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

the sound of voices on the stairs he smiled involuntarily. But how they were droll--these English ladies! Would he ever accustom himself--
"Miss Wyndham, sir!" It was Holmes again, opening the door wide to usher in the unexpected visitor.
Bertrand bowed low.
The visitor paused an instant on the threshold, then came briskly forward. "Oh," she said, "are you the organ-grinder?"
He straightened himself with a jerk; he looked at her. And suddenly a cry rang through the room--a cry that came straight from a woman's heart, inarticulate, thrilled through and through with a rapture beyond words. And in a moment Bertrand de Montville, outcast and wanderer on the face of the earth, had shed the bitter burden that weighed him down, had leaped the dark dividing gulf that separated him from the dear land of his dreams, and stood once more upon the sands of Valpre, with a girl's hands fast clasped in his.
"_Mignonne_!" he gasped hoarsely. "_Mignonne_!" And again "_Mignonne_!"
Her answering voice had a break in it--a sound of unshed tears. "Bertie--dear! Bertie--dear!"
The door closed discreetly, and Holmes departed to his own premises. It was no affair of his, he informed himself stolidly; but it was a rum go, and he couldn't help wondering what the master would make of it.
"But why wasn't I told?" said Chris, yet hovering between tears and laughter. "They--Bertie--they said you were an organ-grinder!"
He let her hands go, but his dark eyes still shone with the wonder and the joy of the encounter.
"Ah!" he said. "And they told me--they told me--that you were--" He stopped abruptly with the dazed expression of a man suddenly hit in a vital place. All the light went out of his face. He became silent.
"Why--what is it?" said Chris.
He did not answer at once, and in the pause that ensued he resumed his burden, he re-crossed the gulf, and the sands of Valpre were left very, very far away.
In the pause also she saw him as he was--a man broken before his prime, haggard and tired and old, with the fire of his genius quenched for ever in the bitter waters of adversity.
With an effort he spoke. "It is nothing, _cherie_. You are the same. But with me--all is changed."
"Changed, Bertie? But how?"
He looked at her. His eyes dwelt upon the vivid, happy face, but all the spontaneous gladness had died out of his own; it held only an infinite melancholy.
"He--Mr. Mordaunt--has not told you?"
"No one has told me anything," she said. "What is it, Bertie? Have things gone wrong with you? Tell me! Was it--was it the gun?"
He bent his head.
"Oh, but I'm so sorry," she said. "Was it a failure, after all?"
She drew near to him. She laid a sympathetic hand upon his arm.
A sharp tremor went through him. He stooped very low and kissed it. "It was--worse than that," he said, his voice choked, barely audible. "It was--it was--dishonour."
"Dishonour!" She echoed the word, uncomprehending, unbelieving.
He remained bent over her hand. She could not see his face. "Have you never heard," he said, "of ex-Lieutenant de Montville--the man whom all France execrated three years ago as a traitor?"
"Yes," said Chris. "I've heard of him, of course. But"--doubtfully--"I don't read the papers much. I didn't know what he was supposed to have done. I only knew that everyone in England said he hadn't."
The Frenchman sighed heavily. "The people in England did not know," he said.
"No? Then you think he was guilty?"
He stood up sharply and faced her. "I know that he was innocent," he said. "But it could not be proved. That is what the English could never realize. And--_cherie_--I was that man. I was Lieutenant de Montville."
Chris was gazing at him in amazement. "You!" she said incredulously.
"I," he said. "They accused me of treason. They thought that I would sell my own gun--my own gun. They sent me to prison--_mon Dieu_! I know not how I survived. I suffered until it seemed that I could suffer no more. And then they gave me my liberty--they banished me from France. I came to England--and I starved."
"You starved, Bertie!" Her blue eyes widened with horrified pity. "You!" she said. "You!"
He smiled with wistful humour. "Men more worthy than I have done the same," he said.
"Oh, but you, my own _preux chevalier_!" Chris's voice trembled upon the words.
He made a quick, restraining gesture. "But no--not that!" he said. "Your friend always, _petite_, but your _preux chevalier_--never again!"
Chris smiled, with quivering lips. "You will never be anything but my _preux chevalier_ so long as you live," she said. "Oh, Bertie, I'm so distressed--so grieved--to think of all you have had to bear. I never dreamt of its being you. You know, I never heard your name. We went away so suddenly from Valpre. I had no time to think of anything. I--I was very miserable--afterwards." Her voice sank; her eyes were full of tears. "I knew you would think I had forgotten, but indeed, indeed it wasn't that!"
"Ah, _pauvre petite_!" he said gently.
"And you didn't know my name either, did you?" she said. "I kept telling myself you would find out somehow and write--but you never did."
He spread out his hands. "But what could I do? Your name was not known. And I--I could not leave Valpre to seek you. My duties kept me at the fortress. And so--and so--I said that I would wait until my fortune was well assured, and then--then--" He stopped. "But that is past," he said, with an odd little smile that somehow cut her to the heart. "_Et maintenant_ tell me of yourself, _petite_, of all your affairs. Much may arrive in four years. But first--you are happy, yes?"
Eagerly the dark eyes sought hers as he asked the question.
Chris looked back at him with a little frown. "Yes, I am happy, Bertie. At least--I should be happy--if it weren't for thinking of you. Oh, Bertie, that horrid gun! I always hated it!"
Again her voice quivered on the verge of tears, and again with a quick gesture he stayed her.
"We will speak of it no more," he said. "See! We turn another page in the book of life, and we commence again. Let us remember only, Christine, that we are good comrades, you and I. But it is a good thing, this _camaraderie_. It gives us pleasure, yes?"
She gave him her hands impulsively. "Bertie!" she cried. "We shall always be pals--always--all our lives; but don't--dear, don't smile at me like that! I can't bear it!"
He held her hands very tightly; he had wholly ceased to smile. But still gallantly he shielded her from the danger she had not begun to see. He did it instinctively, because of the love he bore her, and because of the innocence in her eyes.
"But what is it?" he said. "It is necessary that we smile sometimes, _cherie,_ since to weep is futile, and laughter is always more precious than tears. Ah! that is better. You smile yourself. It is always thus that I remember my little friend of Valpre. She was ever too brave for tears."
He pressed her hands encouragingly, and again he let them go. But the strain was telling upon him. There was one subject which he could not trust himself to broach.
And for some reason Chris could not broach it either. She took refuge in every-day affairs; she told him of the giddy doings that kept her occupied from morning till night, of Cinders (the mention of whose name kindled a reminiscent gleam in the Frenchman's eyes), of the coming birthday dance, which he must promise to attend.
He shook his head over that; such gaieties were not for him. But Chris pressed the point with much persistence. Of course he must come. It would be no fun without him. Did he remember that birthday picnic at Valpre, and--and the night they had passed in the Magic Cave? She spoke of it with heightened colour and a hint of defiance which was plainly not directed against him.
"And I was afraid of the dragon," she said. "And you held my hand. I remember it so well. And afterwards I went to sleep, and slept all night long with my head on your shoulder."
"You were but a child," he said softly.
"But it seems like yesterday," she answered.
And then it was that the door opened very quietly, and Trevor Mordaunt came in upon them, sitting together in the gloom.


CHAPTER XI
THE EXPLANATION

There was nothing hurried in his entrance, nothing startling; but yet a sudden silence fell.
Out of it almost immediately came Bertrand's voice. "Ah, Mr. Mordaunt, you return to find a visitor. Miss--Wyndham is here. She came to seek you, but she found only--" he spread out his hands characteristically--"the organ-grinder."
He had risen with the words; so also had Chris. She went forward, but without her usual impetuosity.
"I have found an old friend, Trevor," she said, speaking quickly, as if embarrassed. "I have known Mr.--Mr.--what did you say your name was?" turning towards him again.
He shrugged his shoulders. "I am called Bertrand, mademoiselle."
She smiled in her quick way. "I have known--Bertrand--for years. At least, we used to know each other years ago, and--and we knew each other again the moment we met. It was a great surprise to me--to us both."
"And a great pleasure," said Bertrand, with a bow.
"An immense pleasure," said Chris, with enthusiasm.
"But, my dear girl," Mordaunt said, his quiet voice falling almost coldly upon their explanations, "what on earth made you come here of all places?"
"Oh," said Chris, leaping to this new point almost with relief, "it was raining, and thundering too. I hadn't an umbrella and I knew I should be drenched, and this was the nearest shelter I could think of, so I just came. It seemed the most sensible thing to do. I thought perhaps you would be pleased to see me. I even fancied you might give me tea."
There was a faint note of wistfulness in her voice though she was smiling. She stood before him with something of the air of a culprit.
"Of course Aunt Philippa wouldn't approve," she said. "I know that. But--you always say you are not like Aunt Philippa, Trevor."
He took her hand very gently but with evident purpose into his own.
"I will give you tea with pleasure," he said, "but not here. Holmes shall call a taxi. I am afraid you must say good-bye to your friend now, unless--" he paused momentarily--"unless, Bertrand, you care to accompany us."
"Oh do, Bertie!" she said eagerly. "I want you. Please come!"
But Bertrand's refusal was instant and final.
"It is impossible," he declared. "I thank you a thousand times, but I have yet many letters to write, and the post will not wait."
"Letters?" said Chris curiously.
"M. Bertrand is my secretary," said Mordaunt quietly.
"Oh, is he? And you never told me! But what a splendid idea!" Chris stood between the two men, flushed, eager, charming. "I'm so glad, Bertie," she said impulsively. "You may think yourself very lucky. Mr. Mordaunt is quite the nicest man in the world."
Bertrand bowed low. "I believe it," he said simply.
"Then we shall see quite a lot of each other," went on Chris. "That will be great fun--just like old times. Oh, must I really go? I don't want to at all, and nothing will make me sorry that I came." She threw a gay smile at her _fiance_, and withdrew her hand to give it to the friend of her childhood. "_Au revoir, preux chevalier_! You will come to my birthday party? Promise!" Then, as he still shook his head: "Trevor, if you don't