_ PART III CHAPTER VI. WHEN LOVE DEMANDS A SACRIFICE
When Chris awoke, the morning sunshine was streaming in through the open windows, and she was alone. She came back to full remembrance slowly, as one toiling along a difficult road. Her brain felt very tired. She lay vaguely listening to the gay trill of a robin on the terrace below, dreading the moment when the dull ache at her heart should turn to active pain.
A cheery whistle on the gravel under her windows roused her at last. She took up her burden again with a great sigh.
"O God!" she whispered, as she turned her heavy head upon the pillow, "do let me die soon--do let me die soon!"
But there was no voice nor any that answered.
Wearily at length she raised herself. It was curious how ill she felt. She looked longingly back at her pillow.
At the same instant the gay whistle in the garden gave place to a cracked shout. "Hullo, Chris! Aren't you going to get up to-day? Do you know what time it is?"
She started, and looked at her watch. Ten o'clock! In amazement and consternation she sprang from the bed. Bertrand was to leave in the morning; so Trevor had told her. She must--she must--see him before he left! Doubtless Trevor had hoped that she would sleep on till the afternoon, and so miss him. How little he knew! How little he understood!
With a bound she reached the window, there a sudden dizziness attacked her. She clutched at the curtain with both hands. What if he had gone already? What if she were never to see him again?
Desperately she steadied herself. She must not give way thus. She looked out and saw Noel, walking along the edge of the balustrade that bounded the terrace. His arms were outstretched, and he balanced himself with extreme difficulty. It looked perilous, but she knew him well enough to feel no anxiety, notwithstanding the fact that there was a fall of twelve feet on one side of him.
After a few moments she commanded herself sufficiently to call down to him, "Noel, where is everybody?"
He looked up, lost his balance, and sprang down upon the terrace. "By Jove! Aren't you dressed yet? What are we coming to? Trevor is gone to ride round the estate, wouldn't have me for some reason. Bertrand is in his room with the door locked, says he is busy--all bally rot, of course. And Aunt Phil, thank the gods! is packing her trunk to leave by the five o'clock train. By the way, Trevor said I was to see you had some breakfast. What would you like? I'll bring it up to you myself in two shakes."
Chris felt an unexpected lump rise in her throat. Somehow the tenderness of her husband's love hurt her more than it comforted just then. She knew that he had absented himself and deputed Noel to wait upon her because he had divined that she would prefer it. His intuition frightened her also. Was he beginning to divine other things as well? Recalling his intent look of the night before, the wonder struck chill to her heart. Yes, she was thankful that he had gone; but it would be horribly hard to meet him again after she and Bertrand had said good-bye. Aunt Philippa's departure, eagerly though she had anticipated it, would make it harder. Very soon Noel also would be gone, and they would be alone together. How would she keep her secret then? How hide her soul from those grave, keen eyes that probed so deeply?
Ah! but he trusted her; he trusted her! Back to the old sheet-anchor flew her whirling thoughts. His faith in her was invincible, unassailable. It kept her safe. It sheltered her from every danger. It was her single safeguard in temptation; without it she would be lost.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, and leaned from the window to give her brother the instructions he awaited.
Turning back into the room, she found a note in her husband's handwriting lying on her table. She took it up.
"I do not forbid you to see Bertrand," it ran, "though I think you would be wiser not to do so. I have already taken leave of him. He refuses to be open with me, so there is no more to be said. It is by his own wish that he is leaving to-day. As I said to you last night, I shall take no legal steps against him, but that does not alter the fact that he is a criminal, and for that reason your friendship with him must cease. I am sorry, but it is inevitable. I think you will see it for yourself by and bye, but till then my prohibition must be enough. I cannot be disobeyed in this matter. Bear it in mind, dear, and believe that, even though I may seem hard, I am acting for your welfare, which is more to me than anything else on earth.
"Yours, TREVOR."
Her face was white and strained as she read the note through. She seemed to hear her husband's quiet voice in every sentence. Never till that moment had she fully realized the fact that he had the right thus to guide and restrain her actions. Never till that moment had she found her will in direct opposition to his. A sudden passion of rebellion swept upon her, possessed her. It was intolerable, impossible; she could not submit to the mandate.
To give up her friend--the dear knight of her girlhood's dreams--to see him never again, to close her heart to him, to shut out the very memory of him, to take up her life without him--no, never, never, never! Her throbbing heart cried out against it. It was not to be borne. A fury akin to hatred surged up within her. There was no man living who could make her do this thing.
Fiercely she tore the paper across and across, and flung the fragments from her. Never would she consent to this! She would defy him sooner!
Defy him! It was as if a voice spoke suddenly in her soul, asking a quiet question. Could she defy him and still hide her secret? Would not the steady eyes read her through and through the instant that her will resisted his? Would he not know in a moment? Was it not even possible that he had begun already to suspect?
Again she recalled his intent look of the night before, and her heart misgave her. Had she betrayed herself? Had he seen behind the veil? She shivered at the thought, and for a few moments she was overwhelmingly afraid. How would she ever meet those eyes again?
But when presently Noel presented himself she had recovered her self-command. She even compelled herself to eat some breakfast, while he balanced himself on the window-sill and made careless conversation. It was evident that he knew nothing of Bertrand's impending departure, and she was relieved that this was so. She could not have borne his curiosity or his comments.
"What are you going to do to-day?" she presently inquired.
"When you've had a decent meal, I'm going for a ride," he answered promptly. "Can't waste the whole day hanging about and Fiddle's spoiling for a gallop. You won't come, I suppose?"
She shook her head. "No. I couldn't, anyhow. I must stay with Aunt Philippa to-day. I've had quite a lot to eat. Don't wait."
He sprang to his feet at once. "You haven't done badly, have you, considering you've been lazing in bed instead of working up an appetite in the open air? I say, Chris, there's nothing the matter, is there?"
"Of course not," she returned briskly. "Why?"
"You're not looking exactly chirpy," he said, regarding her critically. "And Trevor was positively bearish this morning. He hasn't been bullying you, has he?"
"Of course not," she said again. "How absurd you are!"
He looked incredulous. "Don't you stick it!" he warned her. "If he tries it on, you come to me. I'll settle him."
She laughed and turned the subject. "Hadn't you better start? It's getting late."
"P'raps I had. Good-bye, then!" He bent unexpectedly and kissed her cheek. "We'll go for a picnic to-morrow," he said, "to celebrate Aunt Phil's departure. Keep your pecker up! She'll soon be gone."
He marched away, whistling, and Chris was alone.
She rose and finished her dressing with feverish haste. Now was her time.
Noel had said Bertrand was in his room. She must see him alone. But how should she let him know? If she went in search of him she might encounter Aunt Philippa and be detained. She went down to her husband's room, and rang the bell there.
Holmes answered it in some surprise, knowing his master to be out; but she gave him no time for speculation.
"Holmes," she said, "I believe Mr. Bertrand is somewhere in the house. I wish you would find him, and say I am waiting to speak to him on a matter of importance. I am going into the garden. He will find me under the yew-tree."
Holmes departed with his customary dispatch. There was something indefinable about his young mistress that made him wish his master were at hand. He made his way to Bertrand's room and knocked.
There was no immediate reply; then, "I am busy," said Bertrand from within.
"If you please, sir!" said Holmes.
There was a movement in the room at once, and the door opened. "Ah! It is the good Holmes!" said Bertrand. "I thought that it was Monsieur Noel. What is it, then? You bring me a message?"
He looked at the man with sleepless eyes that shone curiously bright. In the room behind him a portmanteau, half-filled, lay upon the floor.
For a single instant Holmes hesitated before delivering his message. Then he gave it punctiliously, word for word.
"I am obliged to you," said Bertrand courteously. "I shall go to Mrs. Mordaunt at once."
He crossed the threshold therewith, but paused a moment outside the room.
"Holmes," he said, "I go to London by the 11.50. Will you arrange for my luggage to be taken to the station?"
Holmes's well-ordered countenance expressed no surprise. "Very good, sir. And you yourself, sir?" he said.
"I shall walk," said Bertrand.
"You would like me to finish packing for you, sir?" suggested Holmes.
"Ah! That would be very good." Bertrand's voice expressed relief. He stepped back into the room to slip a sovereign into the man's hand.
But Holmes drew back. "Thank you, sir. I'd rather not, sir."
Bertrand's brows went up. "How? But we are friends, no?" he questioned.
"I don't know, sir," said Holmes, respectful but firm. "Anyhow, I'd rather not, sir."
"_Eh bien_!" The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and turned. "_Adieu_, Holmes!" he said.
"Good-day, sir!" said Holmes.
He stood in the middle of the room till Bertrand had gone, then with an expressionless face he betook himself to the door of Aunt Philippa's room.
Here he knocked again, and, receiving Mrs. Forest's permission to enter, presented himself on the threshold. "I have come to say, madam, that Mrs. Mordaunt is in the garden under the old yew," he announced deferentially. "Will you be good enough to join her there?"
Aunt Philippa, in the midst of her own preparations for departure, received the news with considerable surprise. It was not Chris's custom to send her messages of any description. The summons fired her curiosity; but her dignity would not allow her to hasten overmuch to answer it.
"I will be with Mrs. Mordaunt in a few minutes," she said.
And Holmes departed, impassive still but with a mind uneasy. He wished with all his soul that the master had not chosen to absent himself that morning. Perhaps he was unreasonably nervous, but there seemed to be tragedy in the very air.
Bertrand, traversing the lawn bareheaded, was keenly aware of tragedy; but it did not delay his steps. He went down the shady path that led to Chris's retreat at a speed that left him breathless. He paused with his hand to his heart as he reached the yew-tree before plunging into the gloom beneath its great, drooping branches. He was living too fast, and he knew it, could almost feel his life running out like the sand in an hour-glass. But a great recklessness possessed him. If his strength could only be made to last for a couple of hours more, he did not care what happened to him, how soon the sand ran out.
He had suffered more during the past night than he had ever thought to suffer again. He had fought a desperate fight, and it had cost him nearly all his strength. He knew instinctively that he must make the most of what was left. Afterwards--afterwards--when the ordeal was over, he would sink down and rest, it mattered not where. If he lived long enough, he would keep his promise to Max Wyndham. If not,--well, he would not be needing human help. The gods had nearly done with him, and he was too weary to care. If he could only be faithful a little longer--a little longer! Nothing would matter afterwards, and the pain would be over then.
"Bertie, I am here!"
He started, and for a moment that which he had been fighting down all night showed in his eyes. He thrust it away out of sight. He answered her with his usual courteous confidence.
"Ah! You are there, Christine! You will pardon me for keeping you waiting. I came as soon as your message reached me."
He lifted one of the great yew-branches and stepped beneath as if entering a tent. It fell behind him, and in the green gloom they were face to face.
"Were you going without saying good-bye?" said Chris.
She stood before him, very pale and quiet. Her eyes did not meet his quite fully.
He spread out his hands. "I knew not if you would wish to see me."
"Don't you know me better than that?" she said. He did not answer her. Evidently she did not expect an answer, for she went on almost at once. "Bertie, why did you let Trevor think you had robbed him?"
He made a sharp gesture of protest, but remained silent.
She laid her hand on his arm. "Come and sit down, Bertie! And please answer me, because I want to know."
He went with her to the rustic seat against the tree-trunk. He was gripping his self-control with all his strength.
"Mr. Mordaunt must think what he will," he said at length, with an effort. "He can never judge me too severely."
"Why do you say that?" Chris asked the question quickly, nervously, as if she had to ask it, yet dreaded the answer.
"I think you know, Christine," he answered, his voice very low.
She shrank a little. "But that money, Bertie? You knew nothing of that?"
He was silent for a moment; then, "We will not speak of that," he said firmly. "I could not stay here in any case, so--it makes no difference."
"No difference that he should think you a thief!" exclaimed Chris.
He turned his eyes downwards, staring heavily at the ground between his feet. "I ask myself," he said, "if I am any better than a thief."
"Bertie!" There was quick distress in her voice this time. "But you have done nothing wrong," she declared vehemently, "nothing whatever!"
He shook his head in silence, not looking at her.
"And you are ill," she went on, passing the matter by as if not trusting herself. "What will you do? Where will you go?"
He sat up slowly and faced her. "I go to London," he said, "and I must start now. Do not be anxious for me, Christine. I have money enough. Mr. Mordaunt offered me more this morning. But I had no need of it, and I refused."
He spoke quite steadily. He was braced for the ordeal. He would be strong until the need for strength was past.
But with Chris it was otherwise. For her there was no prospect of relaxation. She was but at the beginning of her trial, and her whole soul shrank from the contemplation of what lay before her. The dear dreams of her childhood had flickered out like pictures on a screen. And she had awakened to find herself in a prison-house from which all her life long she could never hope to escape. Did some memory of the arms that had enfolded her so often and so tenderly come to her as she realized it? If so, it was only to stab her afresh with the bitter irony of Fate that had lavished upon her the love of a man who had filled her life with all that woman's heart could desire, and yet had failed to give her happiness.
And so, when Bertrand spoke of going, the newly awakened heart of her rose up in sudden, hot revolt. His departure was inevitable, and she knew it, but her endurance was not equal to the strain. She had deemed herself stronger than she was.
She threw out her hands with a passionate gesture. "Bertie! What shall I do without you? I can't go on by myself. I can't--I can't!"
It was like the cry of a child, but in it there throbbed all the deep longing of her womanhood. Ah! why had her eyes been opened? Surely she had been happier blind!
He took the outflung hands and held them. He looked into her eyes. "But, _cherie_," he said, "you have your husband."
"I know--I know!" Piteously the words came from her. "He is very good to me. But, Bertie, he--has never been--first. I know it now. I didn't know before, or I wouldn't have married him. I swear I would never have married him--if I had known!"
"_Cherie_, hush!" Almost sternly he checked her, though his eyes were unfailingly kind. "You must not say it, Christine. Words always make a bad thing worse. Think instead how great is his love for you. Remember--oh, remember that you are his wife! The sin was mine that you could ever forget it. But you have not forgotten it, _mignonne!_ Tell me that you have not! Tell me that when you think of me it will be as a friend who gives you no regrets, the friend of your childhood, little Christine--the comrade with whom you played in the sunshine; no more than that--no more than that!"
Very earnestly he besought her, holding her hands lightly clasped between his own, ready at her slightest movement to let them go. But she made no effort to withdraw them. She only bent her head and wept as though her heart were breaking.
"_Cherie, cherie_!" he said, and that was all; for he had no words wherewith to comfort her. He had wrought the mischief, but the remedy did not lie with him.
His own lips quivered above her bowed head; he bit them desperately.
After a little she commanded herself sufficiently to speak through her tears. "Bertie, you once said--that there was no goodness without Love. Then why--why is Love--wrong?"
"Love is not wrong, _cherie_." Instant and reassuring came his answer. "Let us be true to Love, and we are true to God. For Love is God, and in every heart He is to be found; sometimes in much, sometimes in very, very little, but He is always there."
"I don't understand," said Chris. "If that were so--why mustn't we love each other? Why is it wrong?"
"It is not wrong." Again with absolute assurance Bertrand spoke. "So long as it is pure, it is also holy. There is no sin in Love. We shall love each other always, dear, always. With me it will be more--and ever more. Though I shall not be with you, though I shall not see your face or touch your hand, you will know that I am loving you still. It will be as an Altar Flame that burns for ever. But I will be faithful. My love shall never hurt you again. That is where I sinned. I was selfish enough to show you the earthly part of my love--the part that dies, just as our bodies die, setting our spirits free. For see, _cherie_, it is not the material part that endures. All things material must pass, but the spiritual lives on for ever. That is why Love is immortal. That is why Love can never die."
She listened to him in silence, scarcely comprehending at the moment words that later were to become the only light to guide her stumbling feet.
"Would you say that you love the dead no more because you see them not?" he questioned gently. "The sight--the touch--what is it? Only the earthly medium of Love; Love Itself is a higher thing, capable of the last sacrifice, greater than evil, stronger than death. Oh, believe me, Christine, Death is a very small thing compared with Love. If our love were of the spirit only, Death would be less than nothing; for it is only the body that can ever die."
"But why can't we be happy before we die?" whispered Chris. "Other people are."
He shook his head. "I doubt it, _cherie_. With death in the world there can be no perfection. All passes--all passes--except only the Love that is our Life."
He paused a moment, seeming to hesitate upon the verge of telling her something more; but in that instant she raised her head and he refrained.
"Ah, Christine," he said sadly, "I never thought that I should make you weep like this."
"Oh, it's not your fault, Bertie." She smiled at him, with quivering lips. "It's just life. But--dearest--I want you to know all the same--that I'm glad--I'm glad I love you so. And--whether it's right or wrong, I can't help it--I shall always love you--best of all."
His eyes shone at the words. A passionate answer sprang to his lips, but he stopped it unuttered. "We are not responsible for that which we cannot help," he said instead. "Only--my darling"--for the first time the English word of endearment passed his lips, spoken almost under his breath--"never permit the thought of me to come between you and your husband. Be faithful, Christine--be faithful!"
She made no answer of any sort; but her eyes were hopeless.
He waited a while, still holding her hands while tenderly he watched her. At last, "I must go, _cherie_," he whispered.
Her face quivered. Suddenly and impetuously as of old she spoke. "Bertie, once--long ago--you meant to marry me, didn't you?"
His own face contracted. "Do not let us torture ourselves in vain," he urged her gently.
"But it is true!" she persisted.
He hesitated an instant. "Yes, it is true," he said.
She leaned her head back, looking him straight in the eyes. There was a light in hers that he had never seen before. They gleamed like stars, seeing him only. "Bertie," she said, and her voice thrilled upon the words, "I was yours then, and I am yours now. I have always belonged to you, and you to me. Bertie, I--am coming with you."
His violent start testified to the utter unexpectedness of her announcement. Such a possibility had not, it was obvious, suggested itself to him. He turned white to the lips.
"Christine!" he stammered incredulously.
Feverishly she broke in upon his astonishment. "Oh, don't be shocked! It is absolutely the only way. I cannot stay here without you. Trevor will keep us apart. He will not let me even write to you. He says that our friendship must cease. And it cannot--it cannot! Bertie, don't you see? Don't you understand? Don't you--want me?"
A note of despair rang in her voice. Her hands suddenly gripped each other in agonized misgiving. But on the instant his gripped closer, holding them crushed against his breast in fierce reassurance. His eyes shone full into hers, and for one moment of fiery rapture which both were to remember all their lives their souls mingled, became fused in one, forgetful of all beside.
Out of the silence the man's voice came, low and passionate. "_Le bon Dieu_ knows how I want you, my bird of Paradise! But yet--but yet--" Something seemed to choke his utterance. He gave a sudden gasp, and bowed his head forward upon her shoulder.
Her arms were round him in an instant. "What is it, dearest? You are ill!"
"No," he said. "No." But still he gasped for breath, and she fancied that he repressed a shudder.
He raised his head after a moment. "Pardon me, _cherie_. I am only--weak. Christine, all my life--all my life--I shall remember--how you were ready--to give up all--all--for me. But, _mignonne_, I cannot take such a sacrifice. I dare not. Go back to your husband, _cherie_. It is your duty. You are his, not mine. We will not stain our love thus. Christine"--his voice broke--"_ma mignonne_, I love you too well--too well--to do this thing. You shall not be ruined--for my sake."
"Oh, but, Bertie!" she pleaded. She was clinging to him now; her eyes implored him. "Think of me here without you! Never to see you again--never to have a single word from you any more! Bertie, I can't bear it--I can't bear it! It will be no sacrifice to me to come with you. I don't mind hardship. I'm used to poverty, But here--but here--"
Her voice broke also, she could say no more. His arms went round her, straining her to him. His face was close to hers. But his eyes were the eyes of a man in torture.
"I know--I know all," he whispered. "Yet--my darling--you must stay--and I must go. When Love demands a sacrifice--"
"I will sacrifice anything--everything--all I have!" she cried out wildly.
"We must sacrifice each other," he said. "That is the test of our love, _cherie_. That is the sacrifice that Love demands."
He spoke quite quietly, with the calmness of one who knew and faced the worst. The torture in his eyes had turned to dumb endurance. "Only thus," he said--"only thus can we be true to our love. We sacrifice the little for the much. _Mignonne_, believe me, it is worth it. You are mine, and I am yours. So be it, then. Let us be--faithful."
He spoke with the utmost tenderness; yet was she awed. Her sudden rebellion died. It was as though a quiet hand had been laid upon her heart, stilling her pain. For one moment she looked with him across the long, dark furrows of mortal life into the great Beyond, and knew that he had spoken the truth. Their love was worth the sacrifice.
"Oh, Bertie," she said, in a whisper, "you are right, dear, you are right."
His eyes flashed swift understanding into hers; yet for a moment his arms tightened about her, as if her submission made it harder for him to let her go.
She waited till they relaxed, and then she laid her hands upon his shoulders. "Bertie," she said very earnestly, "forget I ever asked it of you!"
He shook his head instantly, with a sudden, transforming smile that revealed in him the young, quick spirit that had caught hers so long ago. "Oh no--no!" he said. "It will be to me the most precious memory of my life. By it I shall always remember--the so great generosity--of your love."
The smile went out of his face. He leaned nearer to her. She read irresolution in his eyes, and a quiver that was half of hope and half of apprehension went through her. Was he going to fail, after all, in the moment of victory? If so--if so--
But he restrained himself. She saw him fight down the impulse that urged him inch by inch until he had it in subjection. Under her watching eyes he conquered. He showed her the Omnipotence of Love.
Quietly, with no exaggeration of reverence, he knelt before her. He took her hands into his own, turned them upwards, pressed his lips to each palm, let them go.
The silence between them was like a sacrament. She never knew how long it lasted. It was a farewell more final than any words.
At last, "God keep you, my Christine!" he said. "God bless you!"
He rose to his feet, but he did not look at her again.
She could not speak in answer; there was no need of speech. He knew her heart as he knew his own.
And so in silence, with bent head, he left her. And the sun went out of her sky. _