_ PART II CHAPTER I. SUMMER WEATHER
"I think quite the worst part of being married is having to pay calls," said Chris.
"You do not like it, no?" said Bertrand, with quick sympathy.
"No," she rejoined emphatically. "And I don't see any sense in it either. No one ever wants afternoon callers."
"But that depends upon the caller, does it not?" he said.
"Not in the least," said Chris. "There's a stodginess about afternoon calling that affects even the nicest people. It's the most tiresome institution there is."
"Then why do it?" he suggested, with a smile.
She shook her head severely.
"Don't be immoral, Bertie! You're trying to tempt me from my duty."
"Never!" he declared earnestly.
"Oh, but you are; and I am not sure that you are not neglecting your own as well. What brought you out at this hour?"
He spread out his hands. "Mr. Mordaunt has ordered me to take a rest to-day."
Chris looked up at him sharply. "Aren't you well, Bertie?"
"But it is nothing," he said. "I have told him. It happens to me often--often--that I do not sleep. I have explained all that. But what would you? He is obstinate--he will not listen."
Chris patted a hammock-chair beside her. "Sit down at once. I knew there was something the matter directly I saw you this morning. But you always look horribly tired. Do you never sleep properly?"
He dropped into the chair and stretched up his arms with a sigh. "It is only in the morning that I am tired," he said. "It is nothing--a weakness that passes. Or if it passes not--I go."
"Go!" repeated Chris, startled.
He turned his head towards her. "That surprises you, yes? But how can I remain if I cannot work?"
"Oh, but you haven't been here a fortnight," she said quickly. "I expect the change of air has upset you. And it has been so hot too."
He acquiesced languidly, as if not greatly interested. His dark eyes watched her gravely. Evidently his thoughts had wandered from himself.
Chris was not slow to perceive this. "What are you thinking of?" she demanded.
"I am thinking of you," he answered promptly.
"What of me?" The blue eyes met his quite openly. Chris was always frank to her pals.
"I was thinking," he said, in his soft, friendly voice, "how you were happy, and how I was glad."
She threw him a quick smile. "How nice of you, Bertie! And how beautifully French! But, you know, I shan't be happy if you talk of leaving us. It will spoil everything, and I shall be absolutely miserable."
"You were not miserable before I joined you, no?" he said, smiling back at her.
"Of course I wasn't. But that was quite different. I knew all the while that you were coming. I should have been if anything had happened to prevent you."
"Really?" he said thoughtfully.
"Yes, really!" Chris was emphatic. "And I am sure there is nothing much the matter with you, Bertie; now, is there?"
He scarcely responded. "It will pass," he said. "And so you have arranged to make visits this afternoon?"
"Yes. Isn't it a bother?" Chris's brow wrinkled. "Noel wanted me to go and fish with him, but Trevor says I must go and see Mrs. Pouncefort, so I suppose I must. I hoped he would come too, but he has got to stay and interview the architect about that subsidence in the north wing. I wish you would come instead."
He shook his head. "No--no! That is not possible. Where does this lady live?"
"Sandacre way, towards the sea. Oh, do you know Rupert is coming over on Sunday with some brother officers? I had a card from him this morning. He is very fond of Mrs. Pouncefort--they all are. I don't know quite why. I believe they spend half their time there. Mr. Pouncefort is a dear little man--no one could help liking him. He has a yacht, and they always have a crowd of people staying there at this time of the year."
"_Alors_," he said, "it will amuse you to go there, no?"
Chris smiled. "Oh, not particularly. I would much rather stay with you and Trevor. Besides, I've such a lot to do."
She did not look overwhelmed with work as she leaned back in her hammock-chair, but she evidently intended to be busy, for a basket and scissors stood beside her.
Bertrand was much too courteous to suggest that she was not making the most of her time. Or perhaps he did not want to be left in solitary contemplation of that fleeting August morning. He lay silent for a little, and presently requested permission to smoke a cigarette.
"Of course," she said at once. "Why don't you go and lie in the hammock? I will come and rock you to sleep."
He thanked her, smiling, but declined.
She watched him light his cigarette with eyes grown thoughtful. Suddenly: "Bertie," she said, "are you very unhappy nowadays?"
He made a jerky movement, and dropped the match, still burning. Hastily he bent to extinguish it, but Chris was before him, her hand upon his arm, restraining him.
"No, sit still! It's all right. Tell me, please, Bertie! I want to know."
He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, still smiling, but in a fashion that she was at a loss to interpret.
"But what a question, _petite_! How can I answer it?"
"I should have thought---between friends---" she began.
"_Ah, oui_! We are friends, are we not?" A curious expression of relief took the place of his smile, and she felt as if for some reason he had been afraid. "And you ask me if I am unhappy," he said. "_Mais vraiment_--I know not what to say!"
"Then you are!" she said, quick pain in her voice.
He looked down at the little friendly hand that lay upon his arm, but he did not offer to touch it. His eyes remained downcast as he spoke. "I am more happy than I ever expected to be, Christine."
"You like your work?" she questioned. "Trevor is kind to you?"
"He is--much too kind," the Frenchman answered, with feeling.
"But still you are unhappy?" she said.
"It is--my own fault," he told her, still not looking at her.
She rubbed his sleeve sympathetically. "Bertie, don't you think--if you tried very hard--you might manage to forget all that old trouble?"
There was a note of pleading in her voice, and he made a quick gesture as he heard it, as if in some way it pierced him.
She went on speaking, as he made no attempt to do so. "You know, Bertie, you really are quite young still, and there are such a lot of nice things left. It's such a pity to keep on grieving. Don't you think so? It seems rather a waste of time. And I do--so--want you to be happy."
At the quiver in her voice he glanced up sharply, but he instantly lowered his eyes again. And still he said no word. He only drew his brows together and bit his cigarette to a pulp.
Her hand came softly down his arm and lay upon his.
"Bertie," she said, in a whisper, "you're not--vexed?"
His hand clenched at her touch, but on the instant he looked up at her with a smile. "Vexed!" he said. "With you! A thousand times--no!"
She smiled back, reassured. "Then will you--please--try to forget what you have lost? I know it won't be easy, but will you try? It's the only possible way to be happy. And if you are not happy--I shan't be either."
He took her hand at last with perfect steadiness into his own. "You know not what I have lost," he said. "But--if I try to forget--that will content you?"
She nodded. "Yes, Bertie."
He looked at her intently for a moment, then, "_Eh Bien_!" he said briskly. "I will try."
"_Bon garcon_!" she said, with a merry smile. "That is settled, then. Why, there is Trevor! Has he finished that article of his already? He looked quite absorbed when I passed his window half an hour ago." She waved to him as he approached. "Why don't you wear a hat, you mad Englishman? Don't you know the sun is broiling?"
He smiled and ignored the warning. Bertrand sprang from his chair as he reached them, but Mordaunt instantly pressed him down again.
"No, no, man! Sit still! I have only come out for a moment."
"But I am going," Bertrand protested. "I cannot sit and do nothing. There are those accounts that you have given me to do. They are not yet finished. Also--"
"Also, they are not going to be done to-day," Mordaunt said, shaking him gently by the shoulder. "Chris, I am going to hand this fellow over to you for the next few days. You can do what you like with him so long as you don't let him do any work. That I absolutely forbid. You understand me, Bertrand?"
"But I cannot--I cannot," Bertrand said restlessly. "You are already much too good to me. You overwhelm me with kindness, and I--I make no return at all. No, listen to me--"
"I'm not going to listen to you," Mordaunt said. "You are talking nonsense, my friend, arrant drivel--nothing less. Chris will tell you the same."
"Of course," said Chris. "Besides, there are crowds of things you can do for me. No, he shan't be overworked, I promise you, Trevor. But I'm going to try a new cure. Just for this afternoon he is going to lie in the hammock and smoke cigarettes. But after to-day"--she nodded gaily at the perturbed Frenchman--"after to-day, Bertie, _nous verrons_!"
He smiled in spite of himself, but he continued to look dissatisfied till Mordaunt carelessly turned the conversation.
"Where's that young beggar Noel?"
"Fishing in the Home Meadow," said Chris.
"Quite sure?"
"I think so," she said. "Why?"
"Because he has taken one of my guns, and I believe he is potting rabbits."
Chris sat up with consternation in her eyes. "Trevor! I believe he is too! I heard someone shooting half an hour ago. And he has got Cinders with him! I know he will go and shoot him by mistake!"
"Or himself," said Mordaunt grimly.
"Oh, he won't do that," said Chris with confidence. "Nothing ever happens to Noel."
"Something will happen to him before long if he doesn't behave himself," observed Mordaunt. "My patience began to wear thin last night when I caught him asleep with a smouldering pipe on his pillow."
"Oh, but he always does what he likes in the holidays," pleaded Chris.
"Does he?" Mordaunt's voice was uncompromising.
She slipped a quick hand into his. "Trevor, you wouldn't spoil his fun?"
He looked down at her, faintly smiling. "My dear Chris, it depends upon the fun. I'm not going to have the place burnt down for his amusement."
"Oh no," she said. "But you won't be strict with him, will you? He will only do things on the sly if you are."
Mordaunt frowned abruptly. "If I catch him doing anything underhand--"
She broke in sharply in evident distress. "But we all do, Trevor! I--I've done it myself before now--often with Mademoiselle Gautier, and then with Aunt Philippa. One has to, you know. At least--at least--" His grey eyes suddenly made her feel cold, and she stopped as impulsively as she had begun.
There was a moment's silence, then quite gently he drew his hand away. "I think I will go and see what mischief the boy is up to."
She jumped up. "I'll come too."
He paused, and for a single instant his eyes met Bertrand's. At once the Frenchman spoke.
"But, Christine, have you not forgotten your roses? It is growing late, is it not? And you will be out this afternoon. Permit me to assist you with them."
He picked up the basket as he spoke. Chris stopped irresolute. Her husband was already moving away over the grass.
"Come!" said Bertrand persuasively.
Chris turned with a smile and took the basket. "All right, Bertie, let's go. It is getting late, as you say, and I must get the vases filled."
They went away together to the rose-garden, and here, after brief hesitation, Chris voiced her fears.
"I'm so afraid lest Trevor should ever get really angry with any of the boys. They won't stand it, you know. And he--I sometimes think he is just a little hard, don't you?"
Mordaunt's secretary pondered this proposition with drawn brows. "No," he said finally, "he is not hard, but he is very honourable."
Chris laughed aloud. "That sounds just like a French exercise, Bertie. I don't see what being honourable has to do with it, except that the people who preen themselves on being honourable are just the ones who can't make allowances for those who are not. You would think, wouldn't you, that being good would make people extra kind and forgiving? But it doesn't, you know. Look at Aunt Philippa!"
Bertrand's grimace was expressive. "And Aunt Philippa is good, yes?"
"Frightfully good," said Chris. "I don't suppose she ever told a story in her life."
His quick eyes sought hers. "And that--that is to be good?"
Chris paused an instant, her attention caught by the question. "Why, I suppose so," she said slowly. "Don't you call that goodness?"
He spread out his hands. "Me, I think it is the smallest kind of goodness. One does not lie, one does not steal; but what of that? One does not roll oneself in the mud. And that is a virtue, that?"
Chris became keenly interested. "Do go on, Bertie! I had no idea you thought such a lot. I don't myself--often."
He laughed, his sudden pleasant laugh that he uttered now so rarely. "But I am no philosopher," he said. "Simply I think--a little--sometimes. And to me--to be honourable is no more a virtue than to wash the hands. One cannot do otherwise and respect oneself."
"No?" said Chris, a little dubiously. "Then, Bertie, if honour is not goodness, what is?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Goodness? Bah! There is no goodness without love."
"Oh!" Chris's eyes opened wide. "You think--that?"
He nodded with vehemence. "_Si, cherie_! I think--that; more, I know it. I know that 'Love is the fulfilling of the law.' One does not need to go further than that. It is enough, no?" His eyes looked straight into hers; they were shining with the light that only friendship can kindle.
She smiled back at him. "I should almost think it is, Bertie. It is enough for you anyhow, since you believe it."
"Ah, yes," he said very earnestly. "I believe it, Christine. I should not be here now--if I did not believe it."
She puckered her brows a little. "I don't quite know what you mean," she said.
He turned from her questioning eyes, pulling his hat down over his own. "No," he said. "But--you know enough, _ma petite_, you know enough."
"I sometimes think I don't know anything," she said restlessly.
He stretched out a hand to her, as one who guides a child. "Ah, Christine," he said sadly, "but it is better to know the little than the much."
"You all say that," said Chris. "I think it is rather a horrid world for some things, don't you?"
"But the world is that which we make it," said Bertrand. _