_ PART II CHAPTER III. DISASTER
Chris and Noel set off in the motor that afternoon in excellent spirits to pay the projected call upon Mrs. Pouncefort.
They found the lady of the house at home, and spent an animated hour with her; for although she never appeared to welcome her visitors or to exert herself in any degree to entertain them, most of them seemed to find it difficult to get away.
When they departed at length they carried with them an invitation to a garden _fete_ which had been arranged for the following week. It included the whole party, to Chris's great satisfaction.
"It will be the very thing for Bertie," she said. "It is just what he needs."
Noel, who entertained a sweeping prejudice against all foreigners, was inclined to dispute this, and a lively argument ensued in consequence, which lasted during the greater part of the run home.
Chris was at the wheel, being a fairly experienced driver by that time, though Mordaunt was very insistent that she should always have someone responsible by her side. On this occasion, however, Holmes, who was acting as chauffeur, had been imperiously relegated to the back seat by Noel, who intended to have his turn before the end of the ride. He had driven twice before under his brother-in-law's supervision, and he considered himself an expert.
As soon as they were through the lodge-gates, therefore, he began to clamour to change places with Chris. The worried Holmes protested in vain. Chris, though firmly refusing to sit behind, was quite willing to give her place at the wheel to her brother; and the change was speedily effected, remonstrance notwithstanding.
"We can't come to any harm on our own drive," was the careless consolation she threw to the perturbed man behind her, who then and there solemnly swore to his inner soul that whatever the outcome of the venture he would never again trust himself or the car to the tender mercies of the Wyndham family.
Finding himself thus ignored, he stood up and leaned over the boy's shoulder to give directions in the face of any sudden emergency that might arise, though Noel was obviously in no mood to pay any attention to them. As he remarked later, when recounting the adventure, he knew in his bones that there was going to be an accident; but the nature of it he could hardly be expected to foresee.
In fact, for a brief space all went well. The motor buzzed merrily along the drive, and it almost seemed as if the escapade would end without mishap, when, as they rounded the bend that led to the house, Noel unexpectedly put on speed. They shot forward at a great pace under the arching trees, and forthwith suddenly came disaster. Swift as a lightning flash it came--too swift for realization, almost too swift for sight. It was only a tiny, racing figure that darted for the fraction of a second in front of the car, and then--with a squeal half-choked--was lost in the rush of the wheels. It was only Cinders chasing a rabbit which he was destined never to catch.
Chris's shriek of agony rang as far as the house. In another moment she would have thrown herself headlong from the car, but Holmes was too quick for her. Not in vain had Holmes been through a three-years' war; not in vain did he hold himself responsible for the young wife of the master whom that war had taught him to love. Almost before she had sprung from her seat he had caught her, forcing her down again, holding her by grim strength from her mad purpose. She struggled with him fiercely, hysterically; but Holmes's grip never relaxed. She bore the marks of it upon her arms for weeks after.
And while he held her, baffling her utmost efforts to free herself, he was giving directions to Noel, whose nerve had departed completely with the shock of the catastrophe, giving them over and over again--steadily, insistently, and very distinctly, till they took effect at last, though only just in time.
They were dangerously near the house before, in response to the boy's frantic efforts, the car slackened and finally, under Holmes's reiterated directions, ran to a standstill.
Chris, in a perfect frenzy by that time, wrenched herself free and sprang down. Her husband, who had rushed from the house at her cry, was close to her as she reached the ground, but she sped away without so much as seeing him.
Back up the drive she tore, back to the shadowing trees, back to the piteous little blot in the shadow that was the only thing her world contained in that hour of anguish.
When they reached her she was sunk on the ground beside her favourite, crying his name, while he, whimpering, strove to drag his mangled body into her lap. She tried to lift him, but he yelped so terribly at her touch that she was forced to let him lie.
"Oh, Cinders, Cinders!" she cried, in an agony. "My little darling, what shall I do?"
Someone stooped over her; a quiet hand lay upon her shoulder. "Chris," it was her husband's voice, very grave and tender, "come away, dear. You can't do anything. The poor little chap is past our help."
She lifted a dazed face, staring uncomprehendingly.
"Come away," he repeated.
But when he tried to raise her she resisted him. "And leave him like this? No, never, never! Oh, Trevor, look--look! He is dying! Can't we do something--anything? Oh, he never cried like that before!"
"My dear, there is nothing that you can do." Very gently he made answer. "He can't possibly live. There is only one thing to be done, and that is to put him out of his pain as quickly as possible. But I can't do it with you here. So come away, dear! It's the kindest--in fact, it's the only--thing you can do."
"Are you going to--kill him?" gasped Chris in horror.
He nodded, with compressed lips. "There is no alternative. We can't let him suffer like this."
"Oh no, no, no!" Chris cried.
She would have thrown her arms about her darling, but he stopped her. He caught her wrists and held her back.
"Chris, you must not! When animals are hurt they will bite without knowing what they are doing. Chris, do you hear me? You must go."
But she would not. "Do you think I would leave him now--when he wants me most? And as if he would bite me--Cinders--Cinders--who never even growled at me!"
She bent over him again, beside herself with grief. Cinders, in the midst of his pain, tried gently to wag his tail. His brown eyes, faithful, appealing, full of love, gazed up at her. He had never seen his mistress in such trouble before, and the instinct to comfort her urged him even then, in the midst of his own. Again he made piteous efforts to crawl into her arms, but again he failed, and fell back, whimpering.
Chris covered her face. It was more than she could bear, and yet she could not--could not--leave him.
For a space that might have been minutes or only seconds she was left alone, tortured but impotent. A dreadful darkness had fallen upon her, a numbness in which Cinders, suffering and slowly dying, was the only reality.
Then again she became conscious of another presence. A quick hand touched her. A soft voice spoke.
"Ah, the poor Cinders! And he lives yet! _Cherie_, we will be kind to him, yes? We cannot make him live, but we will let him die quick--quick, so that he suffer no more. That is kind, that is merciful, _n'est-ce-pas_?"
She turned instinctively in answer to that voice. She held up her hands to the speaker like a child. "Oh, Bertie," she cried piteously, "is there nothing to be done? Nothing?"
"Only that, _cherie_," he made answer, very gently.
"Then"--she was sobbing terribly, but she suffered his hands to raise her--"don't let them--send me away, Bertie. I can't go--while he lives. It--it would hurt him more, if I went."
"No, no, _cherie_," he answered her reassuringly. "You will be brave, yes? See, I will hold your hand. We will go just across the road, but not beyond his sight. He will see you. He will know that you are near. There--there, _cherie_! Shut your eyes! It will be finished soon."
He put his arm around her, for she stumbled blindly. They went across the road as he had said, and halted under the trees on the farther side.
There followed a pause--an interval that was terrible--during which only the low crying of an animal in pain was audible.
Bertrand stood like a rock, still holding her. "But you will not look, _cherie_," he whispered to her softly. "It is deliverance--this death. Soon--soon he will not cry any more."
She pressed her face against his shoulder, wrapped in the close security of his arms, and waited, drawing each breath with difficulty, saying no word.
She did not know what was happening, and she dared not look. She could only wait in anguish for the whimpering that tore her heart to cease.
"Now, _cherie_!" whispered Bertrand at last, and she stiffened in his arms, preparing for she knew not what.
His hold tightened. For that instant he pressed her hard against his heart, so that she heard its quick beating.
The next there came a loud report--a sound that violently rent her stretched nerves, shattering them as glass is shattered by a stone. She drooped without sound like a broken flower, and the young Frenchman gathered her up, just as he had done on the occasion of their first meeting at Valpre, and bore her away. _