_ PART II CHAPTER XIII. WOMANHOOD
"A thousand thanks, _chere Madame_, for the generous favour which you have bestowed upon me! I shall make it my business to see that no rumour of your droll secret of Valpre ever reach the ear of the strict husband, lest he should imagine that among the rocks of that paradise there lies entombed something more precious to him than the gay romance of your youth.
"To this undertaking I subscribe my signature, with many compliments to the good secretary; and to you, _chere Madame_, my ever constant devotion.
"_Toujours a vous_,
GUILLAUME RODOLPHE.
"P.S.--It is with profound regret that I find myself unable to visit you, but my duty recalls me to my regiment in Paris." A faint sigh escaped Chris, the first breath she had drawn for many seconds. She stood by her dressing-table in the full glare of the electric light, dressed in white, her wonderful hair shining like burnished copper. She was to give her first dinner-party that night. It was not to be a very large affair, yet it was something of an ordeal in her estimation. She would probably have faced it more easily away from Aunt Philippa's critical eyes. But this was a condition not obtainable. Aunt Philippa had decided to remain some little time longer at Kellerton Old Park in consequence of an engagement having fallen through, a state of affairs that Noel regarded with a disgust too forcible to be expressed in words, and which had driven Max away within three days of his arrival.
Upon Chris had devolved the main burden of her aunt's society, and a heavy burden she had begun to find it. Aunt Philippa had apparently determined to spend her time in transforming her young niece into a practical housewife--a gigantic task which she tackled with praiseworthy zeal. She had already instituted several reforms in the household, and her thrifty mind contemplated several more. Chris's attitude, which had at first been one of indifference, had gradually developed into one of passive resistance. She was, as a matter of fact, too preoccupied just then to turn her attention to active opposition; but she did not pretend to enjoy the tutelage thus ruthlessly pressed upon her. She had been compelled to relinquish her readings with Bertrand, of whom she now saw very little; for, though rigidly courteous at all times, he consistently avoided Aunt Philippa whenever possible. She on her part treated him with disdainful sufferance, much as she had treated Cinders in the old days. She resented his presence, but endured it perforce.
Under these circumstances it was not surprising that there should occur moments of occasional friction between her niece and herself, especially since, under the most favourable conditions, they had never yet managed to discover a single point in common.
This constant jarring in the background of the ceaseless anxiety that consumed her night and day had worn Chris's nerves to a very thin edge, and now that relief had come at last in the form of the letter she held in her hand she was almost too spent to feel it. The tension had endured for so long that it seemed impossible that it could have relaxed all in a moment. She had received a roll of banknotes from her brother two days before, but that had in a fashion but added to her fever of unrest. Now that she knew them to be safe in the pocket of the blackguard for whom they were intended, now surely was the time for peace to return.
But had it? Standing there, still reading and re-reading those gibing words, she asked herself dully if ever peace could return to her--the thoughtless, happy peace of her childhood that she had valued so lightly--the careless security of a mind at rest. Had it gone from her for ever? Was that also buried among the rocks at Valpre? She wondered--she wondered!
There came a low knock at the door between her room and her husband's. She started violently. He had been in town for a few hours. She had not expected him back for another quarter of an hour at least.
"Oh no," she called out quickly, "you can't come in!"
Yet she stood as she was under the glaring light, the letter still clutched stiffly in her hand, her eyes still staring widely at the irregular, un-English writing. The letters seemed to writhe and squirm into life before her distorted vision, to wriggle like a procession of monstrous insects across the page. Were they insects or were they reptiles? She asked herself the question dazedly.
"Chris!" Her husband's voice came to her softly through the closed door. "Let me come in for a moment. I have something to show you."
"Wait!" she called back desperately. "Wait!"
Yet it was as if iron chains were loaded upon her. She could speak, but she could not move. Were they reptiles she was watching so intently? Or stay! Were they crabs? They were certainly rather like the funny little crabs that she and Cinders used to hunt for in the shallow pools of Valpre. She gave a little laugh. Surely it was the sort of thing that might have happened to Alice in Wonderland!
And then quite suddenly her brain flashed back to understanding, to vivid, appalling consciousness; and she knew that her husband was waiting to enter, while she held in her hand the one thing which she would have sacrificed her life sooner than let him see. The awfulness of the realization spurred her back to action. Her limbs were free again, though horribly--so horribly--unsteady. The letter seemed to burn her fingers. She dropped it into the small drawer in which she kept her trinkets, turned the key with feverish haste, and, withdrawing it, thrust it down inside her dress. The cold steel sent a shiver to her very heart, but it stilled the wild fever of her fear. When she turned from the dressing-table she had nerved herself; she was calm.
She crossed the room to the door at which Trevor stood waiting, and quietly opened it.
"How impatient you are!" she said, with a smile.
For a woman who held her fate at bay it was admirably done; but for Chris--little Chris of the sunny eyes and eager, impetuous actions--it was so overwhelming a failure that Mordaunt, standing on the threshold, made no movement to enter, but stood, and looked and looked, as though he had never seen her before.
She met the look as a duellist meets his opponent's blade, instantly but warily, summoning all the craft of her newly awakened womanhood to her aid. She was not conscious of agitation. Her heart felt as if it were turned to stone; it did not seem to be beating at all.
"Well," she said, as he did not speak, "have you got through your business in town?"
He did not answer her, but came straight forward into the room, took her by the shoulders, and drew her round so that she faced the light. "What have you been doing?" he said.
She faced him unshrinking, undismayed. The Chris of a few hours before would have drawn back in open fear from the piercing scrutiny of those grey eyes, but this Chris was different. This Chris was a woman with pale lips that smiled a baffling smile and eyes that barred the way to her soul, a woman who had found in her womanhood a weapon of defence that no man could thrust aside.
"I haven't been doing anything," she said indifferently, "except run round after Aunt Philippa--oh yes, and write up to town for some things I wanted. Aunt Philippa is really going to leave us to-day week. I can't think what we shall do without her, can you? Now tell me about your doings."
She lifted her face suddenly for his kiss, ignoring the fact that he was still holding her as if for inquisition.
He drew her sharply into his arms and held her fast. "You are very cold, sweetheart," he said.
She flushed a little at his action, though the lips he kissed were like ice. "I am tired," she said.
She expected him to set her free, but he did not. He held her closer still. Not till afterwards did she realize that it was the first time he had ever held her thus and she had not quivered like a frightened bird against his breast. She was scarcely thinking of him now. She was as one who stands before a scorching fire too rapt in reverie to feel the heat.
Yet after a little he did succeed in infusing a certain degree of warmth into her. Her arms went round his neck, though hardly of her own volition, and her lips returned his kiss. But there was no spirit in her. She leaned against him as if spent.
"Are you quite well, dear?" he asked her tenderly.
"Oh, quite! I am always well." She uttered a little tremulous laugh and raised her head from his shoulder. "Trevor," she said, "I am afraid you will think me very extravagant, but, do you know, I haven't any money to go on with. I had a notice from the bank to-day to say my account was overdrawn."
Again it was not the Chris he knew who uttered the words. It was a woman of the world to whom his passing displeasure had become a matter almost of indifference.
"Chris," he said abruptly, "what is the matter with you, child? Are you bewitched?"
That roused her. She suddenly realized that she was on dangerous ground, that to blind him she must recall the child who had vanished so inexplicably. And so for the first time she deliberately set herself to deceive this man who till now had ever impelled her to a certain measure of honesty. She did it with a sick heart--but she did it.
She laid her hands on the front of his coat, grasping it nervously, lifting pleading eyes to his.
"No, I'm not bewitched. I'm only pretending not to be frightened. Trevor, don't be vexed. I'm very sorry about it. Really I couldn't help it."
"It's all right, dear," he said at once, and his hands closed instantly and reassuringly upon hers. He smiled into her eyes. "It's very naughty, of course, but I'm glad you have told me. How much do you want?"
She hesitated momentarily. "I--I'm afraid rather a lot, Trevor."
"How much?" he repeated; and then, as she still hesitated, his hold tightened and his face grew grave. He looked straight down into her eyes. "Chris," he said, "you haven't forgotten, have you, that it is against my wish that you should let your brothers have money?"
She met the look unflinching. "No, Trevor."
He released her without further question. "Then you need not be afraid to tell me how much."
She made a little grimace. The part was getting easier to play. She was beginning to feel almost natural. But the other woman--the woman of the world who surely had never been Chris Wyndham--was still there in the background watching the farce and smiling cynically. Chris was beginning to be afraid of this new personality of hers. It was infinitely more formidable than her husband had ever been.
"How much, dear?" Mordaunt asked quietly.
She started slightly. "Thirty pounds," she said.
"Your account is overdrawn to that amount?"
"Yes." She glanced at him nervously. "I am very sorry," she said again.
He remained grave, but perfectly kind. "I will pay in fifty pounds to-morrow," he said. "That will take you to the end of the month."
"Oh, thank you, Trevor!" She threw him a quick smile of gratitude. "I will pay you back as soon as ever I can."
"No, it isn't a loan," he said.
"Oh, don't give it me!" Impulsively she broke in upon his words. It was growing strangely easy, this part she had to play. Or had she indeed been bewitched for those few dreadful seconds? Was she in reality herself again, the quick-hearted Chris he knew, and that other woman but a phantom born of the horrible strain she had undergone? She told herself that this was the true explanation, even while in her heart she knew otherwise.
"Don't give it me," she said again. "I would really rather you didn't."
"Why?" he asked.
She put out her hand to him with a little movement of entreaty. "I can't explain. But--I would like to pay it back if you don't mind."
He smiled at her persistence. "No, I don't mind, if you particularly wish it. Now come into my room for a moment. I want to show you something."
She went with him, her hand in his, not willingly but because she could not do otherwise.
He led her to the table, and pointed out a box upon it. "That is for you, Chris."
"For me!" She looked at him as if startled. "What is it, Trevor?"
"Open it and see," he said.
She hesitated. She seemed almost afraid. "I hope it isn't anything very--very--"
"Open it and see," he repeated.
She obeyed him with hands that had begun to tremble, took out an object wrapped in tissue-paper, unfolded the coverings, and disclosed a jewel-case.
Then again she hesitated, standing as one in doubt. "Trevor, I--I--"
"Open it, dear," he said gently.
And mutely she obeyed.
Diamonds flashed before her dazzled eyes, a myriad sparkling colours shot spinning through her brain. She stood gazing, gazing, as one beneath a spell. For the passage of many seconds there was no sound in the room.
Then with a sudden movement she closed the case. It shut with a sharp snap, and she raised a haggard face.
"Trevor, it's lovely--lovely! But I can't take it--anyhow, not yet--not till I have paid you back."
"My dear little wife, what nonsense!" he said.
"No, no, it isn't! I am in earnest." Her voice quivered; she held out the case to him beseechingly. "I can't take it--yet," she said. "I thank you with all my heart. But I can't--I can't!"
Her words ended upon a sudden sob; she laid the case down again among its wrappings, and stood before him silent, with bent head. It was not easy to refuse this gift of his, but for some reason to accept it was a monstrous impossibility. He would not understand, of course, but yet--whatever he thought--she could not take it.
A long pause followed her last words. She shed no tears, but another sob was struggling for utterance. She put her hand to her throat to strangle it there.
And then at last Mordaunt spoke. "Chris, have you been doing something that you are afraid to tell me of?"
She was silent. Silence was her only refuge now.
He put his arm round her. "Because," he said very tenderly, "you needn't be afraid, dear, Heaven knows."
That pierced her unbearably. Woman though she was, she almost cried out under the pain of it.
She drew herself away from him. "Don't! please don't!" she said rather breathlessly. "You--you must take things for granted sometimes. I can't always be explaining my feelings. They won't stand it."
She tried to laugh, but could not. Again desperately she pressed her hand to her throat. How would he take it? She wondered. Would he regard it as a mere childish whim? Or would he see that he was dealing with a woman, and a desperate woman at that?
She scarcely knew what she expected of him, but most assuredly she did not anticipate his next move.
Quite quietly he picked up the jewel-case, and re-entered her room.
"It may as well go among your other treasures," he said. "You needn't wear it--unless you wish--until you have paid me back."
His tone was perfectly ordinary. She wondered what was in his mind, how he regarded her behaviour, why he treated her thus; not guessing that he had set himself resolutely, with infinite patience, to show her how small was her cause for fear.
He laid his hand upon the drawer that contained her trinkets, tried it, turned round to her, faintly smiling.
"May I have the key?"
She had followed him in silence, and now she stood still, The key! The key! It seemed to be searing her flesh, burning through to her very heart. She suddenly felt as if all the Fates were arrayed against her. Why--why--why had she chosen that drawer to guard her secret? Yet how could she have foreseen this? A mist swam before her eyes. Her new-found composure tottered.
"I--have lost it," she murmured.
"Lost it!" he echoed.
"I mean--I mean--" She was stammering now in open confusion--"I must have laid it down somewhere. I--I shall find it again, no doubt."
He turned fully round and looked at her. She clasped her hands to still her quivering nerves. This fresh ordeal was proving too much for her.
"I can't help it," she said, with white lips. "I often mislay things. I am careless, I know. But I always find them again sooner or later. I will have a look for it while you are dressing."
Her words ran on almost meaninglessly. She was speaking for the sake of speaking, because silence would have been too terrible to be borne, because if she had ceased to speak she must have screamed. Even as it was, the fact that her husband said nothing whatever was driving her almost to distraction.
Suddenly she realized that he was waiting for her to stop, that her words were making no impression, that he was not so much as listening to them, his attention being focussed upon her and her alone.
She broke off in desperation. She met his steady eyes. "Don't you--don't you believe me, Trevor?"
He did not instantly reply. For one dreadful moment she thought that he was going to answer in the negative. And then very deliberately he declined her direct challenge.
"I think," he said quietly, "that you don't know what you are saying."
And with that he went slowly back to his own room, taking the jewel-case with him. The door closed softly and she was left alone.
For many seconds thereafter Chris made no movement of any sort. It was as if she were afraid to stir. Her eyes were wide, gazing straight before her, as though fascinated by some scene of terror.
She moved at last stiffly, went to the window, drew a long, deep breath. She asked herself no questions of any sort. There was no need. For the first time in her life she was face to face with her own soul, beyond all possibility of self-deception.
The child Chris was gone for ever, the woman Chris remained, a woman with a tragic secret that must never be revealed. She knew now why she had fought so desperately to keep that episode of Valpre from her husband's knowledge. She only marvelled that the reason had never come home to her before. She knew now why she had always shrunk inwardly from the searching of his eyes. She had always dreaded that he might see too much, even that same secret of which she herself must have been vaguely conscious for years.
It was all clear to her now, so clear that she could never shut her eyes to it again. All her life long she must carry it in her heart, and no one must ever know. Sleeping and waking, she must keep it safely hidden. She must go on living a lie all her life, all her life.
She flung out her arms with a sudden gesture of fierce rebellion. Oh, why had she married? Why? Why? Why? Had she not always known in her heart that she was making a terrible, an irrevocable, mistake? How was it she had been so blind? Why had there been no one to warn her of the snare into which she was walking? Why had no hand held her back?
Trevor himself--but no, Trevor did not so much as know that she had left her childhood behind her yet. He was still wondering what childish peccadillo was troubling her, keeping her from accepting his gift. At least, he was very far from suspecting her actual reason; nor must he ever suspect.
Never, as long as they lived, must he know that she had refused the first thing of value that he had offered her since their wedding because in an instant of overwhelming revelation she had just recognized the fact that she loved--had loved for years--another man. _