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

give you every farthing I could spare, indeed--indeed. I might even ask him for a little later on--not yet, of course, but by and bye, if I saw an opportunity. Oh, you don't know what it means to me--how much depends upon it."
"Why don't you tell me?" Rupert asked.
"Because I can't--I daren't!" Chris laid imploring hands upon his shoulders; her eyes besought him. "Dear Rupert, it isn't that I don't trust you. Don't think that! But it wouldn't do any good if you knew, and I simply can't talk about it. I've shown how much I trust you by asking you to help me out of my trouble. There is no one else in the world that I could ask--not even Max. He would make me tell him everything. But you won't, dear; I know you won't, will you?"
It was impossible not to be moved by her earnest pleading. Rupert slipped an arm around her. "You needn't be afraid of me," he said.
"I know I needn't," she answered, laying her cheek against him with a quick gesture of confidence. "And I am of everyone else--even of Bertie. It's absurd, isn't it? Fancy being afraid of Bertie!" She smiled through tears.
"He doesn't know, then?" said Rupert.
"Bertie? No, no, of course not! I wouldn't have him know for the world. He would go and do--something desperate." Chris's startled eyes testified to her dread of this contingency. "No, I haven't dared to tell anyone, except you. If you can't help me, there's no one left. I--I shall run away and drown myself."
"Oh, nonsense!" said Rupert. "There's a way out of every difficulty if one has the wit to find it. Keep cool, my dear girl! If you let yourself go, you will give your own show away."
"I know! I know!" gasped Chris. "But what can I do? It would kill me if Trevor knew!"
Rupert's arm tightened protectingly about her. At least they stood by each other, these Wyndhams. "Then Trevor mustn't know," he rejoined. "I'll manage it somehow if it's humanly possible. You must let me think it over. And in the meantime, for goodness' sake, keep cool. If Trevor were to see you now, he would know there was something up directly."
As a matter of fact, he himself had never seen his sister so agitated before. She was like a terrified bird in a trap. What on earth had she been doing? he wondered. What made her go in such abject fear of her husband that the very mention of his name was enough to send every vestige of colour from her face?
He grasped her trembling fingers reassuringly. "There! Leave it to me," he said. "I'll find a way out, never fear. I've been in a good many tight corners in my time, but I've always wriggled out somehow. I suppose you want the money soon?"
"At once," said Chris.
He made a grimace, as of one swallowing a nauseous draught. "All right, you shall have it. Now, don't worry any more. It's going to be all right." He patted her shoulder kindly. "Only, for Heaven's sake, don't do it again!"
She shivered, and turned away to hide her quivering lips. "If--if you can get me the money this once," she said, "I--I'll never ask you again, and I'll give you every farthing--every farthing--"
"My dear child, I don't want your farthings," responded Rupert cheerily. "If you can make it fifty pounds now, I shall be quite grateful. But I'll get you yours first, never mind how. Now, hadn't we better go back to the rest? Aunt Philippa will be wondering what we are conspiring about. By the way, when does she depart?"
"Soon, I hope," said Chris fervently.
He grinned. "Had enough of her, eh? So, I should imagine, has Trevor. He is keener on giving advice than taking it, if I know anything about him."
"She wouldn't dare to give Trevor advice," protested Chris.
"Ho! wouldn't she?" He laughed derisively, as they turned to leave the little room in the roof that was her refuge, but paused at the door to slip his arm through hers. "You're not to worry, young 'un," he said, with a patronage that did not veil concern. "Do you know you're looking downright ill?"
She smiled up at him wistfully. "Things have been pretty horrid lately. But I won't worry any more if--if you tell me I needn't."
"You needn't," he said, and impulsively he stooped and kissed her. He had always had a protecting tenderness for his little sister.
They descended to the drawing-room to find Aunt Philippa writing letters in solitary state. The rest of the company, with the exception of Mordaunt, who was at work in his own room, were in the billiard-room just beyond, and Chris and Rupert repaired thither, relieved to make their escape so easily.
They found Bertrand, who was an expert player, making a long break. He was playing against Max, whose opinion of him was obviously rising with this display of skill.
He was engaged upon a most difficult stroke when Chris entered, and she stopped behind him lest she should disturb his aim. But he turned round at once to her, leaving the balls untouched.
"_Mais non_!" he declared lightly. "I cannot play with my back to my hostess. It is an affair _tres difficile_, and I must have everything in my favour."
"Oh, don't let me spoil your luck!" she said.
She came and stood at the end of the table to watch him.
"That would not be possible," he protested, as he applied himself again to the ball.
He achieved the stroke with that finish and dexterity that marked all he did.
"Oh, I say!" said Noel disgustedly. "You haven't a look-in, Max. He plays like a machine."
"You like not to be beaten by a Frenchman, no?" laughed Bertrand. "_Il faut que les anglais soient toujours, toujours les premiers, hein_?" He stopped suddenly, for Chris had made the faintest movement, as if his words had touched some chord of memory. He flashed her a swift look, and the smile died out of his face. He moved round the table, and again stooped to his stroke. "But what is success after all," he said, "and what is failure?"
"You ought to know," Max observed dryly, as again he made his point.
The Frenchman straightened himself. There was something of kinship between these two, a tacit sympathy that had taken root on the night of Chris's birthday, an understanding that called for no explanation.
"Yes," he said, with a quick nod, "I know them both. They are worth just--that." He snapped his fingers in the air. "They pass like"--he hesitated a moment, then ended with deliberation--"like pictures in the sand."
"The same remark applies to most things," said Rupert.
Bertrand glanced at him. "To all but one, monsieur," he said, in a queer tone that was almost tinged with irony.
Again he bent himself to a stroke with a quick, light grace, as though he regarded success as a foregone conclusion.
"Look at that!" said Noel in dejection, as the ball cannoned triumphantly down the table. "The gods are all on his side."
The stroke was a brilliant one, but Bertrand did not immediately straighten himself as before. He remained leaning across the table, as if he watched the effect of his skill.
There was a brief pause before very carefully he laid his cue upon the cloth and began to raise himself, slowly, with infinite caution, using both hands.
"No," he said, speaking jerkily, in a rapid undertone, as if to himself. "The gods--are no more--on my side."
A sharp gasp escaped him. He stood up, and they saw the sweat running down his forehead. "Will you--excuse me for a moment?" he said. "I have--forgotten _quelque chose_."
He turned towards Chris with punctilious courtesy, clicked his heels together, bowed, and walked stiffly from the room.


CHAPTER XII
A MAN OF HONOUR

An amazed silence followed his exit; then, in a quick whisper, Chris spoke.
"He isn't well. I'm sure he isn't well. Did you see--his face--when he stood up?"
She turned with the words as if she would go after him, but Max checked her sharply. "No, you stay here. I'm going."
She paused irresolute. "Let me come too."
"Don't be silly," said Max. He frowned at her scared face for a moment, then smiled abruptly. "Don't be silly!" he said again. He passed down the room with what seemed to her maddening deliberation, opened the door, and went quietly out.
Aunt Philippa was still busy with her correspondence in the drawing-room. She glanced up as he went through. "Can you tell me what time the evening post goes out? I have just asked M. Bertrand, but he did not see fit to answer me."
"Then he couldn't have heard you," said Max. "The post goes out at nine-thirty."
"Ah! Then perhaps you would wait a moment while I direct this envelope, and you can then give it to a servant with orders to take it to the post-office at once."
Max drew his red brows together and waited.
The scratching of Aunt Philippa's pen filled in the pause. She directed her envelope, blotted it with care, stamped it with precision, finally handed it to her nephew with the request, "Please remember that it is important."
Max received it with reverence. "I shall treat it with the utmost veneration," he said. He knew that his aunt had a strong dislike for him, and he fostered it with much enjoyment upon every possible occasion.
He slipped the letter into his pocket as he left the room and promptly dismissed it from his mind.
He turned aside into the dining-room, rummaged for brandy and found it, and went with noiseless speed upstairs.
The door of Bertrand's room was unlatched, and he pushed it open without ceremony. Blank darkness met him on the threshold, but a sound within told him the room was tenanted. He switched on the light without delay, entered, and shut the door.
He found Bertrand seated huddled on the edge of his bed, gasping horribly for breath. He did not apparently hear Max enter. His close-cropped head was bowed upon his arms. His hands were opening and closing convulsively. He rocked to and fro almost with violence, but no sound beyond his spasmodic breathing escaped him.
Max set down the brandy and took him by the shoulders. "Look here," he said, "lie down. I'll help you."
Bertrand started a little at his touch, and Max had a glimpse of his tortured face as he glanced up. "_Fermez la porte_!" he said, in a choked whisper.
The door was already shut. Max wheeled and turned the key. "Now!" he said.
He stooped over the Frenchman, and with the utmost care lifted him back on to the pillows, unfastened his collar, then turned to fling the windows as wide as they would go. The night air, fragrant with rain, blew in, rustling the curtains. Bertrand turned his face towards it instinctively. His lips were blue; they worked painfully, as if, between his gasping, he were still trying to speak.
"Keep still!" Max said.
He mixed some brandy and water, and returning, slipped his arm under the pillow. "Don't exert yourself," he said. "I'll do it all."
Very steadily he held the glass for Bertrand to drink. He could take but very little at a time, so agonized was his struggle for breath. Max waited through each pause, closely watching the drawn face, never missing his opportunity. And gradually that little took effect. The anguish died out of Bertrand's eyes, and he lay still.
Max slipped his arm from beneath the pillow and stood up. "Don't move," he said. "You're getting better."
"You--will stay--with me?" whispered Bertrand.
"Yes."
He drew up a chair, and sat down, took the Frenchman's wrist between his