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

said, "what is the matter?"
There was a species of desperate courage in the low question. The fingers that grasped her wrapper were tightly clenched.
He closed the window. "Have you been lying awake for me?" he said. "I am sorry."
"Something is the matter," she said with conviction. "Won't you tell me what it is? I--I would rather know."
"I will tell you in the morning, dear," he said gently. "You must go back to bed. I am coming myself now."
But Chris stood still. "I want to know now, please, Trevor," she said. "I shall not sleep at all unless I know."
He put his arm about her, looking down at her with great tenderness. "Must I tell you now?" he said, a hint of weariness in his voice.
She did not resist his touch, but neither did she yield herself to him. She stood within the encircling arm, looking straight up at him with wide, resolute eyes.
"It is something to do with Bertie," she said, in the same tone of unquestioning conviction.
He raised his eyebrows. "What makes you think so?"
She frowned a little. "It doesn't matter, does it? Won't you tell me what has happened?"
He hesitated momentarily; then; "Yes, I will tell you," he said. "Bertrand is leaving to-morrow--for good."
He felt her stiffen against his arm, and for the first time he noticed her pallor and the unusual steadfastness of her eyes. He realized that she was putting strong restraint upon herself, and the fact made her strangely unfamiliar to him. He was accustomed to vivid speech and impetuous action. He scarcely knew her in this mood, although he recognized that he had seen it at least once before.
"Why?" Her lips scarcely moved as they asked the question. Her eyes never left his face.
He drew her to the writing-table on which his cheque-book still lay open at the place whence a cheque had been abstracted with its counterfoil.
"Sit down," he said, "and I will tell you."
She sat down in silence.
He knelt beside her as he had knelt on their wedding-night, and took her cold hands into his own.
"I think you know," he said quietly, "that I have always trusted Bertrand implicitly."
"You trust everyone," she said, with a small, aloof smile, as if she were trying to appear courteous while her thoughts were elsewhere.
"Yes, to my undoing," he told her grimly. "I trusted him to the utmost, and--and he has betrayed my trust."
She started at that, but instantly controlled herself. "In what way?" she asked him, her voice scarcely above a whisper.
He drew the cheque-book to him. "If you look at this cheque and the next," he said, "you will see that there is one missing. There has been a cheque taken out."
"Yes?" said Chris.
Her eyes rested for a moment upon the cheque-book, and returned to his face. They held a curious expression as of relief and doubt mingled.
"That is how he betrayed my trust," he told her quietly. "He used that cheque to forge my signature and withdraw a sum of money from my account which under ordinary circumstances I should probably never have missed. As he is aware, I keep a large account, and I am in the habit of drawing large cheques. As it chanced, the account was not quite so large as usual, and it did not quite cover the amount withdrawn. Consequently my attention was called to it, and I looked into the matter and discovered--this."
"Yes?" said Chris. "Yes?"
She was breathing very fast. It was evident that her agitation was getting beyond her control.
He clasped her hands closer, with a warm and comforting pressure. He knew--or he thought he knew--what this revelation would mean to her. Had not Bertrand been even more her friend, her trusted counsellor, than his own?
"That is all the story, dear," he said gently. "We have got to face it as bravely as we can. He will leave in the morning, so you need not see him again."
She made a quick, involuntary movement, and her hands slipped from his.
"Not see him again!" she repeated, staring at him with wide eyes. "Not see him again!"
"I think it would be wiser not," he said, very kindly. "It would only cause you unnecessary pain."
She uttered a sudden breathless little laugh. "Trevor--am I dreaming? Or--are you mad? You don't--actually--believe he did this thing?"
His face hardened a little. "He had the sense not to attempt to deny it. There was no question as to his guilt. He was the only person besides myself who had access to my cheque-book."
"But--" Chris said, and paused, as if to collect her thoughts. "How much was taken?" she asked after a moment.
"That," Mordaunt observed, "is the least important part of the whole miserable business."
"Still, tell me," she persisted.
"He took five hundred pounds."
"Trevor!" She gasped for breath, and turned so white that he thought for a moment she would faint.
He put his arm round her quickly. "Chris, we won't discuss it any further to-night. You must go back to bed. You will catch cold if you stay here any longer."
But for the first time in her life she resisted him. She drew away from him. She almost pushed him from her.
"Five hundred pounds!" she said, speaking through white lips. She was shivering violently from head to foot. "But--but--what should Bertie want with five hundred pounds?"
"I didn't inquire what he did with it." Mordaunt's answer came with implacable sternness. "I haven't the least curiosity on that point. It is enough for me that he took it."
"Oh, Trevor, how hard you are!" The words rushed out like the cry of a hurt creature, and suddenly Chris's hands were on his shoulders, and her face, pinched and desperate, looked closely into his. "You have so much--so much!" she wailed. "You don't know what temptation is!"
He rose to his feet instantly and lifted her to hers. She was sobbing terribly, but without tears. He held her to him, supporting her.
"Chris, Chris!" he said. "Don't, child, don't! I know what this means to you. It means a good deal to me too, more than you realize. But for Heaven's sake let us stand together over it. Let us be reasonable."
There was strong appeal in his voice; for in that moment, though he held her to his heart, he knew that the gulf between them had suddenly begun to widen. He saw the danger in a flash of intuition, but he was powerless to avert it. They viewed the matter from opposite standpoints. Did they not view all matters moral thus? She could condone what he could only condemn, and because of this she deemed him hard and feared him.
He bent his face to hers as he held her. His lips moved against her forehead. "Chris," he said softly, "don't cry, dear! Listen to me. I'm not going to punish him. He will have to go of course. As a matter of fact, he meant to do so in any case. But it will go no further than that. There will be no prosecution."
She turned her face up quickly, and he saw that her eyes were dry, though her breathing was spasmodic. "You couldn't prosecute an innocent man," she said. "And he is innocent. I know he is innocent. You say he didn't deny it. It was because he wouldn't stoop to deny it. He knew you would never believe him if he did."
The words came fast and passionate. She drew back from him to utter them, and for the first time he read a challenge in her desperate eyes.
He let her go out of his arms. He had tried to bridge the gulf, but the distance was too great. His tenderness only gave her courage to defy him.
With a stifled sigh he abandoned the conflict. "As I said before, there is no question of his guilt," he said, with quiet emphasis. "Far from denying it, he even announced his intention of restoring what he had taken. That, of course, is also out of the question. He will probably never be in a position to do so. But in any case it is beside the point. It is useless to discuss it further."
She broke in upon him almost fiercely. "Trevor, won't you believe me when I say that I know--I know--he is innocent?"
He looked at her. "How do you know it?"
She wrung her hands together. "Oh, I have no proof! Can't you believe me without proof?"
He was watching her intently. "I believe in your sincerity, of course," he said. "But I am afraid I don't share your conviction."
"But you must--you must!" she cried. "I know him better than you do. I know him to be incapable of the tiniest speck of dishonour. I swear that he is innocent! I swear it! I swear it!"
He put out a restraining hand. "Chris, don't say any more! You are only upsetting yourself to no purpose. Come, child, it is useless to go on--quite useless."
She flung out her arms with a gesture of utter despair. "You won't believe me?"
He turned to lock up his cheque-book. "I have answered that question already," he said, without impatience.
She drew near to him. Her blue eyes burned with a feverish light. Her face was haggard. "Trevor, what would you say if--if--I told you he were shielding someone--if I told you he were shielding--me?" Her voice sank upon the word.
He turned sharply round, so sharply that she shrank. But he made no movement towards her. He only looked full and piercingly into her face. At the end of ten seconds he spoke, so calmly that his voice sounded cold.
"I am afraid I shouldn't believe you."
His eyes fell away from her with the words. He dropped his keys into his pocket and switched off the light from his writing-table.
Chris was shivering again, shivering from head to foot. She could barely keep her teeth from chattering. He came to her and put his arm round her.
She glanced up at him nervously, but his quiet face told her nothing. Almost involuntarily she suffered him to lead her from the room.


CHAPTER VI
WHEN LOVE DEMANDS A SACRIFICE

When Chris awoke, the morning sunshine was streaming in through the open windows, and she was alone. She came back to full remembrance slowly, as one toiling along a difficult road. Her brain felt very tired. She lay vaguely listening to the gay trill of a robin on the terrace below, dreading the moment when the dull ache at her heart should turn to active pain.
A cheery whistle on the gravel under her windows roused her at last. She took up her burden again with a great sigh.
"O God!" she whispered, as she turned her heavy head upon the pillow, "do let me die soon--do let me die soon!"
But there was no voice nor any that answered.
Wearily at length she raised herself. It was curious how ill she felt. She looked longingly back at her pillow.
At the same instant the gay whistle in the garden gave place to a cracked shout. "Hullo, Chris! Aren't you going to get up to-day? Do you know what time it is?"
She started, and looked at her watch. Ten o'clock! In amazement and consternation she sprang from the bed. Bertrand was to leave in the morning; so Trevor had told her. She must--she must--see him before he left! Doubtless Trevor had hoped that she would sleep on till the afternoon, and so miss him. How little he knew! How little he understood!
With a bound she reached the window, there a sudden dizziness attacked her. She clutched at the curtain with both hands. What if he had