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

sight. He answered her with his usual courteous confidence.
"Ah! You are there, Christine! You will pardon me for keeping you waiting. I came as soon as your message reached me."
He lifted one of the great yew-branches and stepped beneath as if entering a tent. It fell behind him, and in the green gloom they were face to face.
"Were you going without saying good-bye?" said Chris.
She stood before him, very pale and quiet. Her eyes did not meet his quite fully.
He spread out his hands. "I knew not if you would wish to see me."
"Don't you know me better than that?" she said. He did not answer her. Evidently she did not expect an answer, for she went on almost at once. "Bertie, why did you let Trevor think you had robbed him?"
He made a sharp gesture of protest, but remained silent.
She laid her hand on his arm. "Come and sit down, Bertie! And please answer me, because I want to know."
He went with her to the rustic seat against the tree-trunk. He was gripping his self-control with all his strength.
"Mr. Mordaunt must think what he will," he said at length, with an effort. "He can never judge me too severely."
"Why do you say that?" Chris asked the question quickly, nervously, as if she had to ask it, yet dreaded the answer.
"I think you know, Christine," he answered, his voice very low.
She shrank a little. "But that money, Bertie? You knew nothing of that?"
He was silent for a moment; then, "We will not speak of that," he said firmly. "I could not stay here in any case, so--it makes no difference."
"No difference that he should think you a thief!" exclaimed Chris.
He turned his eyes downwards, staring heavily at the ground between his feet. "I ask myself," he said, "if I am any better than a thief."
"Bertie!" There was quick distress in her voice this time. "But you have done nothing wrong," she declared vehemently, "nothing whatever!"
He shook his head in silence, not looking at her.
"And you are ill," she went on, passing the matter by as if not trusting herself. "What will you do? Where will you go?"
He sat up slowly and faced her. "I go to London," he said, "and I must start now. Do not be anxious for me, Christine. I have money enough. Mr. Mordaunt offered me more this morning. But I had no need of it, and I refused."
He spoke quite steadily. He was braced for the ordeal. He would be strong until the need for strength was past.
But with Chris it was otherwise. For her there was no prospect of relaxation. She was but at the beginning of her trial, and her whole soul shrank from the contemplation of what lay before her. The dear dreams of her childhood had flickered out like pictures on a screen. And she had awakened to find herself in a prison-house from which all her life long she could never hope to escape. Did some memory of the arms that had enfolded her so often and so tenderly come to her as she realized it? If so, it was only to stab her afresh with the bitter irony of Fate that had lavished upon her the love of a man who had filled her life with all that woman's heart could desire, and yet had failed to give her happiness.
And so, when Bertrand spoke of going, the newly awakened heart of her rose up in sudden, hot revolt. His departure was inevitable, and she knew it, but her endurance was not equal to the strain. She had deemed herself stronger than she was.
She threw out her hands with a passionate gesture. "Bertie! What shall I do without you? I can't go on by myself. I can't--I can't!"
It was like the cry of a child, but in it there throbbed all the deep longing of her womanhood. Ah! why had her eyes been opened? Surely she had been happier blind!
He took the outflung hands and held them. He looked into her eyes. "But, _cherie_," he said, "you have your husband."
"I know--I know!" Piteously the words came from her. "He is very good to me. But, Bertie, he--has never been--first. I know it now. I didn't know before, or I wouldn't have married him. I swear I would never have married him--if I had known!"
"_Cherie_, hush!" Almost sternly he checked her, though his eyes were unfailingly kind. "You must not say it, Christine. Words always make a bad thing worse. Think instead how great is his love for you. Remember--oh, remember that you are his wife! The sin was mine that you could ever forget it. But you have not forgotten it, _mignonne!_ Tell me that you have not! Tell me that when you think of me it will be as a friend who gives you no regrets, the friend of your childhood, little Christine--the comrade with whom you played in the sunshine; no more than that--no more than that!"
Very earnestly he besought her, holding her hands lightly clasped between his own, ready at her slightest movement to let them go. But she made no effort to withdraw them. She only bent her head and wept as though her heart were breaking.
"_Cherie, cherie_!" he said, and that was all; for he had no words wherewith to comfort her. He had wrought the mischief, but the remedy did not lie with him.
His own lips quivered above her bowed head; he bit them desperately.
After a little she commanded herself sufficiently to speak through her tears. "Bertie, you once said--that there was no goodness without Love. Then why--why is Love--wrong?"
"Love is not wrong, _cherie_." Instant and reassuring came his answer. "Let us be true to Love, and we are true to God. For Love is God, and in every heart He is to be found; sometimes in much, sometimes in very, very little, but He is always there."
"I don't understand," said Chris. "If that were so--why mustn't we love each other? Why is it wrong?"
"It is not wrong." Again with absolute assurance Bertrand spoke. "So long as it is pure, it is also holy. There is no sin in Love. We shall love each other always, dear, always. With me it will be more--and ever more. Though I shall not be with you, though I shall not see your face or touch your hand, you will know that I am loving you still. It will be as an Altar Flame that burns for ever. But I will be faithful. My love shall never hurt you again. That is where I sinned. I was selfish enough to show you the earthly part of my love--the part that dies, just as our bodies die, setting our spirits free. For see, _cherie_, it is not the material part that endures. All things material must pass, but the spiritual lives on for ever. That is why Love is immortal. That is why Love can never die."
She listened to him in silence, scarcely comprehending at the moment words that later were to become the only light to guide her stumbling feet.
"Would you say that you love the dead no more because you see them not?" he questioned gently. "The sight--the touch--what is it? Only the earthly medium of Love; Love Itself is a higher thing, capable of the last sacrifice, greater than evil, stronger than death. Oh, believe me, Christine, Death is a very small thing compared with Love. If our love were of the spirit only, Death would be less than nothing; for it is only the body that can ever die."
"But why can't we be happy before we die?" whispered Chris. "Other people are."
He shook his head. "I doubt it, _cherie_. With death in the world there can be no perfection. All passes--all passes--except only the Love that is our Life."
He paused a moment, seeming to hesitate upon the verge of telling her something more; but in that instant she raised her head and he refrained.
"Ah, Christine," he said sadly, "I never thought that I should make you weep like this."
"Oh, it's not your fault, Bertie." She smiled at him, with quivering lips. "It's just life. But--dearest--I want you to know all the same--that I'm glad--I'm glad I love you so. And--whether it's right or wrong, I can't help it--I shall always love you--best of all."
His eyes shone at the words. A passionate answer sprang to his lips, but he stopped it unuttered. "We are not responsible for that which we cannot help," he said instead. "Only--my darling"--for the first time the English word of endearment passed his lips, spoken almost under his breath--"never permit the thought of me to come between you and your husband. Be faithful, Christine--be faithful!"
She made no answer of any sort; but her eyes were hopeless.
He waited a while, still holding her hands while tenderly he watched her. At last, "I must go, _cherie_," he whispered.
Her face quivered. Suddenly and impetuously as of old she spoke. "Bertie, once--long ago--you meant to marry me, didn't you?"
His own face contracted. "Do not let us torture ourselves in vain," he urged her gently.
"But it is true!" she persisted.
He hesitated an instant. "Yes, it is true," he said.
She leaned her head back, looking him straight in the eyes. There was a light in hers that he had never seen before. They gleamed like stars, seeing him only. "Bertie," she said, and her voice thrilled upon the words, "I was yours then, and I am yours now. I have always belonged to you, and you to me. Bertie, I--am coming with you."
His violent start testified to the utter unexpectedness of her announcement. Such a possibility had not, it was obvious, suggested itself to him. He turned white to the lips.
"Christine!" he stammered incredulously.
Feverishly she broke in upon his astonishment. "Oh, don't be shocked! It is absolutely the only way. I cannot stay here without you. Trevor will keep us apart. He will not let me even write to you. He says that our friendship must cease. And it cannot--it cannot! Bertie, don't you see? Don't you understand? Don't you--want me?"
A note of despair rang in her voice. Her hands suddenly gripped each other in agonized misgiving. But on the instant his gripped closer, holding them crushed against his breast in fierce reassurance. His eyes shone full into hers, and for one moment of fiery rapture which both were to remember all their lives their souls mingled, became fused in one, forgetful of all beside.
Out of the silence the man's voice came, low and passionate. "_Le bon Dieu_ knows how I want you, my bird of Paradise! But yet--but yet--" Something seemed to choke his utterance. He gave a sudden gasp, and bowed his head forward upon her shoulder.
Her arms were round him in an instant. "What is it, dearest? You are ill!"
"No," he said. "No." But still he gasped for breath, and she fancied that he repressed a shudder.
He raised his head after a moment. "Pardon me, _cherie_. I am only--weak. Christine, all my life--all my life--I shall remember--how you were ready--to give up all--all--for me. But, _mignonne_, I cannot take such a sacrifice. I dare not. Go back to your husband, _cherie_. It is your duty. You are his, not mine. We will not stain our love thus. Christine"--his voice broke--"_ma mignonne_, I love you too well--too well--to do this thing. You shall not be ruined--for my sake."
"Oh, but, Bertie!" she pleaded. She was clinging to him now; her eyes implored him. "Think of me here without you! Never to see you again--never to have a single word from you any more! Bertie, I can't bear it--I can't