and clambering, over the edge of the rock.
Had the Frenchman laughed at that moment he would have made an enemy for life. But most fortunately he did not regard an antagonist's downfall as a fit subject for mirth. In fact, being of a chivalrous turn, he grabbed at the luckless Cinders, clutched his collar, and dragged him up again. And--perhaps it was the generosity of the action, perhaps only its obvious fearlessness--he won Cinders' heart from that instant. His hostility merged into sudden ardent friendship. He set his paws on the young man's chest, and licked his face.
Thenceforth he was more than welcome to sandals and towel and even the effusive Cinders himself, who leaped around him barking in high delight, and accompanied him with giddy circlings upon his return journey.
Chris, who had viewed the encounter from afar with much interest, clapped her hands at their approach.
"And you weren't a bit afraid!" she laughed. "I couldn't think what you would do. Cinders looked so fierce. But any one can see you understand dogs--even English dogs."
"It is possible that at heart the English and the French resemble each other more than we think, mademoiselle," observed the Frenchman. "One can never tell."
He bent again over the injured foot with the sandal in his hand.
"It's very good of you to take all this trouble," said Chris abruptly.
He flashed her a quick smile. "But no, mademoiselle! It gives me pleasure to be of service to you."
"I'm sure I don't know what I should have done without you," she rejoined. "Ah, that is much better. I shall be able to walk now."
"You think it?" He looked at her doubtfully.
She nodded. "If you will take me as far as the sand, I shall do splendidly then. You see, I can't let you come into Valpre with me because--because--"
"Because, mademoiselle--?" Up went the black brows questioningly.
She flushed a little, but her clear eyes met his with absolute candour. "We have a French governess," she explained, "who was brought up in a convent, so she is very easily shocked. If she knew that I had spoken to a stranger, and a man"--she raised her hands with a merry gesture--"she would have a fit--several fits. I couldn't risk it. Poor mademoiselle! She doesn't understand our English ways a bit. Why, she wouldn't even let me paddle if she could help it. I shall have to keep very quiet about this foot of mine, or it will be '_Jamais encore_!' and '_Encore jamais_!' for the rest of my natural life. And, after all," pathetically, "there can be no great harm in dipping one's feet in sea-water, can there?"
But the Frenchman looked grave. "You will show your foot to the doctor, will you not?" he said.
"Dear me, no!" said Chris.
"_Mais, mademoiselle_--"
She checked him with her quick, winning smile.
"Please don't talk French. I like English so much the best. Besides, it's holiday-time."
"But, mademoiselle," he persisted, "if it should become serious!"
"Oh, it won't," she said lightly. "I shall be all right. Nothing ever happens to me."
"Nothing?" he questioned,