_ PART I CHAPTER XI. THE EXPLANATION
There was nothing hurried in his entrance, nothing startling; but yet a sudden silence fell.
Out of it almost immediately came Bertrand's voice. "Ah, Mr. Mordaunt, you return to find a visitor. Miss--Wyndham is here. She came to seek you, but she found only--" he spread out his hands characteristically--"the organ-grinder."
He had risen with the words; so also had Chris. She went forward, but without her usual impetuosity.
"I have found an old friend, Trevor," she said, speaking quickly, as if embarrassed. "I have known Mr.--Mr.--what did you say your name was?" turning towards him again.
He shrugged his shoulders. "I am called Bertrand, mademoiselle."
She smiled in her quick way. "I have known--Bertrand--for years. At least, we used to know each other years ago, and--and we knew each other again the moment we met. It was a great surprise to me--to us both."
"And a great pleasure," said Bertrand, with a bow.
"An immense pleasure," said Chris, with enthusiasm.
"But, my dear girl," Mordaunt said, his quiet voice falling almost coldly upon their explanations, "what on earth made you come here of all places?"
"Oh," said Chris, leaping to this new point almost with relief, "it was raining, and thundering too. I hadn't an umbrella and I knew I should be drenched, and this was the nearest shelter I could think of, so I just came. It seemed the most sensible thing to do. I thought perhaps you would be pleased to see me. I even fancied you might give me tea."
There was a faint note of wistfulness in her voice though she was smiling. She stood before him with something of the air of a culprit.
"Of course Aunt Philippa wouldn't approve," she said. "I know that. But--you always say you are not like Aunt Philippa, Trevor."
He took her hand very gently but with evident purpose into his own.
"I will give you tea with pleasure," he said, "but not here. Holmes shall call a taxi. I am afraid you must say good-bye to your friend now, unless--" he paused momentarily--"unless, Bertrand, you care to accompany us."
"Oh do, Bertie!" she said eagerly. "I want you. Please come!"
But Bertrand's refusal was instant and final.
"It is impossible," he declared. "I thank you a thousand times, but I have yet many letters to write, and the post will not wait."
"Letters?" said Chris curiously.
"M. Bertrand is my secretary," said Mordaunt quietly.
"Oh, is he? And you never told me! But what a splendid idea!" Chris stood between the two men, flushed, eager, charming. "I'm so glad, Bertie," she said impulsively. "You may think yourself very lucky. Mr. Mordaunt is quite the nicest man in the world."
Bertrand bowed low. "I believe it," he said simply.
"Then we shall see quite a lot of each other," went on Chris. "That will be great fun--just like old times. Oh, must I really go? I don't want to at all, and nothing will make me sorry that I came." She threw a gay smile at her _fiance_, and withdrew her hand to give it to the friend of her childhood. "_Au revoir, preux chevalier_! You will come to my birthday party? Promise!" Then, as he still shook his head: "Trevor, if you don't bring him, I shall come all by myself and fetch him."
"No, you mustn't do that," Mordaunt answered with decision.
"Then will you bring him?"
"I will do my best," he promised gravely.
"Will you really? Oh, thank you, Trevor. I shall expect you then, Bertie. Good-bye!"
Her hand lay for a couple of seconds in his, and he bent low over it, but he did not speak in answer.
She went out of the room with the silent Englishman. He heard her laughing as they went downstairs. He heard her gay young voice a while longer in the hall below. Then came the throb of a motor and the closing of the street door. She was gone.
He stood quite motionless, listening to the taxi as it whirred away. And even after he ceased to hear it he did not move. He was gazing straight before him, and his eyes were the eyes of a man in a dream. They saw naught.
Stiffly at last he moved, and something like a shudder went through him. He crossed the room heavily, with the gait of one stricken suddenly old. He sat down again at the writing-table, and took up the pen that he had dropped--how long ago!
He even wrote a few words slowly, laboriously, still with that fixed look in his eyes. Then quite suddenly he was assailed by a violent tremor. He pushed back his chair with a sharp exclamation, half-rose, then as swiftly flung himself forward and lay across the table, face downwards, gasping horribly, almost choking. His hands were clenched, and hammered upon the papers littered there. The pen rolled unheeded over the polished wood and fell upon the floor.
Seconds passed into minutes. Gradually the bony fists ceased their convulsive tattoo. The laboured breathing grew less agonized. The man's rigid pose relaxed. But still he lay with his arms outspread and his head bowed between them, a silent image of despair.
Slowly the minutes crawled by. Down in the street below a newsboy was yelling unintelligibly, and in the distance a barrel-organ jangled the latest music-hall craze; but he was deep, deep in an abyss of suffering, very far below the surface of things. There was something almost boyishly forlorn in his attitude. With his face hidden, he looked pathetically young.
The sound of the opening door recalled him at last, and he started upright. It was Holmes with the evening paper.
The man spied the pen upon the floor and stooped for it. Bertrand stretched out a quivering hand, took it from him, and made as if he would resume his writing. But the pen only wandered aimlessly over the paper, and in a moment fell again from his nerveless fingers.
Holmes paused. Bertrand sat with his head on his hand as if unaware of him.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" he ventured.
Bertrand made a slight movement. "If I might have--a little brandy," he said, speaking with obvious effort.
"Brandy? I'll get it at once, sir," said Holmes, and was gone with the words.
Returning, he found Bertrand so far master of himself as to force a smile, but his face was ghastly. There was a blue, pinched look about his mouth that Holmes, reminiscent of his hospital days, did not like. He had seen that look before.
But the first taste of spirit dispelled it. Very courteously Bertrand thanked him.
"You are a good man, Holmes. And I think that you are my friend, yes?"
"Very pleased to do anything I can for you, sir," said Holmes.
"Ah! Then I will ask of you one little thing. It is that you remember that this weakness--this malady of a moment--remain a secret between us two--between--us--two. _Vous comprenez; non_?"
His eyes, very bright and searching, looked with a certain peremptoriness into the man's face, and Holmes, accustomed to obey, made instinctive response.
"You mean as I am not to mention it to Mr. Mordaunt, sir?"
"That is what I mean, Holmes."
"Very good, sir," said Holmes. "You're feeling better, I hope, sir?"
Very slowly de Montville rose to his feet, and stood, holding to the back of his chair.
"I am--quite well," he said impressively.
"Very good, sir," said Holmes again, and withdrew, shaking his head dubiously as soon as he was out of the Frenchman's sight.
As for de Montville, he went slowly across to the window and, leaning against the sash, gazed down upon the empty street.
Not until he heard Mordaunt's step outside more than half an hour later did he move, and then very abruptly he returned to the writing-table and seized the pen anew. He was writing with feverish rapidity when Mordaunt entered.
Very quietly Mordaunt came up and looked over his shoulder. "My boy," he said, "I am very sorry, but that is not legible."
His tone was unreservedly kind, and Bertrand jerked up his head as if surprised.
He surveyed the page before him with pursed lips, then flashed a quick look into Mordaunt's face.
"It is true," he admitted, with a rueful smile. "I also am sorry."
"Leave it," Mordaunt said. "You are looking fagged, Yes, I mean it. It will keep."
"But I have done nothing!" Bertrand protested, with outspread hands.
"No? Well, I don't believe you ought to be doing anything at present. Come and sit down." Then, peremptorily, as Bertrand hesitated: "I won't have you overworking yourself. Understand that! I have had trouble enough to get you off the sick list as it is."
He spoke with that faint smile of his that placed most men at their ease with him. Bertrand turned impulsively and grasped his hand.
"You have been--you are--more than a brother to me, monsieur," he said, with feeling. "And I--I--ah! Permit me to tell you--I--am glad that Mademoiselle has placed herself in your keeping. It was a great surprise, yes. But I am glad--from my heart. She will be safe--and happy--with you."
He spoke with great earnestness; his sincerity was shining in his eyes. Mordaunt, looking straight down into them, saw no other emotion than sheer friendliness, a friendliness that touched him, coming from one who was so nearly friendless.
"I shall do my best to make her so," he made grave reply. "She has been telling me about you, Bertrand."
"Ah!" The Frenchman's eyes interrogated him for a moment and instantly fell away. "I am surprised," he said, "to be remembered after so long. No, I had not forgotten her; but that is different, _n'est-ce pas_? I think that no one would easily forget her." He smiled as though involuntarily at some reminiscence. "_Christine et le bon Cinders_!" he said in his soft voice. "We were all friends together. We were--" again his eyes darted up to meet the Englishman's level scrutiny--"what you call 'pals,' monsieur."
Mordaunt smiled. "So I gathered. It happened at Valpre, I understand."
Bertrand nodded. His eyes grew dreamy, grew remote. "Yes," he said slowly, "it happened at Valpre. The little one was lonely. We made games in the sand. We chased the crabs; we explored the caves; we played together--as children." He stifled a sudden sigh, and rose. "_Eh bien_," he said, "we cannot be children for ever. We grow up--some quick--some slow--but all grow up at last."
He broke off, and took up the evening paper to cut the leaves.
Mordaunt watched him in silence--a silence through which in some fashion he conveyed his sympathy; for after a moment Bertrand spoke again, still dexterously occupied with his task.
"Ah! you understand," he said. "I have no need to explain to you that this meeting with my little friend who belonged to the happy days that are past has given me almost as much of pain as of pleasure. I do not try to explain--because you understand."
"You will get over it, my dear fellow," Mordaunt said, with quiet conviction.
"You think it?" Bertrand glanced up momentarily.
"I do," Mordaunt answered, with a very kindly smile. "In fact, I think, with all due respect to you, that you are younger than you feel."
"Ah!" There was not much conviction in Bertrand's response. He stood up and handed the paper to Mordaunt with a quick bow. "But--all the same--you understand?" he questioned, with a touch of anxiety.
"Of course I understand," Mordaunt answered gently. _