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

giving you this trouble. It was only--a passing weakness."
He mopped his forehead, and leaned slowly forward, moving with caution.
"But you are ill! You are in pain!" Chris exclaimed.
"No," he said. "No, I have no pain. I am better. I am quite well."
Again he looked up at her, smiling. "But how I have alarmed you!" he said regretfully. "And your arm, _petite_? It is not burnt--not at all?"
He took her hand gently, and put back the tattered sleeve to satisfy himself on this point.
Chris said nothing. Her lips had begun to tremble. But she winced a little when he touched a place inside her arm where the flame had scorched her.
He glanced up sharply. "Ah! that hurts you, that?"
"No," she said, "no. It is nothing." And then, with sudden passion: "Bertie, what does a little scorch like that matter when you--when you--" She broke off, fighting with herself, and pointed a shaking finger at his wrist.
It had been blistered by the flame, and his shirt-cuff was charred; but the injury was slight, remarkably so in consideration of the utter recklessness he had displayed.
He snapped his fingers with easy indifference. "Ah, bah! It is a _bagatelle_, that. In one week it will be gone. And now--why, _cherie_--"
He stopped abruptly. She had dropped upon her knees beside him, her hands upon his shoulders, her face, tragic in its pain, upturned to his.
"Bertie, why do you try to hide things from me? Do you think I am quite blind? You are ill. I know you are ill. What is it, dear? Won't you tell me?"
He made a quick gesture as if he would check either her words or her touch, and then suddenly he stiffened. For in that instant there ran between them once again, vital, electric, unquenchable, that Flame that had kindled long ago on a morning of perfect summer, that Flame which once kindled burns on for ever.
It happened all in a moment, so swiftly that they were caught unawares in the spell of it, so overwhelmingly that neither for the space of several throbbing seconds possessed the volition to draw back. And in the deep silence the man's eyes held the woman's irresistibly, yet by no conscious effort, while each entered the other's soul and gazed upon the one supreme secret which each had mutely sheltered there.
It was to the man that full realization first came--a realization more overwhelming than anything that had gone before, striking him with a stunning force that shattered every other emotion like a bursting shell spreading destruction.
He came out of that trance-like stillness with a gesture of horror, as if freeing himself from some evil thing that had wound itself about him unawares.
Her hands fell away from his shoulders instantly. She was white to the lips. She even for one incredible moment--the only moment in her life--shrank from him. But that impulse vanished as swiftly as it came, vanished in a rush of passionate understanding. For with a groan Bertrand sank forward and bowed his head in his hands.
"_Mon Dieu_!" he said. "What have I done?"
She responded as it were instinctively, not pausing to choose her words, speaking in a quick, vehement whisper, because his distress was more than she could bear.
"It is none of your doing, Bertie. You are not to say it--not to think it even. It happened long, long ago. You know it did. It happened--it happened--that day at Valpre--the day you--took me into your boat."
He groaned again, his head dropping lower. She knew that also! Then was she woman indeed!
There followed a silence during which Chris remained kneeling beside him, but she was no longer agitated. She was strangely calm. A new strength seemed to have been given her to cope with this pressing need. When at last she moved, it was to lay a hand that was quite steady upon his knee.
"Bertie," she said, "listen! You have done nothing wrong. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. It wasn't your fault that I took so long to grow up." A piteous little smile touched her lips, and was gone. "You have been very good to me," she said. "I won't have you blame yourself. No woman ever had a truer friend."
He laid his hand upon hers, but he kept his eyes covered. She could only see the painful twitching of his mouth under the slight moustache.
"Ah, Christine," he said at last, with an effort, "I have tried--I have tried--to be faithful."
"And you have never been anything else," she said very earnestly. "You were my _preux chevalier_ from the very beginning, and you have done more for me than you will ever know. Bertie, Bertie"--her voice thrilled suddenly--"though it's all so hopeless, do you think it isn't easier for me now that I know? Do you think I would have it otherwise if I could?"
His hand closed tightly upon hers with a quick, restraining pressure. He could not answer her.
For some seconds he did not speak at all. At length, "Then--you trust me still, Christine?" he said, his voice very low.
Her reply was instant and unfaltering. "I shall trust you as long as I live."
He was silent again for a space. Then suddenly he uncovered his face and looked at her. Again their eyes met, with the perfect intimacy of a perfect understanding.
"_Eh bien_," Bertrand said, speaking slowly and heavily, as one labouring under an immense burden, "I will be worthy of your confidence. You are right, little comrade. We have travelled too far together--you and I--to fear to strike upon the rocks now."
He paused a moment, then quietly rose, drawing her to her feet. So for a while he stood, her hands clasped in his, seeming still upon the verge of speech, but finding no words. His eyes smiled sadly upon her, as the eyes of a friend saying good-bye. At last he stooped, and reverently as though he sealed an oath thereby, he pressed his lips upon the hands he held.
An instant later he straightened himself, and in unbroken silence turned and left her.
It was one of the simplest tragedies ever played on the world's stage. They had found each other--too late, and there was nothing more to be said.


CHAPTER III
THE TURN OF THE TIDE

It was evening when Mordaunt returned on the following day. He was met at the station by Noel. Holmes was in charge of the motor, and greeted his master with obvious relief. The care of the youngest Wyndham was plainly a responsibility he did not care to shoulder for long.
"All well?" Mordaunt asked, as he emerged from the station with his young brother-in-law hooked effusively on his arm.
"All well, sir," said Holmes, with the air of a sentry relaxing after long and arduous duty.
"Flourishing," said Noel, "though it's the greatest wonder you haven't come back to find Chris a heap of ashes. She would have been if Bertrand hadn't--at great personal risk--put her out."
"What has happened?" demanded Mordaunt sharply.
"All's well, sir," said Holmes reassuringly.
"Fireworks!" explained Noel. "My word, I made some beauties! I wish you could have seen 'em. I got singed a bit myself. But, then, that's only what one would expect playing with fire, eh, Trevor?" He rubbed his cheek ingratiatingly against Mordaunt's shoulder. "You needn't be anxious. Chris was really none the worse. But the Frenchman had a bad attack of blue funk when the danger was over, and nearly fainted. He's feeling ashamed of himself apparently, for I haven't seen him since. By the way, Aunt Phil and Chris had a mill yesterday, and the old lady is suffering from a very stiff neck in consequence. I asked Chris what she did to it, but she wouldn't tell me. Thank the gods, she goes to-morrow! You'll let me drive her to the station, won't you? I should like to go to heaven in Aunt Phil's company. She would be sure to get into the smartest set at once."
He rattled on in the same cheery strain without intermission throughout the return journey, having imparted enough to make Mordaunt thoroughly uneasy, notwithstanding Holmes's assurance.
The first person he met upon entering the house was Aunt Philippa. She accorded him a glacial reception, and explained that Chris had retired to bed with a severe headache.
"It's come on very suddenly," remarked Noel, with frank incredulity. "Where's Bertrand? Has he got a headache too?"
Aunt Philippa had no information to offer with regard to the French secretary! She merely observed that she had given orders for dinner to be served in a quarter of an hour, and therewith swept away to the drawing-room.
Mordaunt shook off his young brother-in-law without ceremony, and went straight up to his wife's room.
His low knock elicited no reply, and he opened the door softly and entered.
The room was in semi-darkness, but Chris's voice accosted him instantly.
"Is that you, Trevor? I'm here, lying down. I had rather a headache, or I would have come to meet you."
Her words were rapid and sounded feverish, as though she were braced for some ordeal. She was lying with her back to the curtained windows and her face in shadow.
Mordaunt went forward with light tread to the bed. "Poor child!" he said gently.
He stooped and kissed her, and found that she was trembling. Quietly he took her hand into his, and began to feel her pulse.
She made a nervous movement to frustrate him, but he gently insisted and she became passive.
"There is nothing serious the matter," she said uneasily. "I--I didn't sleep very well last night, that's all. I thought you wouldn't mind if I didn't come to meet you."
Mordaunt, with the tell-tale, fluttering pulse under his fingers, made gentle reply. "Of course not, dear. I think you are quite right to take care of yourself. Is your head very bad?"
"No, not now. I think I'm just tired. I shall be all right after a night's rest."
Again she tried to slip her hand out of his grasp, and after a moment he let it go.
"Please don't worry about me," she said. "You won't, will you?"
"Not if there is really no reason for it," he said.
She stirred restlessly. "There isn't--indeed. Aunt Philippa will tell you that. I was letting off fireworks with Noel only last night."
"And set fire to yourself," said Mordaunt.
She started a little. "Who told you that?"
"Noel."
"Oh! Well, nothing happened, thanks to--to Bertie. He put it out for me."
"I think there had better not be any more fireworks unless I am there," Mordaunt said. "I don't like to think of my wife running risks of that sort."
"Very well, Trevor," she said meekly.
"Where did the fireworks come from?" he pursued.
"We made them--Noel and I. We used some of your cartridges for gunpowder. He got saltpetre and one or two other things from the chemist. They were quite a success," said Chris, with a touch of her old light gaiety.
"And you are paying for it to-day," he said. "It will be a good thing when Noel goes back to school."
"Oh no," she answered quickly. "It wasn't the fireworks. I often have wakeful nights."
It was the first time she had ever alluded to the fact. He wondered if she would summon the courage to tell him something further. He earnestly hoped she would; but he hoped in vain. Chris said no more.
He paused for a full minute to give her time, but, save that she became tensely still, she made no sign. Very quietly he let the matter pass. He would not force her confidence, but he realized at that moment more clearly than ever before that she had only really belonged to him