_ PART II CHAPTER XI. A BROKEN REED
"But, my good girl, five hundred pounds!" Rupert looked down at his sister with an expression half-humorous, half-dismayed. "What do you think I'm made of?" he inquired.
She stood before him, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands. "I must have it! I must have it!" she said piteously. "I thought you might be able to raise it on something."
"But not on nothing," said Rupert.
"I would pay it back," she urged. "I could begin to pay back almost at once."
"Why on earth don't you ask Trevor for it?" he said. "He's the proper person to go to."
"Oh, I know," she answered. "And so I would for anything else, but not for this--not for this! He would ask questions, questions I couldn't possibly answer. And--oh, I couldn't--I couldn't!"
"What have you been up to?" said Rupert curiously.
"Nothing--nothing whatever. I've done nothing wrong." Chris almost wrung her hands in her agitation. "But I can't tell you or anyone what I want it for. Oh, Rupert, you will help me! I know you will!"
"Steady!" said Rupert. "Don't get hysterical, my child. That won't serve anybody's turn. I suppose you've been extravagant, and daren't own up. Trevor is a bit of a Tartar, I own. But five hundred pounds! It's utterly beyond my reach."
"Couldn't you borrow it from someone?" pleaded Chris. "Rupert, it's only for a time. I'll pay back a little every month. And you have so many friends."
Rupert made a grimace. "All of whom know me far too well to lend me money. No, that cock won't fight. I've a hundred debts of my own waiting to be settled. Trevor wasn't disposed to be over-generous the last time I approached him. At least, he was generous, but he wasn't particularly encouraging. He's such a rum beggar, and I have my own reasons for not wanting to go to him again at present."
"Of course you couldn't go to him for this," said Chris. "But--Rupert, if you could only help me in this matter, I would do all I could for you. I would give you every farthing I could spare, indeed--indeed. I might even ask him for a little later on--not yet, of course, but by and bye, if I saw an opportunity. Oh, you don't know what it means to me--how much depends upon it."
"Why don't you tell me?" Rupert asked.
"Because I can't--I daren't!" Chris laid imploring hands upon his shoulders; her eyes besought him. "Dear Rupert, it isn't that I don't trust you. Don't think that! But it wouldn't do any good if you knew, and I simply can't talk about it. I've shown how much I trust you by asking you to help me out of my trouble. There is no one else in the world that I could ask--not even Max. He would make me tell him everything. But you won't, dear; I know you won't, will you?"
It was impossible not to be moved by her earnest pleading. Rupert slipped an arm around her. "You needn't be afraid of me," he said.
"I know I needn't," she answered, laying her cheek against him with a quick gesture of confidence. "And I am of everyone else--even of Bertie. It's absurd, isn't it? Fancy being afraid of Bertie!" She smiled through tears.
"He doesn't know, then?" said Rupert.
"Bertie? No, no, of course not! I wouldn't have him know for the world. He would go and do--something desperate." Chris's startled eyes testified to her dread of this contingency. "No, I haven't dared to tell anyone, except you. If you can't help me, there's no one left. I--I shall run away and drown myself."
"Oh, nonsense!" said Rupert. "There's a way out of every difficulty if one has the wit to find it. Keep cool, my dear girl! If you let yourself go, you will give your own show away."
"I know! I know!" gasped Chris. "But what can I do? It would kill me if Trevor knew!"
Rupert's arm tightened protectingly about her. At least they stood by each other, these Wyndhams. "Then Trevor mustn't know," he rejoined. "I'll manage it somehow if it's humanly possible. You must let me think it over. And in the meantime, for goodness' sake, keep cool. If Trevor were to see you now, he would know there was something up directly."
As a matter of fact, he himself had never seen his sister so agitated before. She was like a terrified bird in a trap. What on earth had she been doing? he wondered. What made her go in such abject fear of her husband that the very mention of his name was enough to send every vestige of colour from her face?
He grasped her trembling fingers reassuringly. "There! Leave it to me," he said. "I'll find a way out, never fear. I've been in a good many tight corners in my time, but I've always wriggled out somehow. I suppose you want the money soon?"
"At once," said Chris.
He made a grimace, as of one swallowing a nauseous draught. "All right, you shall have it. Now, don't worry any more. It's going to be all right." He patted her shoulder kindly. "Only, for Heaven's sake, don't do it again!"
She shivered, and turned away to hide her quivering lips. "If--if you can get me the money this once," she said, "I--I'll never ask you again, and I'll give you every farthing--every farthing--"
"My dear child, I don't want your farthings," responded Rupert cheerily. "If you can make it fifty pounds now, I shall be quite grateful. But I'll get you yours first, never mind how. Now, hadn't we better go back to the rest? Aunt Philippa will be wondering what we are conspiring about. By the way, when does she depart?"
"Soon, I hope," said Chris fervently.
He grinned. "Had enough of her, eh? So, I should imagine, has Trevor. He is keener on giving advice than taking it, if I know anything about him."
"She wouldn't dare to give Trevor advice," protested Chris.
"Ho! wouldn't she?" He laughed derisively, as they turned to leave the little room in the roof that was her refuge, but paused at the door to slip his arm through hers. "You're not to worry, young 'un," he said, with a patronage that did not veil concern. "Do you know you're looking downright ill?"
She smiled up at him wistfully. "Things have been pretty horrid lately. But I won't worry any more if--if you tell me I needn't."
"You needn't," he said, and impulsively he stooped and kissed her. He had always had a protecting tenderness for his little sister.
They descended to the drawing-room to find Aunt Philippa writing letters in solitary state. The rest of the company, with the exception of Mordaunt, who was at work in his own room, were in the billiard-room just beyond, and Chris and Rupert repaired thither, relieved to make their escape so easily.
They found Bertrand, who was an expert player, making a long break. He was playing against Max, whose opinion of him was obviously rising with this display of skill.
He was engaged upon a most difficult stroke when Chris entered, and she stopped behind him lest she should disturb his aim. But he turned round at once to her, leaving the balls untouched.
"_Mais non_!" he declared lightly. "I cannot play with my back to my hostess. It is an affair _tres difficile_, and I must have everything in my favour."
"Oh, don't let me spoil your luck!" she said.
She came and stood at the end of the table to watch him.
"That would not be possible," he protested, as he applied himself again to the ball.
He achieved the stroke with that finish and dexterity that marked all he did.
"Oh, I say!" said Noel disgustedly. "You haven't a look-in, Max. He plays like a machine."
"You like not to be beaten by a Frenchman, no?" laughed Bertrand. "_Il faut que les anglais soient toujours, toujours les premiers, hein_?" He stopped suddenly, for Chris had made the faintest movement, as if his words had touched some chord of memory. He flashed her a swift look, and the smile died out of his face. He moved round the table, and again stooped to his stroke. "But what is success after all," he said, "and what is failure?"
"You ought to know," Max observed dryly, as again he made his point.
The Frenchman straightened himself. There was something of kinship between these two, a tacit sympathy that had taken root on the night of Chris's birthday, an understanding that called for no explanation.
"Yes," he said, with a quick nod, "I know them both. They are worth just--that." He snapped his fingers in the air. "They pass like"--he hesitated a moment, then ended with deliberation--"like pictures in the sand."
"The same remark applies to most things," said Rupert.
Bertrand glanced at him. "To all but one, monsieur," he said, in a queer tone that was almost tinged with irony.
Again he bent himself to a stroke with a quick, light grace, as though he regarded success as a foregone conclusion.
"Look at that!" said Noel in dejection, as the ball cannoned triumphantly down the table. "The gods are all on his side."
The stroke was a brilliant one, but Bertrand did not immediately straighten himself as before. He remained leaning across the table, as if he watched the effect of his skill.
There was a brief pause before very carefully he laid his cue upon the cloth and began to raise himself, slowly, with infinite caution, using both hands.
"No," he said, speaking jerkily, in a rapid undertone, as if to himself. "The gods--are no more--on my side."
A sharp gasp escaped him. He stood up, and they saw the sweat running down his forehead. "Will you--excuse me for a moment?" he said. "I have--forgotten _quelque chose_."
He turned towards Chris with punctilious courtesy, clicked his heels together, bowed, and walked stiffly from the room. _