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

dare to tell you, and I haven't dared since. I just let you think it was all right--when it wasn't. Oh, Trevor, don't be angry--don't be angry!"
"I am not angry," he said.
"Not really? But how you must despise me! It's just the way of the Wyndhams. We all do it. Trevor, why did you make me tell you?"
"My dear child," he said, "you must tell me these things. It is your only possibility of happiness, and mine also. Chris, never keep anything from me, for Heaven's sake! Don't you know that I trust you?"
"I don't deserve it!" sobbed Chris, clinging faster. "You don't know how bad I am!"
"Hush!" he said, with a restraining hand upon her head. "You have told me everything now?"
"Oh no, I haven't!" she whispered. "There are crowds of things I couldn't even begin to tell you. I have always warned you how it would be. I always said--"
Her agitation was increasing, and her words became inaudible. He saw that her nerves had given way under the long day's strain, and firmly, with infinite gentleness, he put a stop to further discussion of a subject that threatened to upset her seriously.
"Never mind," he said. "You will tell me by and bye, or if you don't I shall know it is all right. Chris, Chris, you mustn't get hysterical. You are worn out, dear, and it has upset your sense of proportion. Come, I am going to send you to bed. We will go into these money matters in the morning."
But Chris vehemently negatived this. "I don't want to--to spoil to-morrow. I--I shouldn't sleep for thinking of it. Oh, Trevor, let's settle it now. I'm going to be sensible--really. And--and--if you'll forgive me for all the bad things I've done up to to-day I--I will really try to tell you everything as it happens from now on. Will you, Trevor?"
She raised pleading, pathetic eyes, still wet with tears. He could feel her still quivering with the emotion she was striving to subdue. She was too near in that moment to resist--perhaps he would not have resisted her in any case; for he had it not in his heart to think ill of her.
"My darling," he said, "we will leave it at that. Only--in the future--trust me as I am trusting you."
He turned to the table and closed the cheque-book. "These debts are my affair. I will settle them. Just tell me what they are."
"Oh, but they are settled!" she told him. "I promised I would, you know."
"Then"--he looked at her--"someone lent you the money?"
Something in his tone made her shrink again. She hesitated.
"Chris!" he said.
Nervously she answered him. "Jack lent me forty pounds."
"Jack!" he said. "You weren't afraid to ask him, then?"
"Oh no!" she said quickly. "I'm not a bit afraid of Jack."
"Only of me, Chris!"
She gave herself back to him with a swift, shy movement. "It's the fear of vexing you," she said. "I don't mind vexing--other people. It's only you--only you. Trevor, say you understand!"
He did not answer her instantly, but the close holding of his arms drove all misgiving from her soul. He rose to his feet, raising her with him, pressing her to him faster and ever faster till her arms crept round his neck again, and she lay, a willing prisoner, against his heart.
And so holding her, at last he answered her tremulous appeal. "My darling, never be afraid of vexing me! Never be afraid that I shall not understand!"
She could not speak in answer. The wonder of his love for her had stricken her dumb; it had swept upon her like a wave, towering, immense, resistless, bearing her far beyond her depth.
She could only mutely lift her quivering lips; and he, moved to gentleness by her action, took her face between his hands with infinite tenderness, gazing down into her eyes with that in his own which cast out the last of her fear.
"My little Chris!" he said. "My wife!"


PART II

CHAPTER I
SUMMER WEATHER

"I think quite the worst part of being married is having to pay calls," said Chris.
"You do not like it, no?" said Bertrand, with quick sympathy.
"No," she rejoined emphatically. "And I don't see any sense in it either. No one ever wants afternoon callers."
"But that depends upon the caller, does it not?" he said.
"Not in the least," said Chris. "There's a stodginess about afternoon calling that affects even the nicest people. It's the most tiresome institution there is."
"Then why do it?" he suggested, with a smile.
She shook her head severely.
"Don't be immoral, Bertie! You're trying to tempt me from my duty."
"Never!" he declared earnestly.
"Oh, but you are; and I am not sure that you are not neglecting your own as well. What brought you out at this hour?"
He spread out his hands. "Mr. Mordaunt has ordered me to take a rest to-day."
Chris looked up at him sharply. "Aren't you well, Bertie?"
"But it is nothing," he said. "I have told him. It happens to me often--often--that I do not sleep. I have explained all that. But what would you? He is obstinate--he will not listen."
Chris patted a hammock-chair beside her. "Sit down at once. I knew there was something the matter directly I saw you this morning. But you always look horribly tired. Do you never sleep properly?"
He dropped into the chair and stretched up his arms with a sigh. "It is only in the morning that I am tired," he said. "It is nothing--a weakness that passes. Or if it passes not--I go."
"Go!" repeated Chris, startled.
He turned his head towards her. "That surprises you, yes? But how can I remain if I cannot work?"
"Oh, but you haven't been here a fortnight," she said quickly. "I expect the change of air has upset you. And it has been so hot too."
He acquiesced languidly, as if not greatly interested. His dark eyes watched her gravely. Evidently his thoughts had wandered from himself.
Chris was not slow to perceive this. "What are you thinking of?" she demanded.
"I am thinking of you," he answered promptly.
"What of me?" The blue eyes met his quite openly. Chris was always frank to her pals.
"I was thinking," he said, in his soft, friendly voice, "how you were happy, and how I was glad."
She threw him a quick smile. "How nice of you, Bertie! And how beautifully French! But, you know, I shan't be happy if you talk of leaving us. It will spoil everything, and I shall be absolutely miserable."
"You were not miserable before I joined you, no?" he said, smiling back at her.
"Of course I wasn't. But that was quite different. I knew all the while that you were coming. I should have been if anything had happened to prevent you."
"Really?" he said thoughtfully.
"Yes, really!" Chris was emphatic. "And I am sure there is nothing much the matter with you, Bertie; now, is there?"
He scarcely responded. "It will pass," he said. "And so you have arranged to make visits this afternoon?"
"Yes. Isn't it a bother?" Chris's brow wrinkled. "Noel wanted me to go and fish with him, but Trevor says I must go and see Mrs. Pouncefort, so I suppose I must. I hoped he would come too, but he has got to stay and interview the architect about that subsidence in the north wing. I wish you would come instead."
He shook his head. "No--no! That is not possible. Where does this lady live?"
"Sandacre way, towards the sea. Oh, do you know Rupert is coming over on Sunday with some brother officers? I had a card from him this morning. He is very fond of Mrs. Pouncefort--they all are. I don't know quite why. I believe they spend half their time there. Mr. Pouncefort is a dear little man--no one could help liking him. He has a yacht, and they always have a crowd of people staying there at this time of the year."
"_Alors_," he said, "it will amuse you to go there, no?"
Chris smiled. "Oh, not particularly. I would much rather stay with you and Trevor. Besides, I've such a lot to do."
She did not look overwhelmed with work as she leaned back in her hammock-chair, but she evidently intended to be busy, for a basket and scissors stood beside her.
Bertrand was much too courteous to suggest that she was not making the most of her time. Or perhaps he did not want to be left in solitary contemplation of that fleeting August morning. He lay silent for a little, and presently requested permission to smoke a cigarette.
"Of course," she said at once. "Why don't you go and lie in the hammock? I will come and rock you to sleep."
He thanked her, smiling, but declined.
She watched him light his cigarette with eyes grown thoughtful. Suddenly: "Bertie," she said, "are you very unhappy nowadays?"
He made a jerky movement, and dropped the match, still burning. Hastily he bent to extinguish it, but Chris was before him, her hand upon his arm, restraining him.
"No, sit still! It's all right. Tell me, please, Bertie! I want to know."
He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, still smiling, but in a fashion that she was at a loss to interpret.
"But what a question, _petite_! How can I answer it?"
"I should have thought---between friends---" she began.
"_Ah, oui_! We are friends, are we not?" A curious expression of relief took the place of his smile, and she felt as if for some reason he had been afraid. "And you ask me if I am unhappy," he said. "_Mais vraiment_--I know not what to say!"
"Then you are!" she said, quick pain in her voice.
He looked down at the little friendly hand that lay upon his arm, but he did not offer to touch it. His eyes remained downcast as he spoke. "I am more happy than I ever expected to be, Christine."
"You like your work?" she questioned. "Trevor is kind to you?"
"He is--much too kind," the Frenchman answered, with feeling.
"But still you are unhappy?" she said.
"It is--my own fault," he told her, still not looking at her.
She rubbed his sleeve sympathetically. "Bertie, don't you think--if you tried very hard--you might manage to forget all that old trouble?"
There was a note of pleading in her voice, and he made a quick gesture as he heard it, as if in some way it pierced him.
She went on speaking, as he made no attempt to do so. "You know, Bertie, you really are quite young still, and there are such a lot of nice things left. It's such a pity to keep on grieving. Don't you think so? It seems rather a waste of time. And I do--so--want you to be happy."
At the quiver in her voice he glanced up sharply, but he instantly lowered his eyes again. And still he said no word. He only drew his brows together and bit his cigarette to a pulp.
Her hand came softly down his arm and lay upon his.
"Bertie," she said, in a whisper, "you're not--vexed?"
His hand clenched at her touch, but on the instant he looked up at her with a smile. "Vexed!" he said. "With you! A thousand times--no!"
She smiled back, reassured. "Then will you--please--try to forget what you have lost? I know it won't be easy, but will you try? It's the only possible way to be happy. And if you are not happy--I shan't be either."
He took her hand at last with perfect steadiness into his own. "You know not what I have lost," he said. "But--if I try to forget--that will content