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

that? Comfortable?"
"You are always so good--so good!" panted de Montville very earnestly. "I know not how to thank you--how to repay."
"Just obey orders, that's all," said the Englishman, faintly smiling. "I want to get you well. No, you are not well yet--say what you like, you're not. I've let you get up for an experiment, but if you don't behave yourself back you go. Now lie still, quite still, while I open my letters. When you have quite recovered your breath we will have a talk."
He had assumed this tone of authority from the outset, and de Montville had submitted, in the first place because he was too ill to do otherwise, and later because, somewhat to his surprise, he found himself impelled thereto by his own inclination. It did not in any fashion wound his pride, this kindly mastery. He wondered at himself for tolerating it, and yet he offered no resistance. It was too great a thing to resist.
So, still panting a little, he subsided obediently upon Mordaunt's sofa while the latter busied himself with his correspondence.
There was a considerable pile of letters. Mordaunt opened one after another with the deliberation that marked most of his actions, but the pile dwindled very quickly notwithstanding. Some letters he dropped at once into a waste-paper basket, upon others he scribbled a few notes; two or three he laid aside for further consideration.
The last of all he held in his hand for several seconds unopened. The envelope was a large one and stiff, as if it contained cardboard. It was directed in an irregular, childish scrawl. Mordaunt, sitting at his writing-table, with his back to his guest, studied it gravely, thoughtfully. Finally very quietly he broke the seal.
There was a crackle of tissue-paper, and he drew out a photograph--the photograph of a laughing girl with a diminutive terrier of doubtful extraction clasped in her arms. Without any change of countenance he studied this also.
He laid it at last upon his table, and turned in his chair. "Have you had anything to drink?"
De Montville looked slightly disconcerted by the question. "But no!" he said. "I have not--that is to say, I would not--"
Mordaunt stretched a hand to the bell. "Holmes should have seen to it. What do you drink? Afraid I can't offer you absinthe."
"But I never drink it, monsieur."
"No? Whisky and soda, then?"
"What you will, monsieur."
"Very well. Whisky and soda, Holmes, and be quick about it." Mordaunt glanced at the clock, looked again at the photograph at his elbow, finally rose. "I want a talk with you, M. de Montville," he said, "if you feel up to it. Don't get up, please. There is no necessity."
But de Montville apparently thought otherwise, for he drew himself to a sitting position and faced his benefactor.
"I also," he said, "have desired to talk with you since long."
Mordaunt pulled up a chair. "Do you mind if I talk first?" he said.
"But certainly, monsieur." With quick courtesy the Frenchman made reply. His dark eyes were very intent. He fixed them upon the Englishman's face and composed himself to listen.
"It's just this," Mordaunt said. "I think we know each other well enough to dispense with preliminaries, so I will come to the point at once. Now you have probably realized by this time that I am a very busy man--have been for several years past. In my profession there is not much time for sitting still, nor, till lately, have I wanted it. But there comes a time in most men's lives when they feel that they would like to get out of the rash and enjoy a little leisure, take it easy--in short, settle down and grow old in comfort."
De Montville nodded several times with swift intelligence. "_Alors_, monsieur contemplates marriage," he said.
Mordaunt laughed a little. "Exactly, _mon ami_, and that speedily."
He broke off at the entrance of his servant, and for the next few seconds busied himself with the mixing of drinks. De Montville continued to watch him with keen interest. As Mordaunt handed him his glass he clutched the sofa-head and stood up.
"I drink to your future happiness," he said, with a sudden smile and bow, "and to the lady who will be so fortunate as to share it!"
Mordaunt held out his hand. "Thank you. Much obliged. But sit down, my dear fellow. I haven't quite finished what I want to say. And you are too shaky to be bobbing up and down. I was just going to point out where you come in."
De Montville gripped his hand with all his strength. "I can serve you, then? You have only to speak."
But Mordaunt would not speak till he was recumbent again. Then very quietly he came to the point.
"The upshot of it is that I want a secretary to take things off my hands a bit, and since I would rather have a pal than a stranger in that capacity I am wondering if you will take on the job."
"I!" Utter amazement sounded in de Montville's voice. He sat bolt upright for a space of seconds, staring into the impassive British face before him. "But you--you--joke!" he said at last, his voice very low.
"No, I am quite in earnest." Gravely Mordaunt returned his look. "I believe we might pull together very well. Think it over, M. de Montville, and if you feel inclined to give it a trial--"
"I wish that you would call me Bertrand," de Montville broke in unexpectedly. "It would be more convenient. My name is known in England, and--I do not like publicity. As for your--so generous--suggestion, monsieur, I have no words. I am your debtor in all things. I know well that it is of my welfare that you think. For myself I do not need to consider for a moment. I would accept with joy and gratitude the most profound. But, I ask you, are you altogether wise in thus reposing your confidence in a man of whom you know nothing, except that he was tried and condemned for an offence of which you had the goodness to believe him innocent? I repeat, monsieur, are you altogether wise?"
"From my own point of view--absolutely." Mordaunt spoke with a smile. He held up his glass. "You accept, then?"
"How could I do other than accept?" protested the Frenchman, with outspread hands.
"Then drink with me to the success of our alliance," said Mordaunt. "I believe it will work very well."
He prepared to drink, but de Montville made a swift movement to arrest him. "But one moment! First, monsieur, you will give me your promise that if in any manner I fail to satisfy you, you will at once inform me of it?"
Mordaunt paused, regarding him steadily. "Yes, I will promise you that," he said.
"Ah! Good! Then I drink with you, monsieur, to the success of our compact. It will be my pleasure and privilege to serve you to the utmost of my ability."
He drank almost with reverence, and set down his glass with a hand that trembled.
Mordaunt got up. "That is settled, then. By the way, the question of salary does not seem to have occurred to you. I don't know if you have any ideas upon the subject. Four hundred pounds per annum is what I thought of offering."
"Four hundred pounds!" De Montville stared at him in amazement. "Four hundred pounds!" he repeated, in rising agitation. "But no, monsieur! It is too much! I will not--I cannot--take--even from you--a gift so great. I--I--"
He waxed unintelligible in his distress, and would have risen, but Mordaunt's hand upon his shoulder kept him down. Mordaunt bent over him, very quiet and friendly, very sure of himself and of the man he addressed.
"That's all right, _mon ami_. It is not too much. It's a perfectly fair bargain, and--to please me if you like--I want you to accept it. You will find there is plenty to do, possibly more than you anticipate. So--suppose we consider it settled, eh?"
De Montville was silent.
"We'll call it done," Mordaunt said. "Have a cigarette!"
He held his case in front of the Frenchman, and after a moment de Montville took one. But he only balanced it in his fingers, still saying nothing.
"A light?" suggested Mordaunt.
He made a jerky movement, and glanced up for an instant. "Mr. Mordaunt," he said, speaking with evident difficulty, "what is--a pal?"
"A pal," Mordaunt said, smiling slightly, "is a special kind of friend, Bertrand--the best kind, the sort you open your heart to in trouble, the sort that is always ready to stand by."
"Such a friend as you have been to me?" questioned de Montville slowly.
"Well, if you like to say so," Mordaunt said. "I almost think we might call ourselves pals by this time. What say you?"
"I, monsieur?" He reached up and grasped the hand that rested on his shoulder. "For myself I ask no better," he said, in a voice that quivered beyond control, "than to be to you what you have been to me. And I will sooner die by my own hand than give you cause to regret your kindness."
"Which you never will," Mordaunt said. "Come, light up, man! Here's a match!"
He held it up, and de Montville had perforce to place the cigarette between his lips. His throat was working spasmodically, but with a valiant effort he managed to inhale a mouthful of smoke. He choked over it badly the next moment, however, and Mordaunt patted his back with much goodwill till he was better.
"There, my dear fellow, lie down now and take it easy. I'm dining out; but Holmes has special orders to look after you; and if you are wanting anything, in the name of common-sense ask for it."
With that he turned from the sofa, took up the photograph that lay upon his writing-table, hesitated an instant, then thrust it into his breast-pocket, and strolled out of the room.


CHAPTER IX
A CONFESSION

"So you don't like my photograph!" said Chris.
"Why do you say that?"
"I could see you didn't. What's the matter with it? Isn't it pretty enough? It's just like me."
"Yes, it's just like you," Mordaunt admitted.
"Then you don't like me?" suggested Chris.
He smiled at that. "Yes, I like you very much. But--"
"Well?" said Chris, her deep-sea eyes full of eager curiosity. "Go on, please!"
"Well," he said, "that photograph is not one that I could show to my friends."
"But why not--if it's just like me?"
He took her chin and turned her face gently to the light. "Try again," he said, "without Cinders."
"Without Cinders!" She stared at him mystified, then began to laugh. "Trevor, I believe you are jealous of Cinders!"
"Perhaps," he said. "Anyhow, I should prefer your portrait without him. You look like a baby of six cuddling a toy."
"I wonder what makes you so anxious to marry me," said Chris unexpectedly.
Mordaunt still smiled at her. "Strange, isn't it?" he said.
"Yes, I can't understand it in the least." She shook her head with a puzzled expression. "It's a pity you don't like that photograph. I'm sure Cinders has come out beautifully. And he isn't a bit like a toy."
"Yes, but I don't want Cinders."
Chris looked at him with sudden misgiving. "But, Trevor, when--when we are married--"
"Oh, of course," he said at once. "I didn't mean that. I haven't the smallest wish to part you from him. It's only his photograph I have no use for."
Her face cleared magically. "Dear Trevor, I quite understand. And I would go and be done again to-morrow if I had the money, but I haven't."
"Are you very hard up?" he asked.
She nodded. "Horribly. I'm very extravagant, too--at least, Aunt