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

and became passive.
Mordaunt remained beside him for several seconds longer, but he did not speak again. When he straightened himself at length, he glanced round for Max, and motioned him away.
They went together into the adjoining room and softly closed the door.
And so Chris and her _preux chevalier_ were left alone by the open window to end their summer idyll to the music of the rising tide that crooned and murmured among the rocks of Valpre that had seen its beginning.


CHAPTER XI
THE END OF THE VOYAGE

How the sun was shining on the water! What a glorious morning for a bathe! Chris laughed to herself--a happy little, inconsequent laugh.
But she must be quick or Mademoiselle Gautier would catch her and forbid her to go! Poor old Mademoiselle, who had been brought up in a convent and thought all nice things were improper!
Would Bertie be there with his boat, a white-clad, supple figure, with his handsome olive face, and his dark eyes with their friendly laugh? Surely it was the flash of his oars in the sunlight that dazzled her so! She would swim to him through the crystal water, and he would stretch out his hands to her, and she would go up to him like a bird from the sea, and perch upon the stern. He would scold her a little for swimming out so far, but what of that? She liked being scolded by Bertie!
How warmly the sun shone down upon them! And how she loved to watch the slim activity of him as he bent to his work! She wished they did not move quite so fast, even though the speed was so delicious, for they were nearing the rocks. Oh no, she was not afraid! Who could be afraid with Bertie in the boat? But when they reached the rocks, it would be the end of the voyage, and she did not want it to end.
Ah! now she could catch the sparkle of the sand, and there away in the distance a powdery whirl which was all she could see of Cinders. He was evidently digging for dear life, and again Chris laughed.
And now she stood with her back to the glittering sea, and her face to the mysterious granite of the ages. Where had he gone--her _preux chevalier_? Was he hidden in the dark recesses of the Magic Cave? She would go in search of him. He would not hide long from her, for she possessed the secret of the spell that would draw him forth.
But the rocks were slippery under her feet, and more than once she stumbled. She found herself confronted by obstacles such as had never before obstructed her path. A little tremor of distress went through her. Why had she quitted that sunny sea? Why had she ever suffered herself to be beguiled into the boat?
It became increasingly difficult, wellnigh impossible, to go forward. She turned aside. Ah! there was Bertie, after all, out on the sand, waiting for her. He held a naked sword in his hand. Evidently he was drawing pictures. She knew what they would be before she reached him: St. George and the Dragon, that "beast enormous with eyes of fire"; the Sphinx, and Cleopatra's Needle. She saw them all; and soon the great tide would race up with a mighty roaring and wash them all away. Was it not the destiny of all things--save one?
Stay! Was it the sand on which he was expending his skill thus? Why, then, did his sword move so swiftly, like lightning-flashes, where the sun caught it? Ah, now she saw more clearly. It was a duel. He was fighting with every inch of him, steadfast, unflinching, in her cause. How splendidly he controlled himself! The clear grace of his every movement held her spellbound.
For a while she watched him, not heeding his adversary, watched the glint of the crossed swords, the pass, the thrust, and the return. And then, by some mysterious influence, her eyes were drawn upward to the face of his opponent, and it was as if one of those flashing blades had found her heart. For Bertrand de Montville was fighting the grey-eyed, level-browed Englishman who was her husband!
With a cry she sprang forward to intervene. She flung herself between them in an agony. One of them--Trevor--caught her in his arms. The other staggered backwards and fell upon the sand. She saw his dead face as he lay....
"Oh, Trevor!" she cried in anguish. "Trevor! Trevor!"
He held her closely to him. She felt his hand laid in soothing on her head. Gasping, she opened her eyes upon his face.
"That's better," he said gently. "You've had a bad dream."
"Was it a dream?" she asked him wildly. "Was it a dream?"
And then she remembered that Bertrand had fallen asleep in the very early hours of the morning, and that they had led her away to another room to rest. Worn out in mind and body, she had yielded. She marvelled now that she had been so easily persuaded.
She turned within the circle of her husband's arm. "Trevor, you promised you would call me if he waked."
His hand was still upon her head; its touch was sustaining, subtly comforting. "He did not wake, dear," he said.
The words were few, but in a flash she knew the truth. Her eyes grew wide and dark. Her clinging hands tightened upon his arm. She made no sound of any sort. She even ceased to breathe.
He drew her head down upon his shoulder, and held her fast pressed against his breast. "Don't be afraid," he said.
But she remained tense in his arms, till her rigidity and silence alarmed him. He began to rub her cold cheek.
"Chris, speak to me!"
She turned her face into his breast, and with relief he heard her begin to breathe again. But she did not speak. She only lay there dumbly in crushed stillness.
For a while he waited, but at last, as she made no movement, he spoke again. "Chris, would you like me to leave you?"
That reached her. She turned her face quickly upwards. "No, Trevor."
The wide, strained look was still in her eyes, but they did not flinch from his.
"I knew he was dead," she said, speaking very quickly, "when I woke up just now. I thought--I thought--" She broke off, as if she could not continue. "And afterwards--directly I saw you by my side--I knew it was true. Trevor"--the piteous note sounded again in her voice--"why are you not afraid of death?"
"Because I don't believe in it," he said.
"But yet--but yet--" Her words faltered away into silence.
He laid his hand again upon her head. "My dear, death is purely physical. You know it in your heart as well as I do. Death is the passing of the spirit--no more than that."
She uttered a deep sigh. "Oh, Trevor, I wish I wasn't so wicked."
His hand began to caress her hair. "I don't think you know what wickedness is, dear," he said.
"But I do--I do!" she protested. "I--I am almost terrified sometimes when I realize it. And I feel as if--as if--Bertie wouldn't have been taken away--if I hadn't loved him so." Her voice sank, she hid her face a little lower.
"But you make a mistake," he said gently. "There is no sin in love--so long as it is love and nothing else. A good many sins masquerade in the form of love, but love itself--what you and I call love--is sinless. And it is that--and that alone--that can never die." He paused a moment, and his hand ceased to stroke her bright hair and became still. "It is bad enough," he said, his voice sunk very low, "that I could ever misunderstand you; but, my dear, don't make things harder by misunderstanding yourself."
She moved at that as though it touched her very nearly, and suddenly she slipped from his arms, and knelt beside him. "Trevor," she said, with quivering lips, "don't be too kind to me! I can't bear it."
He looked down at her very sadly. "It would be a new experience for you, my Chris, if I were," he said.
"No--no." She bent her face quickly, and laid it against his hand. "I've deceived you a hundred times--yes, and lied to you. You bore with me over and over again, even when you knew I wasn't being straight. You did your very utmost to keep me true. You trusted me even when you knew I was cheating. Oh, I don't wonder that I killed your love at last. The wonder was that it lived so long."
She stopped, for his hand had clenched upon itself at her words. But he said nothing. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue. She went on quickly--
"I know you feel you must be kind to me now because"--she caught her breath--"Bertie is gone, and he wished it so. But--but--I shan't expect--a great deal. I--I shall be quite grateful--if I may have--a little friendship. I don't want you to think that--that--"
"That you want my love?" he said.
"Oh, I didn't mean that!" She looked up at him in distress, but she could not see his face with any distinctness.
His elbow was on the arm of his chair, and his hand shaded it.
"I know I forfeited all that," she said. "And I want you to feel that I--understand, and shall never expect to have it again. That is what I mean when I say, don't be too kind to me. You have been that, and much more than that, already. But I won't trade on your generosity. I am not a child any longer to need support and protection. I am old enough to stand alone."
"And what of my promise to Bertrand?"
He asked the question quite quietly, as though it were of no special moment to him, but she flinched before it, and turned her face aside.
"Oh, I don't think he would want you to be kind to me for his sake--if he knew how much it hurt?"
Mordaunt was silent for a moment, then: "And you have no use for my love?" he said.
She made a movement almost convulsive. "Trevor, don't--torture me!"
"My child," he said, "I only ask because I need to know."
She laid a trembling hand on his. "If I thought--you loved me--" She stopped, battling desperately for self-control, and after a few seconds began again. "If I thought--you wanted me--"
"I do want you, Chris," he said.
She cast a startled look into his face. "Oh, but you only say that because--because--"
"Because it is the truth," he said.
"But is it the truth?" she asked, a little wildly. "Is it? Is it? Oh, Trevor, if you knew--if you knew--" Her voice failed. She began to sob. "I can't bear it," she whispered. "I can't! I can't!" And with that she broke down utterly, bowing her head upon his knee in a passion of weeping more violent than he had ever before witnessed.
"Chris! Chris!" he said.
He would have lifted her, but she sank lower, as one crushed to the earth by a burden too heavy to be borne.
For a while her weeping was the only sound in the room, but at length he spoke again over her bowed head.
"Chris--my darling--do you know--I can't bear it either if you cry like this?"
His voice was low and not very steady. It appealed to her even in the depth of her distress. She stretched up a trembling hand, and clasped his.
Gradually her sobbing grew less violent, and at length it ceased; but she remained crouched against his knee with her face hidden for many minutes.
Trevor said no more. Only at last he