_ PART II CHAPTER IV. GOOD-BYE TO CHILDHOOD
Out of the dreadful darkness Chris groped her halting way, saw light, and, shuddering, closed her eyes again. But at once a voice spoke to her, soothingly, tenderly, calling her back.
Reluctantly she responded, reluctantly she returned to full consciousness, and knew that she was lying fully dressed upon a couch in the drawing-room. But at sight of her husband's face bending above her she shuddered again--a painful, convulsive shudder that shook her from head to foot.
He laid a quiet hand on her head, but she shrank away. "Please, Trevor"--she faltered--"please, I want to be alone."
"Yes, dear," he made gentle reply. "Just drink this first, and I will leave you."
But she withdrew herself almost violently; she buried her face deep in the cushion. "I can't! I can't! Please don't ask me to. I am quite all right. I only want--to be alone."
She was shaking all over as one with an ague, and her words were hardly articulate. He waited a little for her trembling to pass, but it only increased till her whole body seemed to twitch uncontrollably. At last with the utmost quietness he stooped and deliberately raised her.
"Chris, my dear little girl, you mustn't let yourself go like this. I want you to take this stuff to steady you. Afterwards you will have a sleep and be better."
She did not absolutely resist him, but he felt her nervous contraction at his touch. The face she turned to his was ghastly in its pallor.
"I--I don't think I can, Trevor," she said, speaking very rapidly. "My throat won't swallow. It would only choke me. Please--please, if you don't mind--go away. I shall be all right if--if you will only go."
"I can't leave you like this," he said.
"Yes, yes, you can," she answered feverishly. "Oh, what does it matter? Trevor, I must be alone. I must! I must! Please go!"
Her agitation was growing with every second, and he saw that he must yield. He laid her back again without a word, smoothed the cushions, touched her hair, and softly departed.
She listened tensely for the closing of the door, relaxing instantly the moment she heard it. A great darkness descended upon her soul. She lay motionless, face downwards, too stunned for thought.
A long time passed. It was growing late. Over the quiet garden the summer dusk was falling. The swallows were swooping through it in their multitudes--the swallows that Cinders loved to chase. To-night no cheery, impudent bark pursued their flight. To-night all was still.
Did they miss him? she began to wonder dully. Did they ask each other where he had gone? And then, half-consciously, she began to listen for him, the scamper of the light feet, the gay jingle of his collar, till in a moment she almost fancied that she heard him scratching at the door.
She was half off the sofa before realization stabbed her, and she sank back numbly into her desolation.
Again a long time passed--an interval not to be measured by hours or minutes. The swallows ceased to circle and went to roost. It began to be dark. And still Chris lay alone, a huddled, motionless figure, prostrate, crushed, inanimate. Her hands and feet were like ice, but she did not know it. She was past caring for such trifles. All her abounding vitality seemed to be arrested, as if her very blood had ceased to circulate.
It was growing late when the door opened at last. A figure stood a moment upon the threshold, then entered, moving with a quick, light tread that might have been the tread of a woman. In the darkness it reached her, bent over her.
"_Ah, pauvre petite_!" said a soft voice, a voice so full of compassion that it thrilled straight to her silent heart and made it beat again. "All alone with your grief! You permit me to intrude myself, no?"
She turned and felt up towards him with an icy hand. "Bertie!" she said. "You--might have come before!"
He knelt swiftly down beside her, pressing the little trembling fingers against his neck to give them warmth. "But you are so cold!" he said. "You must not lie here any more."
"Why not?" she said dully. "I don't think it matters, does it?"
"But of course!" he made quick rejoinder. "When you suffer we suffer also. Also"--he paused an instant--"Mr. Mordaunt awaits you, _petite_. Will you not go to him?"
She shivered. "Need I, Bertie? I don't want to."
It was the cry of a child--a child in distress--plunged for the first time in the bitter waters of grief, turning instinctively to the friend of childhood for comfort. "I don't want anyone but you," she said piteously. "You understand. You loved him--and Trevor didn't."
"Oh, but, Christine--" Bertrand began.
"No, he didn't!" she maintained, with sudden vehemence. "I always knew he didn't. He put up with him for my sake; but he never loved him. He never noticed his pretty little ways. Once--once"--she began to sob--"it was on our wedding-day--he slapped him--for chasing a cat! My sweet wee Cinders!"
She broke down utterly upon the words, and there followed such a storm of tears that Bertrand was forced to abandon all attempts to reason with her, and could only kneel and whisper soft endearments in his own language, soothing her, comforting her, as though she were indeed the child she seemed.
But it was long before she even heard him, not until the paroxysm had spent itself and she lay passive and utterly exhausted, with her hands fast clasped in his.
"You are good to me," she murmured then, and in a moment, "Why, Bertie, you're crying too!"
"Ah, pardon me!" he whispered, under his breath. "But to see you in pain, my little one, my bird of Paradise--"
"No," she said, a strange note of conviction in her voice, "I shall never be that any more now that Cinders is gone. I shan't be young like that any more. I--I shall grow up now, Bertie. I daresay Trevor will like me the better for it. But you won't, dear. You will be sorry, I know. We've been playfellows always, haven't we, even though you grew up and I didn't? Well"--there came a sharp catch in her voice--"we shall both be grown-up now."
And then, all in a moment, as if some panic urged her, she started up, drawing his hands close. "But we'll be friends still, won't we, Bertie? You won't talk of going away any more, will you? Promise me! Promise me, Bertie!"
He hesitated. "It might be better that I should go," he said slowly. "It is possible that--"
She interrupted him almost hysterically. "Oh no, no, no! I want you here. I want you, Bertie, Don't you understand?"
"But yes," he said. "Only, _petite_--"
"You will promise, then?" she broke in, as though she had not heard the last words. "Bertie, I'm so miserable. You--you--wouldn't add to it all!"
"No, _cherie_, by Heaven, no!" he said, with vehemence.
"Then you'll stay, Bertie? You will stay?" Very earnestly she besought him. Her tears were dropping on his hands. "Say you will!"
For a moment longer he hesitated; he tried to resist her, he tried to take a sane and temperate view. But those tears were too much for him. They were the one torture he could not endure. With a sharp gesture he flung his hesitation from him. Yet even then he left himself a way of escape lest the temptation should be more than he could bear.
"I will stay," he made grave reply, "as long as it would make you happy to have me with you--that is"--he checked himself--"if Mr. Mordaunt desire it also."
"But of course he does," said Chris. "He likes you. And I--I can't do without you, Bertie--not now."
He heard the desolate note in her voice, and he did not contradict her. Had he not sworn that while she needed him he would be at hand?
"_Eh bien_," he said soothingly. "I stay."
That comforted her somewhat, and presently, at his persuasion, she sat up and dried her eyes. It was too dark for them to see each other, but she held his hand very tightly; and there was comfort also in that.
"Now you will come away from here," he said. "Mr. Mordaunt is very troubled about you. He would not come to you himself because he thought that you did not desire him. But that was not true, no?"
Again that hard shudder went through Chris. She was silent for a little, them "Oh, Bertie," she whispered, "I wish--I wish--it hadn't been he who--who--" she broke off--"you know what I mean. You--saw!"
Yes, he knew. It was what Mordaunt himself had suspected, and loyally he entered the breach on his friend's behalf.
"_Cherie_--pardon me--that is not a good wish--not worthy of you. That which he did was most merciful, most brave, and he did it himself because he would not trust another. I wish it had been my hand--not his. Then you would have understood."
"I almost wish it had been!" whispered Chris; and then, her words scarcely audible, "But--but do you think--he--knew?"
"_Le pauvre Cinders_?" Very softly Bertrand spoke the dog's name. "No, Christine. He did not know. His head was turned the other way. His eyes regarded only you. And Mr. Mordaunt was so quiet, so steady. He aim his revolver quite straight, and his hand tremble--no, not once. Oh, believe me, _petite_, it was better to end it so."
"Yes, I know, only--only"--convulsively her hands closed upon his--"Bertie--Bertie--dogs do go to heaven, don't they?"
"I believe it, Christine."
"You do really--not just because I want you to?"
He drew her gently to her feet. "_Cherie_, I believe it, because I know that all love is eternal, and death is only an incident in eternity. Where there is love there is no death. Nothing that loves can die. It is the Divine Spark that nothing can ever quench."
He spoke with absolute conviction, almost with exultation; and the words went straight to Chris's heart and stayed there.
"You do comfort me," she said.
"I only tell you the truth," he made answer, "as I see it. We do not yet know the power of Love. We only know that it is the greatest of all. It is _le bon Dieu_ in the world. And we meet Him everywhere--even in the heart of a dog."
"I shall remember that," she said.
Her hand still clung to his as they groped their way across the room. At the door for a moment she stayed him.
"I shall never forget your goodness to me, Bertie, never--never!" she said, very earnestly.
"Ah, bah!" he answered quickly. "But we are--pals!"
And with that he opened the door, almost as if impatient, and made her pass before him into the hall.
The lamplight dazzled Chris, and she stood for a moment uncertain. Then, as her eyes became accustomed to the change, she discovered her husband, standing a few yards away, looking at her.
He did not speak, merely held out his hand to her; and she went to him with a vagrant feeling of reluctance.
He put his arm about her, looking gravely into her wan face; but she turned from his scrutiny and leaned her head against his shoulder with a piteous little murmur of protest.
"Do you mind if I go to bed, Trevor?" she said, after a moment. "I--I'm very tired, and I don't want any dinner."
"You must have something, dear," he made answer, "but have it in bed by all means. I will bring it up to you in half an hour."
She made a slight movement which might have meant dissent, but which remained unexplained. For a little she stood passive, leaning against him as though she lacked the energy to go, but at length she made a move. Glancing round, she saw that Bertrand had departed.
"Where is Noel?" she asked.
"In his room."
She looked up sharply, detecting a hint of grimness in his voice. "Trevor"--she halted a little--"are you--vexed with anybody?"
His face softened at her tone. "Never mind now, dear," he said. "You are worn out. Get to bed."
She put her hand to her head with a weary gesture. "But why--why is Noel in his room?"
"Because I sent him there."
"You!" She stared at him, fully roused from her lethargy. "Trevor! Why?"
"I will tell you tomorrow," he said, frowning slightly. "I can't have you upset any more tonight."
"But, Trevor--"
"Chris, dear, go to bed," he said firmly. "If I don't find you there in half an hour, I shall put you there myself."
"Oh no!" she broke in. "Please don't come up. I shall get on better alone. And I have to say goodnight to Noel first."
"I am sorry, dear," he said, "but you can't. Noel is in disgrace, and I would rather you did not see him to-night."
"In disgrace! Trevor--why?"
He put his arm deliberately round her again, and led her to the stairs.
"Tell me why," she said.
"I will tell you tomorrow," he repeated.
But she would not be satisfied. She turned upon the first stair, confronting him. "Tell me now, please, Trevor."
He raised his brows at her insistence.
"Yes," she said in answer, "but I want to know. You don't--you can't--blame him for--for--" she faltered and bit her lip desperately--"you know what," she ended under her breath.
"I do blame him," he answered quietly. "I forbade him strictly to attempt to drive without someone of experience beside him."
"Oh!" A sharp note of misgiving sounded in Chris's voice. "You said that to me too!" she said.
He looked at her very gravely. "I did."
"Then--then"--she stretched a hand to the bannisters--"you are angry with me too?"
"No, I am not angry with you," he said, and she was conscious of a subtle softening in his tone. "I am never angry with you, Chris," he said emphatically.
"And yet you are angry with Noel," she said.
"That is different."
"How--different?"
He took her hand into his. "Do you know he nearly killed you?"
She started a little. "Me?"
He nodded grimly. "Yes. If it had been only himself, it wouldn't have mattered. But you--you!"
His arms went out to her suddenly; he caught her to him, held her passionately close for a moment, then lifted her and began to carry her upstairs.
She lay against his breast in quivering silence. It seemed that Cinders did not matter either so long as she was safe; and though she knew beyond all question that he was not angry with her, she was none the less afraid. _