_ PART II CHAPTER XII. A MAN OF HONOUR
An amazed silence followed his exit; then, in a quick whisper, Chris spoke.
"He isn't well. I'm sure he isn't well. Did you see--his face--when he stood up?"
She turned with the words as if she would go after him, but Max checked her sharply. "No, you stay here. I'm going."
She paused irresolute. "Let me come too."
"Don't be silly," said Max. He frowned at her scared face for a moment, then smiled abruptly. "Don't be silly!" he said again. He passed down the room with what seemed to her maddening deliberation, opened the door, and went quietly out.
Aunt Philippa was still busy with her correspondence in the drawing-room. She glanced up as he went through. "Can you tell me what time the evening post goes out? I have just asked M. Bertrand, but he did not see fit to answer me."
"Then he couldn't have heard you," said Max. "The post goes out at nine-thirty."
"Ah! Then perhaps you would wait a moment while I direct this envelope, and you can then give it to a servant with orders to take it to the post-office at once."
Max drew his red brows together and waited.
The scratching of Aunt Philippa's pen filled in the pause. She directed her envelope, blotted it with care, stamped it with precision, finally handed it to her nephew with the request, "Please remember that it is important."
Max received it with reverence. "I shall treat it with the utmost veneration," he said. He knew that his aunt had a strong dislike for him, and he fostered it with much enjoyment upon every possible occasion.
He slipped the letter into his pocket as he left the room and promptly dismissed it from his mind.
He turned aside into the dining-room, rummaged for brandy and found it, and went with noiseless speed upstairs.
The door of Bertrand's room was unlatched, and he pushed it open without ceremony. Blank darkness met him on the threshold, but a sound within told him the room was tenanted. He switched on the light without delay, entered, and shut the door.
He found Bertrand seated huddled on the edge of his bed, gasping horribly for breath. He did not apparently hear Max enter. His close-cropped head was bowed upon his arms. His hands were opening and closing convulsively. He rocked to and fro almost with violence, but no sound beyond his spasmodic breathing escaped him.
Max set down the brandy and took him by the shoulders. "Look here," he said, "lie down. I'll help you."
Bertrand started a little at his touch, and Max had a glimpse of his tortured face as he glanced up. "_Fermez la porte_!" he said, in a choked whisper.
The door was already shut. Max wheeled and turned the key. "Now!" he said.
He stooped over the Frenchman, and with the utmost care lifted him back on to the pillows, unfastened his collar, then turned to fling the windows as wide as they would go. The night air, fragrant with rain, blew in, rustling the curtains. Bertrand turned his face towards it instinctively. His lips were blue; they worked painfully, as if, between his gasping, he were still trying to speak.
"Keep still!" Max said.
He mixed some brandy and water, and returning, slipped his arm under the pillow. "Don't exert yourself," he said. "I'll do it all."
Very steadily he held the glass for Bertrand to drink. He could take but very little at a time, so agonized was his struggle for breath. Max waited through each pause, closely watching the drawn face, never missing his opportunity. And gradually that little took effect. The anguish died out of Bertrand's eyes, and he lay still.
Max slipped his arm from beneath the pillow and stood up. "Don't move," he said. "You're getting better."
"You--will stay--with me?" whispered Bertrand.
"Yes."
He drew up a chair, and sat down, took the Frenchman's wrist between his fingers, and so remained for a long time.
Bertrand lay with closed eyes, his breathing still short and occasionally difficult, but no longer agonized.
There came the sound of flying feet along the corridor, and an impatient hand hammered on the door.
"Hullo, Bertrand! Are you all right? Chris wants to know," shouted a boyish voice.
Bertrand started violently, and a quiver of pain went through him. He fixed his eyes imploringly on Max, who instantly rose to the occasion.
"Of course he's all right. You clear out! We're busy."
"What are you doing?" Keen curiosity sounded in Noel's voice.
"Never mind! We don't want you," came the brotherly rejoinder.
"But I say--"
"Clear out!" ordered Max. "Go and tell Chris that Bertrand is writing a letter to catch the post; which reminds me," he added grimly, "you can also tell Holmes to come and fetch it in a quarter of an hour. Don't forget now. It's important."
He pulled the letter entrusted to his keeping from his pocket and tossed it on to the table.
Noel departed, and with an effort Bertrand spoke.
"But that was not the truth."
"Near enough," responded the second Wyndham complacently. "That is, if you don't want everyone to know."
Bertrand's brows contracted. "No--no! I would not that your sister should know, or Mr. Mordaunt."
"They will have to sooner or later," observed Max.
"Then--let it be later," murmured Bertrand.
Again there fell a silence, during which he seemed to be collecting his strength, for when he spoke again it was with more firmness.
"Mr. Wyndham!"
"All right, you can call me Max. I'm listening," said Max.
Bertrand faintly smiled. That touch of good-fellowship pleased him. Young as he was, this boy somehow made him feel that he understood many things.
"Then, Max," he said, "I think that you know already that which I am going to say to you. However, it is better to say it. It is not possible that I shall live very long."
He paused, but Max said nothing. He sat, still holding Bertrand's wrist, his gaze upon the opposite wall.
"You knew it, no?" Bertrand questioned.
"I suspected it," Max said. He turned slightly and looked at the man upon the bed. "This isn't your first attack," he said.
Bertrand shuddered irrepressibly. "Nor my second," he said.
"I can give you something to ease the pain," Max said. "But if you're wise you will consult a doctor."
Again a faint smile flickered over Bertrand's face. "I am not enough wise," he said, "to desire to prolong my life under these conditions."
"I should say the same myself," observed Max somewhat curtly.
He offered no further advice, but sat on, waiting apparently for further developments.
After a little Bertrand proceeded. "I have known now for some time that this malady was incurable. I think that I would not have it otherwise, for I am very tired. I am old too--much older than even you can comprehend. I have undergone the suffering of a lifetime, and I am too tired to suffer much more. But--look you, Max--I do not want to make suffer those my friends whom I shall leave behind. That is why I pray that the end may come quick--quick. And, till then--I will bear my pain alone."
"And if you can't?" said Max. "If it gets too much for you?"
"The good God will give me strength," the Frenchman said steadfastly.
Max shrugged his shoulders. "It's your affair, not mine. But I don't see why you shouldn't tell Trevor. He will be hurt by and bye if you don't."
But Bertrand instantly negatived the suggestion. "He is already much--much too good to me. I cannot--I will not--be further indebted to him. My services are almost nominal now. Also"--he paused--"if I tell him, I cannot remain here longer, and--I have made a promise that for the present I will remain."
Max's shrewd eyes took another quick look at him. "For Chris's benefit, I suppose?" he said, and though his tone was a question, it scarcely sounded as if he expected an answer.
Bertrand's eyes met his for an instant in a single lightning glance of interrogation. They fell again immediately, and there followed a considerable pause before he made reply: "I do not abandon my friends when they are troubled and they have need of me."
"Does Chris need you?" Max asked ruthlessly.
Again that swift glance shooting upwards; again a lengthy pause. Then, "_Vous avez la vue percante_," Bertrand remarked in a low tone.
"I can't help seeing things," Max returned. "I suppose it's my speciality. I knew you were in love with her from the first moment I saw you."
Bertrand made a slight movement, as if the crude statement hurt him; but he answered quite quietly, "You have divined a secret which is known to none other. I confide it to your honourable keeping."
The corners of Max's mouth went down. He looked as if he were on the verge of making some ironical rejoinder, but he restrained it, merely asking, "Are you sure that no one else knows it?"
"You mean--?" The words came sharply this time; Bertrand's eyes searched his face with keen anxiety.
"Chris herself," Max said.
"_La petite Christine! Ma foi, no_! She has never known!" Bertrand's reply was instant and held unshaken conviction.
"You seem very sure of that," Max observed.
"I am sure. Also"--a queer little smile of tenderness touched Bertrand's drawn face--"she never will know now."
"Meaning you will never tell her?" Max said.
"Me, I will die first!" Bertrand answered simply.
Max grunted. "Women have an awkward knack of finding things out without being told," he observed.
"She will never discover this while I live," Bertrand answered. "I am her friend--the friend of her childhood--nothing more than that."
"But if she did find out?" Max said.
"She will not."
"But--suppose it for a moment--if she did?" He stuck to his point doggedly, plainly determined to get an answer.
"In that case I should depart at once," Bertrand answered.
"Yes, and where would you go to?"
Bertrand was silent.
"You would go back to London and starve?" Max persisted.
"Perhaps." Bertrand spoke as though the matter were one of indifference to him. "It would not be for long," he said rather dreamily.
"Oh, rot!" Max's rejoinder was intentionally vehement. "Look here," he said, as Bertrand looked at him in surprise, "you can't go on like that. It's too damned foolish. If, for any reason, you do leave this place, you must have some plan of action. You can't let yourself drift."
"No?" Bertrand still looked surprised.
"No," Max returned vigorously. "Now listen to me, Bertrand. If I am to keep quiet about this illness of yours, you have got to make me a promise."
Bertrand raised his brows interrogatively.
"Just this," Max said, "that if you find yourself at a loose end, you will come to me."
Bertrand looked quizzical. "A loose end?" he questioned.
"You know what it means all right," Max returned sternly. "Is it a promise?"
"That I come to you if I need a friend?" amended Bertrand. "But--why should I do that?"
"Because I am a friend if you like," said Max bluntly.
Bertrand's hand closed hard upon his. "I have--no words," he said, in a voice from which all banter had departed.
Max gripped the hand. "Then it's a promise?"
Bertrand hesitated.
"You have no choice," Max reminded him. "And if you will come to me I can find a way to help you. It wouldn't even be difficult. And you would have skilled nursing and attention. Come, it's either that or Trevor will have to be told. He'll see that you don't go back to starve in the streets."
"I will not have Mr. Mordaunt told," Bertrand said quickly and firmly.
"Then you will give me this promise," Max returned immovably.
With a gesture of helplessness the Frenchman yielded. "_Eh bien_, I promise."
"Good!" said Max. He laid Bertrand's hand down and rose.
Yet a moment he stood above him, looking downwards. "You keep your promises, eh?" he asked abruptly.
Bertrand flushed. "I am a man of honour," he said proudly.
"Yes, I know you are." Max touched his shoulder with a boyish, propitiatory movement. "I beg your pardon, old chap. I'd be one myself if I could."
"But you--but you--" Bertrand protested in confusion.
"I am a Wyndham," said Max, with a bitter smile. "It doesn't run in our family, that. But I'll play the game with you, man, just because you're straight."
He patted Bertrand's shoulder lightly, and turned away. There were not many who knew Max Wyndham intimately, and of those not one who would have credited the fact that the innate honour of a French castaway had somehow made him feel ashamed. _