_ PART II CHAPTER X. A WARNING VOICE
Five hundred pounds! Five hundred pounds! It represented her year's income to Chris.
All night long she lay wide-eyed and still, facing her problem with a quaking heart. It was like a suffocating weight upon her, crushing her down. Five hundred pounds! And the need thereof so urgent that it must be dealt with at once! But how to obtain it? How? How?
All through the dark hours she lay revolving the matter, questioning this way and that, bound hand and foot, yet not daring to contemplate the only sane means at her disposal of obtaining freedom. To tell her husband the simple truth, to throw herself unreservedly upon his generosity, to beg his forgiveness and his help--these were the things she could not do. As a matter of fact the truth had been so magnified by her fevered fancy that it had begun to appear monstrous even in her own eyes. Those far-off happenings at Valpre had become a dream with a nightmare ending. Not even Aunt Philippa could have distorted them to a more exaggerated semblance of evil. And to go to her husband now with such a story was utterly beyond Chris's powers of accomplishment. She lacked the courage to speak with simplicity and candour, and she was painfully aware that to give a halting account of the matter would be infinitely more dangerous than to keep silence. Already her husband's faith in her veracity had been shaken. Was it likely that he would accept unquestioning her assurance that this matter, which she had rigorously suppressed for so long and which she only imparted to him now under compulsion, was in reality one of trivial importance? Would he believe her? Had she ever fostered his belief in her? Could he in reason do so even if he desired?
Moreover, there was another obstacle. There was Bertrand. Though he had offered to speak for her, though he had desired to explain all, and though she knew that Trevor's faith in him was absolute, yet the presence of Bertrand in itself made candour impossible. Why this should be she did not know. It was a problem which she had not attempted to solve. But the fact remained. She dreaded unspeakably the possibility of having to describe the intimacy that had existed between herself and Bertrand in the old, free, Valpre days. She dreaded the keen searching of the grey eyes that, if they sought long enough, were bound to find her soul, and not only to find, but to enter it, to penetrate to its most hidden corner, and to draw out into the full light of day one of her most sacred possessions. She felt that she could not bear this probing. The very thought of it was horrible to her, and in connection with it the steady scrutiny of her husband's eyes became almost a thing abhorrent. Vaguely she knew, without realizing, that she cherished deep in that inmost shrine something which he must never see, something that it would be agony to show him, something that even now gnawed secretly at her quivering heart. She always shrank from his direct look, though she would not have him know it. The calm, level gaze frightened her, she knew not why. Perhaps the secret of all her fear of him lay hidden in this problem that she dared not face.
No, she could not endure a full revelation of the truth. Bertrand had declared that Mordaunt could not discover what was non-existent, but it was not this that Chris feared. It was something infinitely more terrible, a floating suspicion that might harden into actual fact at any moment.
And so her whole being was concentrated upon avoiding the catastrophe that instinct warned her to be impending. Everything hung upon the keeping of that secret which once had seemed to her so small a thing. It had grown to mighty proportions of late. She did not ask herself wherefore; but once in the night she smiled a piteous little smile at the recollection of Manon, the maid-of-all-work, and her story of the spell that bound all who entered the Magic Cave. She remembered how she had laughed over it; but Bertrand had not laughed. He had been quite grave; she remembered that also. He had even spoken as if he believed in it. For a little her thoughts dwelt upon that night, on the quick confidences he had poured out, on her own consternation over the nature of his enterprise, on the words he had uttered then to comfort her. She had never given them much thought before. To-night, lying by her husband's side, they returned to her, and for the first time she pondered them seriously. He had dismissed ambition and success, even the strife of nations, at a breath. He had been able to do so even then, when he was nearing the summit of his aspirations. "What are they?" he had said. "Only a procession that marches under the windows, only a dream in the midst of a great Reality."
What had he meant by that? she asked herself, and searched her memory for more. It came with a curious vividness, a winged message, straight and sure as an arrow. "We look out above them," he had said, "you and I"--suddenly she heard the very thrill of his voice, and it pierced her through and through--"to the great heaven and the sun; and we know that that is life--the Spark Eternal that nothing can ever quench." Chris did not ask herself the meaning of that. She hid it away in her heart, quickly, quickly, lest seeing she should also understand.
It was very early in the morning when she slipped out of bed, and crept to the open window to watch the stars fade into the dawning. She would have liked to pray, but no prayer occurred to her. And so she knelt quite passive, gazing forth over the dim garden, too tired to think any longer, yet too miserable to sleep. She did not know that her husband's eyes gravely watched her throughout her vigil, and when presently she lay down again she still believed him to be sleeping.
In the morning inspiration came to Chris. She believed Rupert to be out of debt, thanks to Trevor's generosity. She would get him to raise the money for her. She knew he must have ways and means of so doing which were quite beyond her reach. At least, it seemed her only resource, and she would try it.
"Are you quite well, Chris?" her husband asked her when he rose at an early hour, as was his custom.
"Quite," said Chris. "Why?"
She looked at him nervously with heavy-lidded eyes.
He bent to kiss her before leaving the room. "Don't get up yet," he said kindly. "Stay in bed and have a sleep."
"But I--I have slept," she stammered.
He put the hair gently back from her forehead. "I know all about it," he said.
She started away from him in sheer panic. "About what?" she gasped, in a whisper; then, seeing his brows go up, "Oh, Trevor, I--I'm sorry. No, I haven't slept very well. But--"
"I thought not," he interposed quietly. "Well, sleep now, dear."
He turned to go, but impulsively she caught his hand, held it a moment, then suddenly put it to her lips. But she would not look at him, would not even raise her eyes again; and he, after the briefest pause, withdrew his hand, touched her cheek with it lightly, and so left her.
When they met again at the breakfast-table she was discussing with Aunt Philippa the best means of spending the day. Bertrand was not present. He usually took chocolate at that hour in Mordaunt's room, where he could continue his secretarial work uninterrupted. Noel was not yet down.
Chris turned at once to address her husband. "I have had a line from Max. He is coming down for a few days I think he hasn't been well--overworking, he says."
"I can scarcely believe," said Aunt Philippa, with her acid smile, "that a Wyndham could ever suffer from that complaint."
"They don't over-rest, anyhow," said Mordaunt, with a glance at his wife's tired face. "I shall be very pleased to see him, Chris. Write and tell him so."
"I don't think I need write," she said. "He will be here this afternoon. Shall I ask Rupert to come over and dine, so that we can all be together--that is, if Aunt Philippa doesn't mind?"
"Pray do not consider me," said Aunt Philippa.
"Do exactly as you like," said Mordaunt quietly. "Rupert is always welcome so far as I am concerned."
Chris rose from the table as he sat down. "I will send him a note at once if I may, or I shall miss the post."
"Have you had any breakfast?" he asked, detaining her as she passed his chair.
"None at all," said Aunt Philippa.
"Oh, Aunt Philippa, I have, indeed!" protested Chris, colouring vividly. "Besides, I'm not hungry."
"Besides!" echoed Mordaunt, faintly smiling. "Drink a cup of hot milk before you go."
She made a wry face. "I can't. I hate it. Please don't keep me!"
"Then do as you are told," he said. "I thought I ordered you to stay in bed."
"Oh, don't be absurd!" said Chris; but she went back to her place and poured out the milk as he desired.
"Now drink it," he said, with his eyes upon her.
She obeyed him without further protest, finally setting the cup down with a sigh of relief.
Mordaunt rose to open the door. "You are not to do anything energetic to-day," he said.
She threw him a smile, half-shy, half-wistful, and departed without replying.
He turned back into the room and sat down. "I am not quite satisfied about Chris," he said.
"Neither am I," said Aunt Philippa, with unexpected severity.
He looked at her with awakened attention. "No?" he said courteously.
"No." Very decidedly came Aunt Philippa's reply. "I intended to speak to you upon the subject, my dear Trevor, and I am glad that an early opportunity for so doing has presented itself."
"You think she looks ill?" Mordaunt asked.
"Not at all," said Aunt Philippa. "The intense heat we have had lately is quite sufficient to account for her jaded looks. She has probably also been fretting unreasonably over the death of her dog. I believe that animal was the only thing in the world she ever really cared for."
Mordaunt rested his chin on his hand, and looked at her thoughtfully. "Indeed!" he said.
Neither his voice nor his face expressed anything whatever beyond a decorous gravity. Aunt Philippa began to feel slightly exasperated.
"She will get over that," she said, with a confidence that held more of contempt than tolerance. "None of the Wyndhams are fundamentally capable of taking anything seriously for long. You must have discovered their instability for yourself by this time."
"Not with respect to Chris." Was there a hint of sternness underlying the placidity of the rejoinder? There might have been, but Aunt Philippa was too intent upon the matter she had taken in hand to notice it.
"Oh, well," she said, "you haven't been married six weeks yet, have you? You will see what I mean sooner or later. But you may take it from me that all of them--Chris included--are without an atom of solidity in their composition. I warn you, Trevor, very seriously; they are not to be depended upon."
Mordaunt heard her without changing his position. His eyes looked straight at her from under lids that never stirred. "Is that what you have to say to me?" he asked, after a moment.
"It leads to what I have to say," returned Aunt Philippa with dignity.
She was quite in her element now, and enjoying herself far too thoroughly to be lightly disconcerted.
"Pray finish!" he said.
That gave her momentary pause. "I am speaking solely for your welfare," she told him.
"I do not question it," he returned.
Yet even she was aware that his stillness was not all the outcome of courteous attention. There was about it a restraint which made itself felt, as it were, in spite of him, a dominance which she set down to his forceful personality.
"The subject upon which I chiefly desire to speak a word of warning," she said, "is the presence in the house--the constant presence--of your young French secretary."
"Yes?" said Mordaunt.
He betrayed no surprise, but the word fell curtly, as if he found himself face to face with an unpleasant task and desired to be through with it as quickly as possible.
Aunt Philippa proceeded with just a hint of caution. "My dear Trevor, surely you are aware of the danger!"
"What danger?"
A difficult question, which Aunt Philippa answered with diplomacy. "Chris was always something of a flirt."
"Indeed!" said Mordaunt again.
His manner was so non-committal that Aunt Philippa began to lose her patience. "I should have thought that fact was patent to everyone."
"Never to me," said Chris's husband very deliberately.
Aunt Philippa smiled. "Then you are remarkably blind, my dear Trevor. Flightiness has been her chief characteristic all her life. If you have not yet found that out, I fear she must be deceitful as well."
"I am not discussing my wife's character," Mordaunt made answer very steadily.
"You prefer to shut your eyes to the obvious," said Aunt Philippa, beginning to be aware of something formidable in her path but not quite grasping its magnitude.
"I prefer my own estimate of her to that of anyone else," he made quiet reply.
Aunt Philippa made a slight gesture of uneasiness. The steady gaze was becoming a hard thing to meet. Had the man been less phlegmatic, she could almost have imagined him to be in a white heat of anger. He was so unnaturally quiet, his whole being concentrated, as it were, in a composure that she could not but feel to be ominous.
It was with an effort that the woman who sat facing him resumed her self-appointed task. "That I can well understand," she said. "But even so, I think you should bear in mind that Chris is young--and frail. You are not justified in exposing her to temptation."
"As how?"
Aunt Philippa hesitated for the first time in actual perturbation.
Mordaunt waited immovably.
"I think," she said at length, "that you would be very ill-advised if you went to town and left her here--thrown entirely upon her own resources."
"May I ask if you are still referring to my secretary?" he said.
She bent her head. "I have never approved of her being upon such intimate terms with him. She treats him as if--as if--"
"As if he were her brother," said Mordaunt quietly. "I do the same. I have many friends, but he is the one man in the world who possesses my entire confidence. For that reason I foster their friendship, for I know it to be a good thing. For that reason, if I were dying, I would confidently leave her in his care."
"My dear Trevor, the man has bewitched you!" protested Aunt Philippa.
His eyes fell away from her at last, and she was conscious of distinct relief, mingled with a most unwonted tinge of humiliation.
"I am obliged to you," he said formally, "for taking the trouble to warn me. But you need never do so again. Believe me, I am not blind; and Chris is safe in my care."
He rose with the words, and went to the sideboard for his breakfast. Here he remained for some time with his back turned, but when he finally came back to the table there was no trace of even suppressed agitation about him.
He sat down and began to eat with a perfectly normal demeanour. The silence, however, remained unbroken until Noel burst tempestuously into the room. No silence ever outlasted his appearance.
He flung his arms round his brother-in-law and embraced him warmly, with a friendly, "Hullo, you greedy beggar! Hope you haven't gobbled up everything! I'm confoundedly hungry. Morning, Aunt Philippa! I suppose you fed long ago? It's a disgusting habit, isn't it? But one we can't dispense with at present. Where's Chris?"
"Chris," said Aunt Philippa icily, "has already breakfasted, and so have I."
She moved towards the door as she spoke. Noel sprang with alacrity to open it, and bowed to the floor behind her retreating form.
"She looks like a dying duck in a thunderstorm," he observed, as he returned to the table. "What have you been doing to her? Has there been a thunderstorm?"
Mordaunt met his inquiring eyes without a smile. "Noel," he said, "if you can't be courteous to your aunt and your sister, I won't have you at the table at all--or in the house for that matter."
Noel uttered a long whistle. "I thought I smelt the reek of battle in the air! What's up? Anything exciting?"
"Do you understand me?" Mordaunt said, sticking to his point.
Noel broke into smiles. "Oh, perfectly, my dear chap! You're as simple as the Book of Common Prayer. But it would be a pity to kick me out of the house, you know. You'd miss me--horribly."
Mordaunt leaned back in his chair. "Then I'll give you a sound caning instead."
Noel nodded vigorous approval. "Much more suitable. I like you better every day. So does Chris. I believe she'll be in love with you before long."
"Really?" said Mordaunt.
"Yes, really." Noel was munching complacently between his words. "I never thought you'd do it. The odds were dead against you. She only married you to get away from Aunt Philippa. Of course you know that?"
"Really?" Mordaunt said again. He was not apparently paying much attention to the boy's chatter.
"Yes, really," Noel reiterated, with a grin. "It's solid, simple, sordid fact. The only chap she ever seriously cared about was a little beast of a Frenchman she chummed up with years ago at Valpre. I never met the beggar myself, but I'm sure he was a beast. But I'll bet she'd have married him if she'd had the chance. They were as thick as thieves."
At this point Mordaunt opened the morning paper with a bored expression, and straightway immersed himself in its contents.
Noel turned his attention to his breakfast, which he dispatched with astonishing rapidity, finally remarking, as he rose: "But you never can tell what a woman will do when it comes to the point--unless she's a suffragette, in which case she may be safely relied on to make a howling donkey of herself for all time." _